“Then explain the inattention.” Moira ruffled the paper, searching for fresh ammunition. “Usually you offer a witticismabout the lower classes liberating their passions. Or at least a comment on Lady Burnham’s taste in kitchen staff.”
Nancy forced a smile. “It’s difficult to compete with a man in only a cravat.”
Her mother looked unconvinced. “Your father would say it is a sign of moral decay in the younger generation. I prefer to think it is a sign of ingenuity.” She leaned in, lowering her voice. “Are you certain you are well?”
Nancy looked into her cup, hoping for clairvoyance. “I am distracted,” she admitted. “Nothing more.”
“Is it Teresa and the twins?” Moira asked.
“Yes.” Nancy’s answer was too quick to be credible. “They are in need of—” She waved a vague hand. “They are all alone…”
Moira sighed. “That is a problem for their uncle, darling.”
Nancy did not dignify this with a reply. She thought instead of Clara’s wild hair and Henry’s stubborn grip on his rabbit, and of the way the house at Scarfield seemed designed to erase all evidence of childhood.If he says no, what then?She would not, could not, abandon them.
Her spoon clattered in the cup, and her mother’s gaze was sharp enough to draw blood.
“Whatever you are scheming, I wish you would at least tell me,” Moira said. “You know I despise being left out of a good plot.”
Nancy smiled, softer this time. “I have nothing to plot.”
The lie was elegant, and it might have held had not the butler chosen that moment to glide in with a letter on a silver tray. He presented it with the caution of a man offering a live snake.
“For you, my lady.”
Nancy took it. The seal was dark blue, pressed hard enough to bruise the paper. Her heart hitched as she recognized the crest.
She slit the letter with her nail, unfolding it so quickly she nearly tore the page.
Lady Nancy,
Return to Scarfield at once. We must speak.
There was no signature, and not even a please.Of course. The only man in London less courteous than my father is the Duke of Scarfield.
Moira arched an eyebrow. “Urgent?”
“Not particularly,” Nancy said, folding the letter into her palm. “It is nothing.”
Moira studied her. “You’re a dreadful liar.”
Nancy stood, nearly overturning her chair. “I ought to call on Fiona. She sent word last night, wishing to see me.” It was not even a plausible lie. She regretted it the moment it left her mouth.
Moira’s eyes narrowed further. “Before you have finished breakfast?”
“I find it easier to converse with her on an empty stomach.” Nancy glanced at the untouched eggs, then at her mother, then at the clock. “I will return by luncheon.”
Moira tapped her chin. “See that you do. And if you encounter any footmen in states of undress, do at least take notes.”
Nancy managed a real laugh. “You’re incorrigible, Mother.”
Moira looked at her over the rim of the scandal sheet. “Gallagher women must take their pleasures where they find them.”
Nancy bent to kiss her mother’s cheek, then swept out, the letter tight in her fist.
She found her coat and hat in the entryway and was halfway to the door before the butler caught up. “Will you require the carriage, Lady Nancy?”
“Just my own two feet,” she said, already stepping into the cold morning.
