Текст книги "The Duke and His Duchess"

Автор книги: Grace Burrowes

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A year before Bart had been conceived, Percival would have been in Canada. The realization was no little comfort.

* * *

“I cannot fathom why any man of sense would argue for the purchase of more ammunition without also advocating for more uniforms. Muskets won’t fire if the fellows holding them are perishing from cold. Men can’t march if the jungle has rotted their boots.”

Tony rarely became agitated, though his fussing was welcome.

Percival steered Comet around a pile of pungent horse droppings steaming in the middle of the path. “Their argument is, we should outfit our fellows in something other than scarlet regimentals. Our boys might as well have targets painted on their backs.”

“But in the smoke and noise of battle, when the cannon have been belching shot in every direction, those scarlet uniforms are all that keep a man from being killed by his own troops.”

This was also true, and morale was somehow bound up in the traditional uniforms too.

“There are no good solutions to some problems,” Percival replied, “and in any case, cannonballs are easier to requisition than new uniforms. If I asked you to head back to Morelands, would you go?”

Tony’s horse was not as fastidious as Comet. At the next evidence of another horse’s recent passing, the gelding plodded right through, landing his off hind foot in the middle of the rank pile.

“You are going to be head of the family soon, Perce. I don’t think you’re facing this as squarely as you ought. If you want to dispatch me to Morelands, to Morelands I will go. Gladys understands.”

Esther understood too, about some things. “Peter is bedridden again. Because Arabella is preoccupied with her spouse, His Grace is no longer coming down for meals either.”

Tony’s lips pursed. Around them, few others had braved the park’s chill this early. Sunlight bounced off the Serpentine in brittle shards, and Percival wondered if he ought to cancel his outing later in the day with Esther.

“His Grace isn’t one for pouting,” Tony observed. “What does old Thomas say?”

“Old Thomas is posting me regular reports. Says His Grace is off his feed, too.”

Which was alarming. The duke Percival recalled from boyhood had been a hale, articulate, supremely self-possessed man, the equal of any occasion. The elderly, confused fellow at Morelands bore only the saddest resemblance to Percival’s sire.

“I’ll go, Perce. Gladys will want a day or so to shop and organize, but I’ll go.”

“My thanks.”

They both fell silent as they came around a bend in the path. A woman sat perched on an elegant bay mare several yards ahead, the lady’s unpowdered hair nearly matching the horse’s gleaming coat.

And not a groom to be seen.

Percival’s every instinct told him this was an ambush. Seeing Kathleen St. Just had brought the past to mind, and for Percival, that past included Cecily O’Donnell. Their paths had not yet crossed this trip, and Percival had been hoping to avoid the woman altogether.

While Percival liked Kathleen, respected her and wished her well, his association with Cecily O’Donnell was a small collection of expensive, rancid memories and uncomfortable regrets.

“Your lordships, good morning!”

The O’Donnell had always been abominably forward. Percival nodded coolly and urged Comet along the path.

She turned her horse to more completely block the way, which was bloody stupid when she was on a mare and Percival was on a frisky young stallion. “Oh come now, Percy! Can’t you greet an old friend? And, Tony, you never used to be unfriendly.”

Percival had the odd thought that even Cecily O’Donnell would not have approached him had he been with his lady wife. Would to God that he were.

“Madam, good day.” He did not so much as touch his hat brim.

“Tony, you’ll run along now. Dear Percy and I have things to discuss in private.”

She’d drenched herself in some musky, sweet scent redolent of patchouli, and she used singsong tones another, much younger and sillier man might have taken for flirtation.

Tony, bless him, stayed right where he was and uttered not a word of greeting.

Percival let Comet toss his head restively. “I have nothing to discuss with you, madam. Unless you want to provoke my stallion to an unseemly display, you’ll move aside.”

Though in truth, it was the mare who might deliver a stout kick to the stallion if she were crowded.

“You are in error, dear man, and I am partly responsible. My apologies.” The devil himself could not have offered less sincere regrets to St. Peter.

Percival shot a look at his brother. Tony would ride around and haul the woman’s horse off the path by the bridle at the first indication from Percival, but then, the damned female would only pop out from behind another bush at some more public moment.

“Anthony, if you would oblige the… woman.” For she wasn’t a lady.

Without acknowledging Mrs. O’Donnell in any way, Tony steered his gelding back a few yards on the path. A little privacy, no more, which was exactly what Percival intended.

“What can you possibly have to discuss with me, ma’am? When you threw me over for some admiral five years ago, I withdrew from the field without protest. I am happily married”—he delightedin telling her that—“and your circumstances now are of no interest to me whatsoever.”

And yet… the morning sun was not kind to a woman who’d been plying a strumpet’s trade practically since girlhood. Kathleen St. Just had looked tired, sad, and worried, while Cecily O’Donnell appeared as brittle and cold as the ice on the nearby water. Her hair, once her crowning glory, looked as if it had been dulled by regular applications of henna, and her skin, once toasted as flawless, looked sallow.

Pity was a damned nuisance when coupled with a man’s regrets.

Percival waited until Cecily had turned her horse then allowed Comet to walk forward. “What do you want?”

“I’m a reasonable woman, Percy. What I want is reasonable too.”

Part of what she wanted was dramatics. This aspect of her personality was one reason ending their casual association had been such a relief.

“You’d best spit it out. Both my father and brother are ailing. I may well be leaving for Morelands this afternoon.” Forgive me, Papa and Peter.

“I know.”

She let the echo of that broadside fade. She’d been spying on him, or at least keeping up with gossip. Neither was encouraging.

“Anybody who’s been to the theater would know. Get to the point.”

“I’ve missed you, Percy.”

Oh, for the love of God. “I cannot find that notion flattering—or sincere. If that’s all you had to say, I’ll just be going.” Comet, ever a sensitive lad, began to pull on the reins. Percival smoothed a hand down the stallion’s crest.

“Damn you,” she hissed. “I might have been amicable, but you’re determined on your arrogance. You are the Moreland spare, and if you don’t want scandal the like of which will disgrace your family and destroy your welcome in polite circles, you’ll attend me at my home tomorrow promptly at ten of the clock.”

Having made her threat, she whacked the mare stoutly with her whip and cantered off in high dudgeon, while Percival reined in and waited for Tony to catch up.

“So?” Tony asked.

“I am to attend her tomorrow morning at ten of the clock.” Late enough that any guest from the previous evening would be gone, early enough that decent folk would not yet be calling on one another.

“I can’t like it, Perce. She’s a trollop in a way that has nothing to do with trading her favors for coin.”

“I loathe it, but I’ll go. She’s plotting something, probably some form of blackmail. The woman has not aged well.”

“Will I go with you?”

“You’ll go back to Morelands.” Leaving Percival’s flank unprotected but guarding the home front.

“Did you breed Comet overmuch this autumn?”

Percival stared at his brother. “I did not. Why?”

“He hardly noticed there was a female present, not in the sense a swain notices a damsel.”

“Neither did I.” Which, thank a merciful deity, was nothing less than the complete truth.

* * *

“Did you enjoy your meal, Esther?”

Esther paused in setting up the white pieces on the chessboard—Percival insisted she have the opening advantage—and regarded her husband. “We’re having rather a lot of beef lately. Cook must have misplaced the menus I gave her.”

Percival regarded one of her exquisitely carved ivory knights then passed it across to her. “Perhaps Cook is trying to turn the butcher’s boy up sweet. The shires can do with one or two fewer cows.”

Several fewer cows. Percival had taken to passing her at least half his beefsteak at breakfast with a muttered, “Finish it for me? Mustn’t let good food go to waste.”

A kiss to her cheek, and he’d be off for his morning hack or to a levee or one of his “never-ending, blighted, bedamned committee meetings.”

In moments, they had the pieces arranged on the chessboard between them. Percival sat back and passed her his brandy. “A toast to a well-fought match.”

He was up to something—still, yet, again. Esther took a sip and passed the drink back. “To a well-fought match.”

She regarded the board with a relish she hadn’t felt since… “Percival, when was the last time we played chess?”

His frown probably matched her own. “Not since… you were carrying Victor? Or was it Gayle?”

They measured their lives in pregnancies and births, which had an intimacy to it. “Gayle. We played a lot of chess when I carried Gayle. You said the child would be professorial as a result, and he is.”

“Then perhaps we should get into the habit of laughing, in the event you’re carrying again. A merry little girl would liven up Morelands considerably.”

How was a woman to concentrate on chess when her husband came out with such observations? Did he want to try for a daughter, or was he saying Morelands lacked cheerful females?

“My love, I am atremble in anticipation of your opening salvo.”

Teasing, then. She was inclined to give as good as she got. “You should be atremble to contemplate your sons as grown men. If the mother’s behavior in gestation influences the child’s disposition, we’re likely to see a number of grandchildren at an early age.”

Percival’s smile was sweet and naughty. “I suppose we are at that.”

Esther opened with a feint toward the King’s Gambit, but whatever was distracting her husband of late, he was not completely oblivious to the pieces in play. She settled into a thoughtful game, sensing after about two dozen moves that Percival’s lack of focus would cost him the game.

“Percival, you are not putting up enough of a fight.” And the chessboard was practically the only place Esther could challenge him and enjoy it.

“I do apologize. More brandy?” He held up his drink, which he’d replenished at some point.

“A sip. Maybe you are trying to addle my wits.”

“Spirits fortify the blood. It’s mywits that are wanting. Shall I concede?”

Three years ago, he would have fought to the last move, teasing and taunting her, vowing retribution behind closed doors for wives presuming to trounce their husbands on the field of battle.

Three years ago, she had fought hard to provoke such nonsense.

“You’re going to lose in about eight moves. I won’t be offended if you’d rather we retire.”

He knocked over the black king with one finger. “I married a woman who can be gracious in victory. It shall be my privilege to escort that woman upstairs.”

In fact, he escorted her to the nursery, taking the second rocking chair when she sent Valentine off to sleep with his final snack of the day. The way her husband watched this bedtime ritual—his expression wistful to the point of tenderness—sent unease curling up from Esther’s middle.

When Percival had tucked “his favorite little tyrant” in for night and Esther herself was abed beside her husband, she reached for his hand. “Percival, I would not want to intrude into spheres beyond what is proper, but is something troubling you?”

His sigh in the darkness was answer enough, and when he rolled over and spooned himself around her, Esther’s unease spiked higher. “I received another communication from Peter today.”

She’d been expecting him to put her off, or worse, explain to her that it was time their marriage took a more dignified turn. The little girl in the park came to mind, the one with the pretty features and the horrid mother.

Though at one time, Percival had apparently thought the mother the very opposite of horrid.

“This letter troubles you?”

“Exceedingly.” Percival’s hand traced along Esther’s arm, a caress that let her know, for all his quiet, her husband was mentally galloping about at a great rate. She did not allow her mind to wander into thickets such as: Did my dear husband touch Mrs. Donnelly like this? Did he lie beside her and tell her his worries when the candles were doused? Does he long to again?

Esther felt a brush of warm lips against her shoulder, and then Percival went on speaking, his mouth against her skin. “I have been telling myself that surely, Peter and Arabella will be blessed with a son. Their affection for each other is beyond doubt.”

“Far beyond doubt. One has only to see how Peter watches Arabella from across the room.”

“Or how she watches him.” Another silence, another kiss, then, “Peter sent a substantial bank draft.”

Esther’s first reaction was that they were badly in need of a substantial bank draft. Then another reality sank in: “This saddens you.” She could hear it in his voice. Hear the grief and the dread.

“He’s getting his affairs in order. He said as much in the letter, as if Peter’s affairs could ever be anything else. He’s preparing documents for the duke that will do likewise, and His Grace will sign those documents if Peter is the one asking him to.”

The post came in the morning, and all day, the entire day, Percival had been carrying this burden alone. Esther rolled over and wrapped her arms around her husband. “Peter may yet rally. His Grace still has good days.”

Percival submitted to Esther’s embrace like the inherently affectionate man he was, also like a man who had too few safe havens. “Peter assured me there was no possibility Arabella could conceive.”

Esther stroked a hand from Percival’s forehead to his nape. Early in the marriage, she’d realized this particular touch soothed them both. “Peter and Arabella haven’t enjoyed marital intimacy for at least two years. Her sense is that he’s unable. Whatever ails him, it affects him in that regard as well.”

She felt Percival’s eyes close with the sweep of his lashes against the slope of her breast. “For two years?”

“I did not want to add to your burdens.” Though in hindsight, she wished she hadn’t kept this intelligence from her husband. “Bartholomew truly is going to be a duke.”

“He’ll make a fine duke—you will see to it, if nothing else. It isn’t Bart I’m worried about.”

Esther continued stroking her husband’s hair, taking some comfort from the idea that as reluctant as she was to contemplate becoming a duchess, her husband was equally reluctant to become a duke.

“You already are the duke, you know.”

He shifted up and nuzzled her breast. “I am no such thing. I’m only the spare by an unfortunate act of providence.”

Just as Esther did not ponder at any length whether her husband was resuming relations with a dashing mistress, Percival apparently did not want to examine too closely the prospect of a strawberry-leaf coronet.

“You are Moreland, Percival. You’re tending to matters of state, you’re running the estates, and you’ve secured the succession. For all relevant purposes, you are the duke—and you’re making a fine job of it.”

The conversation was intimate in a way that felt different from their previous intimacies. This was intimacy of the body, of course, but it was also intimacy of the woes and worries, and it bred desire as well.

If she initiated lovemaking with her weary, unhappy spouse, would he reciprocate, or would he withdraw, leaving Esther physically and emotionally empty?

She settled for taking his hand and resting it over her breast, then kissing his temple. Her last thought as she succumbed to slumber was a question: Would Percival use some of Peter’s largesse to set up a mistress? For a duke was entitled to his comforts.

He probably would, and tell himself he was being considerate of his wife when he did.

Four

“He’s a good man, your papa. An important man.”

Devlin did not meet his mother’s gaze as they walked along. She was pleading with him somehow, and he didn’t like it. He also didn’t like this neighborhood, where the streets were wide and the walkways all swept and he didn’t know the way home.

“Devlin, he was in the cavalry.”

Devlin forgot about the list of things he didn’t like.

“I’m going to be in the cavalry. I’m going to have my own horse, and I’m going to protect everybody for the king.”

Now Mama stopped walking, and right there with people hurrying by, crouched before Devlin. “Your papa can make that dream come true, Devlin. I cannot.”

Which was why they were going to his papa’s house, he supposed. They’d been to visit other men’s houses. Mama would wait in the stables and mews, and Devlin liked that just fine. Those places smelled of horses, and the grooms were usually friendly to a small boy who thought horses were God’s best creation.

“Will you talk to him in the stables?”

Mama kissed the top of his head—he hated when she did that—and rose, taking his hand again. “If I have to.” Her tone was grim, determined. She said Devlin got his determination from her.

She talked to men in the stables lately, sometimes telling Devlin to be good when she went into the saddle rooms or carriage houses with them. She was never gone long, and they could always get some food on the way home when she’d had one of her visits with the men.

Then too, stables were warm, and they smelled good. Home was not warm these days.

You could tell a lot about a man from his stables. Sir Richard Harrowsham was a friendly man who laughed a lot. His horses were content and well fed, his stables clean without being spotless.

Mr. Pelham’s horses were nervous, the grooms always rushing about, and the aisles never swept until somebody stepped in something that ought to have been pitched on the muckheap as soon as it hit the ground. Mama had been crying when she’d come back from her little meeting with Mr. Pelham.

Devlin’s papa’s stables were large. There were riding horses, coach horses, and even a draft team, which was unusual in Town for the nobs, though not for the brewers and such.

Devlin did not think his papa was a brewer. The grooms were friendly, the tack was spotless and tidy, and the horses… Devlin peered down the aisle at the equine heads hanging over half doors.

The horses were magical. They were huge, glossy, and glorious even in their winter coats. Their expressions were alert and confident, somehow regal. If horses could be generals and colonels, then these horses would be.

“You wait here,” Mama said, sitting Devlin on a trunk. “Be quiet and don’t get in the way.”

“Yes, Mama.”

She said something else, very quietly, in Gaelic. Mama never spoke the Gaelic in public. “I love you.”

Devlin smiled up at her, trying not to show how pleased he was. “Love you too!”

He watched her cross the stable yard and take up a position near somebody’s back gate. All the houses here had back gardens; their kitchens didn’t simply open onto a smelly alleyway. The grooms went about their business, mucking, scrubbing out water buckets and refilling them, cursing jovially at each other—but never at the horses.

When a groom asked Devlin if he’d like to help brush a horse, Devlin decided his papa must be a good man indeed.

* * *

Esther knew who the pretty red-haired woman was and wondered if this remove to Town was intended by the Almighty as some sort of wifely penance.

“Mrs. St. Just, is there a reason why you’re lurking at my back gate in the broad light of day?” My husband’s back gate, in point of fact.

Upon closer inspection, Percival’s former mistress was thin, she wore no gloves, and her hair bore not a hint of powder or styling. She wore it in a simple knot, like a serving woman might. Esther hadn’t been able to put any condescension into the question—Percival recalled this lady fondly, drat her.

Drat him.

“All I seek is a word with you, my lady.”

Here, where any neighbor, Percival, or the children might happen along? Not likely. “Come with me.”

Esther’s footman looked uncertain, while Mrs. St. Just looked… frightened. She glanced toward the stables, as if she’d steal a horse and ride away rather than enter the ducal household.

“I must tell my son where I’ve gone. He’s just a boy, a little boy, and he worries.”

What Esther needed, desperately, was to hate this woman who’d had intimate knowledge of her husband, to loathe her and all her kind, and yet, Mrs. St. Just worried for her son and apparently had no one with whom she could leave the child safely.

“Bring him along.”

Relief flashed in the woman’s eyes. She scurried across the alley and reemerged from the mews, towing a dark-haired boy.

“Devlin, make your bow.”

The lad gave Esther a good day and a far more decorous bow than Bart usually managed.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Master St. Just.”

He was thin, and his green eyes were too serious for a boy his age. Esther was not at all pleased to make his acquaintance, wondering with more than a little irritation which swaggering young lordling had turned his back on this blameless child.

The next thought that tried to crowd into Esther’s mind she sent fleeing like a bat up the chimney.

Esther took her guests—what else was she to call them?—in through the big, warm kitchen. Mrs. St. Just looked uncomfortable, while the boy was wide-eyed with curiosity.

“Perhaps your son would like some chocolate while we visit, Mrs. St. Just?”

If the help recognized the woman’s name, they were too well-bred to give any sign. The scullery maid remained bent over her pots, the boot boy didn’t look up from his work at the hearth, and the undercook kept up a steady rhythm chop, chop, chopping a pungent onion.

“Devlin?” Mrs. St. Just knelt to her son’s eye level. “You be good, mind? Don’t spill, and be quiet. I won’t be long.”

“Yes, Mama.”

Esther did not tarry to study the curve of the boy’s chin or the swoop of his eyebrows. He was a hungry boy, and any mother knew exactly what to do with a hungry boy. She caught the undercook’s eye and made sure the lad would be stuffed like a goose before he left.

The next issue was where to serve tea to her husband’s former mistress—for Esther would offer the woman sustenance as well. That was simple Christian charity.

Esther addressed the undercook, who’d gotten out bread and butter and was reaching for a hanging ham. “I’m feeling a bit peckish, so please bring the tray to Mrs. Slade’s parlor.”

The choice was practical: the housekeeper’s parlor would be warm and would spare Mrs. St. Just a tour past the upstairs servants. It would also mean mother and son were not separated by more than a closed door.

When that door had been latched, Esther turned, crossed her arms, and regarded Mrs. St. Just where she stood, red hands extended toward the fire.

For her sons, Esther would cheerfully kill. She’d walk naked through the streets, denounce her king, sing blasphemous songs in Westminster Abbey, and dance with the devil.

What Kathleen St. Just had done for her child was arguably harder than all of that put together. Esther took a place next to the woman facing the fire, their cloaks touching.

It occurred to her that they were both frightened. This realization neither comforted nor amused. Esther grabbed her courage with both hands, sent up a prayer for wisdom, and made her curtsy before the devil.

“Two questions, Mrs. St. Just. First, does his lordship know that boy is his son, and second, how much do you need?”

* * *

Kathleen St. Just’s household had shown signs of wear and want. In Cecily O’Donnell’s, the floors gleamed with polish, the rugs were beaten clean, and a liveried and bewigged porter still manned the door.

And yet, as Percival followed the woman into a warm, elegant little parlor, his footsteps echoed, suggesting every other room in the place was empty of furniture. Fortunately, this parlor held no memories of intimacy, for Cecily entertained only above stairs on an enormous carved bed sporting a troop of misbehaving Cupids.

“Shall I ring for tea?” she asked as she closed the door behind him.

“You shall state your business. One is expected to attend the morning’s levee.”

Her lips curved up in merriment. “How it gratifies me to know you’d rather spend this time with me than with our dear sovereign.”

She went to the door and rang for tea—of course. When the door was again closed and he was assured of privacy, Percival speared his hostess with a look that had quelled riots among recruits culled from the lowest ginhouses.

“State your business, woman, or you will be drinking your tea in solitude.”

To emphasize his point, he moved toward the door. She stopped him with a hand clamped around his wrist. “You will regret your haste, my lord.”

There was desperation in her grip… which could work to his favor. Percival aimed his glower at her fingers—her ringless fingers—and she eased away.

His next glower was at the clock on her mantel. “You have five minutes.”

A tap on the door interrupted whatever venom she might have spewed next. “Come in.”

A maidservant entered, accompanied by a little girl with red hair and a stubborn chin. He’d seen the child before somewhere, but couldn’t place her for the unease coursing through him.

The girl was not attired in a short dress as befit one of her tender years, nor was her striking hair tamed into a pair of tidy braids. She was dressed in a miniature chemise gown of gold with a burgundy underskirt, her pale little shoulders puckered with gooseflesh. Her hair was pinned up on her head in a style appropriate to a woman twenty years her senior, and—Percival’s stomach lurched to behold this—the child’s lips were rouged.

“Magdalene, make your courtesy to the gentleman.”

A perfectly—ghoulishly—graceful curtsy followed, suggesting the girl had been thoroughly grilled on even so minute a display. “Good day, kind sir.”

Percival manufactured a smile, because the child’s voice had quavered. “Good day, miss.”

And Magdalene—a singularly unkind name for a courtesan’s daughter.

Cecily grabbed the girl by the chin and pointed toward the sideboard, across the room from the fire’s heat. “Be quiet. You”—she waved a hand at the nursemaid—“out.”

Was everyone in this household terrified of the woman?

“You have three minutes, Mrs. O’Donnell, and then I shall do all in my power to ensure our paths never cross again.” He meant those words, though his gaze was drawn back to the child, who stood stock-still, staring at the carpet in all her terrible finery.

“Three minutes, Percival? I say our paths have become joined for the rest of our days on earth .Whatever else I know to be true about you—and I have kept up, you may be assured of that—I doubt your vanity would allow your only daughter to be put to work in her mother’s trade, would it?”

While the child remained motionless and mute, Percival felt his world turn on its axis. A hollow ache opened up in the pit of his stomach, a sense of regret so intense as to crowd any other emotion from his body.

The child couldbe his.

His dear, tired, dutiful wife would not kill him—that would be too easy a penance for a young man’s folly—but she’d likely remove herself from his household, and not a soul would blame her. The rules of marital combat in Polite Society allowed a wife to discreetly distance herself from an errant husband once heirs were in place.

Percival picked up the child, who cuddled onto his shoulder with a sigh. She weighed too little for her height, which looked to exceed Bart’s only slightly. Percival brought his burden—his daughter?—to the door and found the nursemaid, as expected, shivering in the corridor. “You will take miss back to the nursery, keep her there for the duration of my interview with your mistress, remove the damned paint from her face, and dress her appropriately to her station—and warmly. Is that understood?”

The maid cast a glance past Percival to Cecily, who nodded.

“Understood, my lord.”

Without another word, the child was taken from the room. Percival remained in the doorway, watching as she was towed by the hand toward the stairs. On the bottom step, the girl turned and met Percival’s gaze, surprising the daylights out of him by sending him a slow, careful wink.

Despite the tumult and despair rocketing through him, he winked back, recalling in that moment where he’d seen her before: in the park, peering out of a coach window. She’d struck him as a lonely little princess being dragged about on some adult’s errand, an accurate if understated assessment.

With a pointed glance at the clock, Percival turned and faced the woman who had in the last moments become the enemy of all he held dear. “What do you want?”

Her smile was the embodiment of evil, but she at least seemed to know enough not to approach him. “What I want is simple, my lord. I want you. Unless you can live with the fate of any girl born to Magdalene’s circumstances and live with the knowledge that all and sundry will become aware of her patrimony, then I suggest you accede to my wishes.”

He didn’t believe for one minute she meant he’d have to accommodate her in bed. She’d have to be daft to think him capable of such a thing. She wanted his escort, his protection, his wealth. Cecily O’Donnell was nothing if not shrewd.

She would understand shrewdness in another.

“Hear me, woman: You will ensure no harm comes to that child, lest the repercussions redound to your eternal detriment. You will produce baptismal records, a midwife’s sworn statement, and an affidavit from the man of the cloth who presided at the child’s christening before I even entertain the notion that girl might be my get. And you may be assured, should misfortune befall Miss Magdalene, I am threatening your very life, just as you are threatening my welfare. Make no mistake about that.”

She blinked, the only sign of intimidation he was likely to see from her.