“March of last year.”

Millie blinked. Mrs. Englewood was not only a widow, but a widow already out of her year-and-a-day deep mourning, free to move in Society. “That was thirteen months ago. How did we not learn sooner?”

“According to her, Captain Englewood’s mother had been in failing health. As she was not expected to last long, when he expired suddenly it was decided to keep the news quiet, as the death of her firstborn would cause her too much grief in her final days. But she lingered on for longer than everyone thought she would.”

Millie felt a sharp pang of sympathy for Captain Englewood’s mother, who no doubt hoped to see her son one last time. “They should have told her the truth. Or she’d have gone to her death thinking he couldn’t spare the time to come see her.”

“They did at last,” said Fitz quietly. “And she passed away ten days later.”

Tears stung the rim of Millie’s eyes. She remembered her own mother’s deathbed. Fitz had moved heaven and earth for her to return to England in time and for that she would always be grateful to him.

She took a deep breath. “When is Mrs. Englewood expected to be back?”

“In June.”

A month before their eight-year pact ran out in July. “In time to have a bit of fun in London, I see. I’m sure she must be looking forward to it.”

Fitz did not answer.

Millie took another bite of her toast, swallowed it with the help of a whole cup of tea, and rose. “Well, look at the time. I’d better get Helena ready. She has a fitting this morning that Venetia made me swear I would not forget.”

“You barely ate anything,” he pointed out.

Why must he also notice that? Why did he do these little things that gave her hope?

“I was already full when you came,” she said. “If you will excuse me.”


Christian worked.

He inspected half of his holdings in person, read innumerable accounts and reports, and even did his duty as a member of the House of Lords. His peers were astonished to see him: The Dukes of Lexington had always taken a seat in the Upper House, but this particular duke, famously indifferent to politics, rarely presented himself in Parliament.

Books and letters stuffed all the remaining minutes of his waking hours.

But he needn’t have been so meticulous. His mind, so long geared toward truth and rationality, now revealed itself to be quite capable of the sort of self-deception he had formerly scorned. For nearly a whole week, like a tiptoeing night burglar, he successfully skirted any and all memories and discernments that could raise the least alarm.

Then everything came crashing down. Logic was inexorable. Truth would not be denied. The evidence, having bided its time, waited for his mind to be lulled into a state of false security to mount an all-out assault on his slumbering defenses.

There was never a Baroness von Seidlitz-Hardenberg. There was only ever Mrs. Easterbrook. And he’d confided everything to her.

Everything.

No wonder she’d been so eager to depart the Rhodesia. She’d extracted all knowledge of his inner turbulences; there was nothing else left to learn. And no wonder she’d been so smug every time he’d encountered her since. Forevermore she’d be able to look at him and laugh, knowing just how well and truly she’d subjugated him.

Her scheme was sordid; its success, overwhelming. And he had participated wholeheartedly and loved her with everything good and worthwhile in him.

He threw the gold-embossed menus that had been printed for the dinner at the Savoy in the fire and blanketed the ashes with all the letters he’d written her, one for every day leading up to the dinner, and the last while he awaited the Rhodesia’s return from Hamburg. He could not quite believe it: He still wrote her after she’d reneged on her promise and given back his gift. He’d only stopped after he saw the plaque bearing her maiden name at the museum.

He prodded the burning letters with the fireplace poker. The poker was solid and heavy in his hand. He wanted to smash something with it, a great many somethings: the marble mantel, the gilt-framed mirror, the Sèvres vases. He wanted to destroy the room until nothing remained but rubble and wreckage.

But he was Christian de Montfort, the Duke of Lexington. He did not make a spectacle of his pain. He did not give in to childish rages. And he would maintain his dignity and composure, even when his heart had been dragged through a forest of knives.

A knock came at the door. Christian frowned. He’d made it clear to his staff that he was not to be disturbed. His staff was well trained and highly competent. He could only assume that there had been an emergency.

“Mrs. Easterbrook to see you, Your Grace,” said Owens, the head footman.

His heart pounded violently. Come to gloat, had she?

“Did I not specify that I am not at home this afternoon?”

“You did, sir,” said Owens apologetically. “But Mrs. Easterbrook, she said you’d wish to see her.”

Indeed, how could anyone believe, gazing upon her radiant, hypnotic beauty, that he did not want to see her?

To reprimand Owens would be counterproductive. And for her to call on him, to acknowledge this fraud of hers, was a kindness, whether she understood it or not. Let them end their affair today with a complete rupture, everything laid out in the open, all illusions and false hopes lined up and shot.

“I will see her here,” he said, “in five minutes.”

He needed at least that much time to put himself together.


Venetia was faintly surprised Christian agreed to see her—faintly as she was not capable of feeling much else besides terror, a bloated thing with claws in her stomach and tentacles up her throat.

Her days away from London had been good for her health—a more Spartan diet had quieted her stomach and averted further episodes of morning sickness—but her mind had grown increasingly troubled as she considered her choices.

She was fortunate to possess both funds and freedom of movement. She could choose to spend autumn and winter somewhere abroad, give birth in secret, and find a good foster home for the child here in England—if, that was, she could bear to be parted from the child.

She’d thought with great seriousness of begging Fitz and Millie for help. Millie could go away with her and then return to England pretending the child were hers. It was as good a solution as could be found under the circumstances. She trusted her brother and sister-in-law to be good parents, and she herself, as the doting aunt, could visit as often as she wanted and watch the child grow up.

Were the baby a boy, however, he’d be considered Fitz’s heir. And Fitz and Millie’s own firstborn son, should they have one in the future, would be robbed of his rightful inheritance. Other seemingly infertile couples had produced children after long droughts, and it would be selfish of Venetia to assume that Fitz and Millie wouldn’t.

Which led her to the option of marrying, herself. Finding a suitable groom should not be an impossible task. There were other men like Mr. Easterbrook. Failing that, perhaps a widower with sons of his own, sufficiently enamored of her to not mind giving his name to someone else’s child.

But her thoughts always came back to the duke. The child was his. He might not want his flesh and blood raised in another man’s household. And perhaps, just perhaps, he deserved to know that he was about to become a father.

Except, for him to know, she’d have to confess everything, the prospect of which had caused her to flee as if he were Mount Vesuvius and she a hapless resident of Pompeii. How could she voluntarily face his wrath?

And yet here she was, in the anteroom of his house, her palms damp, her stomach pitching, her heart beating so hard she was nearly cross-eyed.

The footman reappeared. “This way, please, Mrs. Easterbrook.”

She walked, but couldn’t quite feel her feet. It was not yet too late to turn around and take flight, reasoned the voice of her self-preservation. The duke was not going to chase her out into the streets to find out why she’d come to see him.

Run. You only believe you can do it because you have not thought this through. This confession is not some short-lived pain to be endured for half an hour. You have no idea what he is going to do. If he chooses to, he could make you miserable for the rest of your life.

The footman opened the door to a study. “Mrs. Easterbrook, sir.”

Her throat tightened. She couldn’t even swallow. She teetered upon the threshold—two seconds or a hundred years?—then suddenly she was inside, the footman leaving, closing the door behind her.

Almost immediately her eyes were drawn to a photograph on the mantel. She’d been too nerve-stricken to notice anything of the house, but this portrait she saw all too clearly: the young duke and his stepmother, each holding a handful of darts, standing together next to a tree.

We threw darts at a tree instead.

He had been honest and forthright. She had been everything but. And now she must suffer the consequences of her action.

The duke did not rise to greet her; he was already standing before a window. “Mrs. Easterbrook,” he said without turning around, surveying the street beneath. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”

She had racked her brains over how to approach the matter, but only the simplest words emerged from her parched throat. “Your Grace, I am with child.”

His head lifted abruptly. An awful silence smothered the room. At last he said, “And what do you want me to do about it?”