Page 70 of Duke of Emeralds
At first, she thought it was some trick of the dream still clinging to her—a dream in which Thomas was scowling at a page of numbers and Bella was reciting her sums, faster and faster, until the world dissolved into noise.
But the sound persisted: a rhythm of gentle curses, rustling linen, and an odd, crisp snapping. She pushed up from her pillow and watched blearily as Miss Holt smoothed a fresh sheet across the bed.
The maid paused, startled. “You are awake, Your Grace. I—I apologize for the noise.”
Hester blinked, trying to focus. “Have you always muttered so?” She forced her voice into a lightness she did not feel. “Or is it merely Mondays that bring out your chattiness?”
Miss Holt flushed and ducked her head, quickly finishing the fold and stacking the sheet on the armoire shelf. “Forgive me. I did not mean to disturb you. It is only—” She stopped and bit her lip.
Hester sat up, pressing her back against the headboard. “Only what?”
The maid shook her head, feigning innocence. “Nothing, Your Grace.”
“Miss Holt.” She said it as Anna might, crisp as a cracking whip. “Bring me the thing you were about to hide in your apron.”
For a moment, she thought the girl might bolt. Then, with a resigned air, Miss Holt crossed the room and placed a thin, creamy sheet of parchment on the bed. “It came with the milk delivery, Your Grace. The housekeeper thought you ought not see it, but?—”
“But you could not help yourself.” Hester took the page, flattening it across her lap. Then she felt every drop of blood leave her face then return tenfold in a hot, choking rush.
It is not every day that a new Duchess so bravely affronts Society’s cold eye by appearing in the capital attended by adaughter not her own. Yet such is the courage of the Duchess of Lushton, whose recent arrival was observed with a ‘growing’ family in tow. Those who recall the Duke’s appearance may draw their own conclusions as to the origin of this remarkable child, whose blue gaze and tawny mane recall her guardian’s own…
Hester could barely breathe. She crushed the sheet in her fist and remembering herself, spread it again, seeking any hope of ambiguity. There was none. No mention of Bella by name, but the description was unmistakable—and worse, the tone suggested she was to be both pitied and mocked for her association.
She managed to say, “Thank you, Miss Holt. Please leave it on my escritoire.”
Miss Holt did, retreating to the armoire with the silence of a penitent.
Hester stared at the sheet for a long minute, willing it to vanish. When it did not, she let her head drop back and pressed a hand to her brow.
If Mother sees it, she’ll weep. If Leonard—oh, God, the whole of Town will have seen it by now. And the best I can do is pretend that I do not care.
But it was impossible not to care. She could almost feel the weight of every stare that would greet her at the next ball, thequips, the sideways looks, the careful way people would mention “the child” as if she were both object and offense.
And Bella. What would happen to her if the rumors spun out of control?
Hester pressed her palms together, breathing shallowly. “I need Thomas,” she said, half-aloud.
It was not the sort of thing she ever said, and it sounded even worse in daylight, stripped of all pretensions. But she did. He would know what to do. He always did.
Before she could change her mind, she threw back the covers and padded to the escritoire, dragging the gossip sheet with her. She found pen and paper and wrote, swiftly and with no thought to style.
Thomas
There is a problem. I am in the middle of a scandal, and it concerns Bella. You must come at once. I do not trust myself to handle it alone, and I trust no one in Town to do better. If you do not come, I shall fetch you myself.
Hester
She sealed the letter and pressed the wax hard, watching it spread like spilled blood. She addressed it to the Lushton estate,knowing that, even with the best post, it would be a day before he received it.
Hester was about to summon Miss Holt again when the sound of a child’s laughter—high, piercing, and unmistakably Bella—echoed up from the stairwell. There was another sound, too, deeper and rolling, a man’s voice.
Hester’s heart stuttered. She wrapped herself in a dressing dress (the thickest one she could find, the better to armor herself against whatever fresh disaster awaited) and stepped into the hallway. She followed the sound of laughter down the main stairs, past the framed ancestors of her family, and into the morning room.
The sight that met her there nearly stopped her in her tracks.
Thomas—her Thomas—stood in the middle of the carpet, hair damp with mist, boots muddy, and coat barely shrugged off his broad shoulders. He was holding Bella aloft in both arms, spinning her once, twice, as she squealed and clung to him. He let her down gently then squatted to her height and asked, “And how do ye find London, lass?”
Bella, cheeks flushed, bounced on her toes. “It is very large! Yesterday, we walked in a park with so many trees. I fed the ducks in the river. And there was a lady in a red hat who shouted at the ducks, but they did not listen to her at all.”
