“We got you a present,” Clara declared. “It’s a bug.”
“I am delighted,” said Moira, accepting the wriggling thing with a composure that would have impressed even the Queen.
Nancy watched them. She wondered, for a moment, if it was possible to survive on the affection of others when her own heart had gone cold.
Nancy was peering at a book, forcing herself to comprehend the words that they might distract her, when a knock came at the door.
The butler’s voice came, “A caller, Your Grace. In the drawing room.”
Nancy’s heart gave a slight kick, even though she should never hope that Oscar would follow her here. “Who is it?”
“Did not say, Your Grace.”
Nancy steadied herself, summoned every ounce of dignity left, and excused herself. The drawing room was empty when she arrived.
She waited. Ten seconds, twenty. Nothing. The air in the room was thick, as if someone had just left in a hurry.
She turned to find Mr. Flint and ask, but before she reached the hallway, she caught a sound—a low, urgent murmur—floating in from the conservatory.
Nancy followed, moving as quietly as she could. The door to the conservatory was slightly ajar. Inside, voices, both too familiar.
Edith Mercer’s calm, modulated cadence: “You are certain the Duchess will not return to London?”
The answering voice—sly, amused, unmistakable: “She will if I wish it. But for now, let her wallow. I want Scarfield desperate. The more public his disgrace, the better.”
Nancy stiffened. That was Adrian’s voice if she was not mistaken. She leaned closer, her heart pounding.
Edith spoke again: “And the children?”
“The children are insurance. If Scarfield wants them, he’ll have to crawl for them,” he replied. “The letters worked, then?”
“They worked, my lord,” Edith laughed. “He believed every word. So did she. I have rarely seen a couple so easily unraveled.”
Nancy’s vision swam.
The letter. The necklace. The accusations. All of it was Adrian? She felt cold, then hot. Her pulse thundered in her ears.
Edith said, “She will never recover her reputation, my lord. Not with these rumors.”
Nancy felt something inside her shatter.
She pushed open the door.
The pair inside turned, Edith pale and composed, Adrian startled, then immediately smirked.
“Nancy,” he said, as if nothing had happened. “You are even lovelier in exile. Scarfield does not deserve you.”
“Why are you here?” Nancy’s voice shook, but she did not care. “What do you want?”
Edith said nothing. Adrian, as always, filled the air with words.
“I only wished to check on your welfare. And perhaps to remind you that not every man in London is a brute or a liar.” He bowed mockingly. “I am at your service, Duchess.”
Nancy ignored him, fixing her gaze on Edith. “And you, Miss Mercer? What are you at?”
Edith met her eyes with no remorse on her face. “I am only doing what is best for the children.”
“They are not your children!”
