The door remained closed. Where was the duke’s butler?
Melanie’s fingers fluttered along the lace of her bodice.
The clouds had really opened up now. The contents of that basket would be drenched in a matter of minutes.
And the very real possibility that a passerby might nick it bothered her.
She could cross the narrow street and knock on the door again, louder this time.
Yes.
She could do that.
Even if it meant leaving her window.
She needn’t speak to anyone, really. She could just point down and then dash right back to the comfort of her own home.
Because her conscience wasn’t going to allow her to simply sit here doing nothing.
Just as she unfolded her limbs, which had grown stiff, a clap of thunder made her jump.
She stared down at her silk slippers, momentarily torn.
If she took the time to change into her half-boots and don a coat and gloves, she might as well not go at all. Knocking on the duke’s door should only take a few minutes. If she wasquiet enough, she could avoid involving her mother’s butler, Mr. Chesterfield.
Not that she minded him. Mr. Chesterfield seemed to understand Melanie. He was one of the few people in her life who didn’t expect her to make conversation.
Still, given a choice, she’d avoid seeing anyone at all.
Less than a minute later, Melanie was ducking through the deluge in a mad dash to save whatever was inside of that basket.
Knock, wait, point, and then return home,she chanted in her head, matching the words to her steps.
Her heart raced nonetheless. This sort of thing, interfering in someone else’s business, wasn’t a part of her normal routine.
Going anywhere at all, really, wasn’t a part of her normal routine.
Skipping around a few puddles, Melanie was careful not to slip before climbing the three wide steps leading to the stoop. But just as she went to pound the knocker, movement in the basket caught her eye.
Puppies? Or kittens, maybe?
Another sound—a mewling little cry.
Her heart lodged in her throat as she crouched down.
It couldn’t be.
Please,she thought,be kittens!
But it was not kittens, nor was it puppies. When she pulled the flap away, she was staring at the tiniest face she’d ever seen.
Oh, no. No!
Dark green eyes, fringed with thick amber lashes, stared up at her, unblinking. Sweet rosebud lips and the most delicate upturned nose made Melanie wonder, just for a moment, if this was some beautifully crafted doll.
But then the tiny lips parted, releasing a halting, but very sorrowful cry.
Not a doll.
