There was something about this young woman’s demeanor that chipped away at his control. He didn’t like it.
And that might explain the pinch of relief he felt when Tipton reappeared in the doorway with one of the housemaids in tow.
“Pardon, Your Grace,” Tipton said. “Edna has volunteered to take care of the infant until a proper nursemaid’s been hired.”
The maid, who was carrying one of the bottles Malum had used to feed Ernest the night before, crossed to Lady Melanie. “I’ll make sure he takes some of the pap,” she said. “Whenever I go home, I help my sister with her youngins.” Edna’s voice was reassuring. Still, Malum’s neighbor glanced across the room for his nod of approval.
She blinked and then gave Ernest a soft nuzzle. “Be good, little one,” she murmured before reluctantly relinquishing the tightly bundled baby.
The baby, Malum reminded himself, that he too would relinquish just as soon as he located the mother.
Once Ernest was safely in Edna’s arms, Malum set his jaw.
“My thanks,” he said before clearing his throat, because expressing gratitude didn’t come easily. Still, Lady Melanie had done more than go out of her way to help Ernest—she’d risked her reputation in order to do so.
She blinked back at him, and then, apparently realizing she was being dismissed, her lips moved but nothing came out. She lifted her hands and then dropped them before she backed out the door.
And just as abruptly as she’d appeared, she was gone.
BETRAYAL?
"Lord Helton to see you, Your Grace."
"Send him in," Malum replied, not glancing up from the papers scattered across his desk.
The study at Preston Hall occupied the same space it had when the previous duke lived there, but Malum had completely renovated it in yet another effort to erase his father's memory. Rich mahogany shelves lined with leather-bound books created a sense of understated luxury. The golden glow of candlelight cast flickering shadows on the dark rugs.
When the door closed behind his butler, Malum folded the report he’d been reading and leaned back in his chair, his gaze catching on the contract provided by theWellington Household Placement Agency.
The domestic employment agency, after sending one of their managers over to make profuse apologies, swearing, of course, that Mrs. Flora Green was not one of their people, had immediately provided three replacement candidates. This time, Malum had taken the task of hiring one seriously, meeting with each woman personally before making his choice. He’d selected a grandmotherly woman with a calm demeanor and only after checking on the nursery no less than three times had he settledinto his study for a late meal, using the reports in front of him as a distraction.
How the devil could such a tiny little human create such chaos?
Malum ran a hand down his face, welcoming the prospect of an interruption. The Earl of Helton, owner of two of London’s most prominent newspapers, shared Malum’s unrelenting determination to see Crossings behind bars. Today’s meeting offered not only a strategic opportunity but also a chance to anchor himself in the familiar rhythm of calculated plans and shared purpose.
The door opened and Helton entered, his footsteps muffled by the thick rugs. Dark-haired and broad-shouldered, he cut an imposing figure, though the glint of his spectacles softened his otherwise severe appearance.
Malum didn’t rise but gestured for him to sit. Unlike Malum’s reserved intensity, Helton carried his authority with a restless energy that never seemed to wane. Even now, his sharp gaze darted around the room as though cataloging its contents before he settled into the chair.
“Any updates?” Malum asked, leaning back in his chair.
Helton adjusted his spectacles and nodded. “The plan seems to be working. Crossings has been... inconvenienced.”
Malum’s lips curved into a faint smile. “Losing three shipments can do that…”
“Quite,” Helton said, a note of satisfaction in his voice. “And it’s not just the cargo. All signs indicate his investors are running scared.”
Malum’s fingers tapped lightly against the arm of his chair. Vigilance was crucial now. Without funding, Crossings would be feeling the strain, and pressure often led to unpredictability. “It’s progress,” he said. Although not enough.
“I’m not sure he’ll survive one more message from your… friend.”
“That’s the idea…” Malum agreed.
“Until then, we wait.”” Helton rubbed his neck.
Malum reached for the decanter, pouring two glasses of brandy. As he pushed one toward Helton, he said casually, “I had an interesting run-in with Northwoods at theDomusthe other night.”
Helton raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “I heard something about that. My sources said he caused a bit of a scene. Is there more to it?”
