Certainly not….three. All boys. All identical. Mostly.
The first boy born, was, as expected, the strongest of the three. He’d come out squalling; face wrinkled in consternation at having to face the world. And though he was small, he seemed sturdy enough.
But the other two?
Tiny. Far too small to survive. One nearly blue before she smacked his back. That one had a freckle on the end of his nose. Barely a sound came from the other boy, only tiny mewls, like a kitten. He had a birthmark on his shoulder that reminded Delores of a heart.
Again, it didn’t matter. Neither was likely to survive.
She’d ordered Louisa to take them from the room and out of sight of the dying duchess lying in a pool of her own blood. A small kindness. There was no sense in her seeing the other two boys since both would likely soon be joining her in death. The duchess should be allowed to pass in peace without a heart laden with grief.
Delores knew that sort of grief well. She’d lost three of her own children.
A squall met her ears, coming from the basket at the foot of the bed.
Alexander, the duchess had whispered, touching his cheek, a smile of pure happiness pulling at her lips before her eyes closed. Barely conscious.
A blessing. Delores thought it unlikely the duchess ever felt the birth of the other two infants.
Poor lamb.
Charitable isn’t how most in Devil’s Acre would describe Delores Bean. Life was hard. Cruel. She knew firsthand. But—she smoothed down the duchess’s matted hair before taking the diamond earbobs from her ears—every now and again she allowed herself a moment of weakness. As she had tonight.
“Mrs. Bean.” Louisa ran into the room, averting her eyes from the bed, pursing her thin lips at the scent of all that blood.
“Has Lord Damon arrived?”
“No.” Louisa shook her head. “Another gentleman. Mr. Philpot. He was at Lord Damon’s home, awaiting his arrival to inform him…of the duke’s…demise,” she sputtered. “He’s a solicitor.”
Another wave of pity struck Delores for the duchess. The woman had been screaming for Charles, half out of her mind with pain. Muttering about being chased. Something about knives.
Not my business.
Louisa looked at the infant in the basket, before turning to the sound of whimpering coming from the room just across the hall. “Should I—bathe them and—”
“No.” Delores took a deep breath, tasting the tang of blood on her tongue. “Let us not burden Mr. Philpot or Lord Damon with any more terrible news. The two babes,” she sighed. “Will likely not live the night. Far too small. I would imagine the death of the duke and duchess is tragedy enough for this Mr. Philpot and Lord Damon. Try to comfort the babes, Louisa. A bit of sugared water in a napkin should quiet them. Hold and rock them, if you choose. Say a prayer for the duchess.”
“Yes, Mrs. Bean.” Louisa nodded and rushed from the room, likely surprised to find that her employer had a heart.
Bothersome, having a heart.
Mrs. Bean tucked the blanket more fully around little Alexander who waved his fists at her. Hungry, no doubt, though there wasn’t any way for her to feed him. Mr. Philpot, as the duke’s man, would see to it.
“I’m sorry about your mum,” she whispered. “Truly. But she was going to die no matter what I did. Lost too much blood. But I saved you. A future duke.”
“The Duke of Roxboro. Address him properly, if you please, Mrs. Bean.”
A spare gentleman with narrow shoulders, appeared at the bedroom door, looking out of place in his rich garments. He spared a glance at the dead woman in the bed, closed his eyes for a moment, whispering something mournful under his breath. “I am Mr. Philpot.” Two flat, black eyes snapped open to appraise her. “The Duke of Roxboro’s solicitor.” He nodded to the basket. “Hissolicitor.”
“Mr. Philpot.” Delores inclined her head. “I did what I could to save her. The duchess promised—”
“You will be amply rewarded for your efforts.” Philpot’s eyes pierced her with a grief-filled stare. “Lord Damon is not in London at present but has been sent word of the death of the duke and duchess,” the words trembled from him. “I was awaiting his return when the lad in your employ found me.”
“Lucky.”
“If you say so, Mrs. Bean. I will take possession of His Grace.” His voice cracked just slightly before glancing over his shoulder at two burly footmen in livery, followed by a somber gentleman garbed in black. “My wife will care for the duke until his uncle’s return.” He waved the other gentleman forward. “Mr. Switch will…take Her Grace.” His throat bobbed once more, obviously distressed.
The duchess had been loved, that much was clear from Philpott’s reaction. One of the footmen wiped tears from his eyes. The other stared at the floor.
