“In the morning room.” Nancy gave him a brisk nod, then turned to Clara, who looked as though she’d been sentenced to hard labor.
“But Mrs. Tullock says we are to always remain in the nursery,” Clara objected, arms folded in the manner of the truly oppressed.
“Mrs. Tullock,” said Nancy, “does not outrank me, and I am the mistress of Scarfield Manor now. You shall go where I want you to go.” She spun Clara’s tartan sash so it sat perfectly at her waist, then marched both children down the hallway.
The main staircase was already occupied: a footman polishing the banister, two maids bearing trays, and a butler at parade rest by the entry. None dared meet Nancy’s gaze, which she considered a modest victory.
They arrived at the morning room, where sunlight poured through the long windows and revealed Oscar, entrenched behind the day’s newspaper and an impregnable fortress of toast. He looked up, startled. “Is it a holiday?”
“Of course not,” Nancy replied, ushering the children to their seats. “But as you have failed to provide for their proper education, I have taken it upon myself to introduce them to the finer points of breakfast etiquette.”
Oscar’s brow twitched, and he looked from Nancy to the twins and back, as if searching for the punchline. “Is there a special occasion?”
Nancy set about loading the children’s plates with alarming efficiency. “Yes. The occasion is that we are not dead, and thus entitled to decent food.”
Henry regarded his pile of scones with suspicion. “Are we allowed to eat all of this?”
“As much as you wish.” Nancy gave him a plate, then handed Clara a scone. “If you do not finish, I will be forced to do so myself.”
Oscar cleared his throat. “Duchess, might I have a word?”
Nancy ignored him and poured tea for the children, splashing milk in generous dollops. “One does not interrupt a lesson in progress, Your Grace. It confuses the pupils.”
Oscar made a noise of resignation, then returned to his newspaper. Except he did not, not really. Nancy was aware, in the way a fox is aware of the approaching hound, of his eyes drifting up at intervals, charting every motion, every giggle, every jam-smeared smile that crossed the table.
Clara took a bite and said, “You spread the cheese better than the maid.”
“That’s because Nancy used to make it herself,” Henry explained, spraying crumbs as he spoke.
“Chew before you speak,” Nancy said, then handed him a napkin. “And wipe your face, or the Duke will think you a barbarian.”
Oscar’s mouth twitched, but he kept his gaze on the paper.
“Can we walk in the gardens after breakfast?” Clara asked, licking jam from her fingers.
“We are not allowed in the gardens, Clara,” Henry whispered, scandalized. “You know that.”
Nancy leaned forward, lowering her voice in a parody of conspiracy. “You may go where you like, provided you do not drown in the fountain or incite rebellion in the stables.”
“Is that a promise?” Clara demanded.
“It is a threat,” said Nancy, but she winked, and both children dissolved into giggles.
Oscar set down his paper, slow and deliberate. “I do not recall authorizing a field trip.”
“You need not recall it, Your Grace. I authorized it myself,” Nancy replied, slicing an orange with calculated precision.
Oscar regarded her with that blue, unblinking stare that she had come to know so well. “Are you trying to undo years of discipline in one morning?”
Nancy spread marmalade on a scone, then set it on his plate with a smile. “It appears that your years of discipline have not had the desired effect. I thought to attempt something new.”
Oscar’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing. Instead, he drank his coffee and pretended to be unbothered as Henry attempted to balance a wedge of cheese on his nose.
Nancy took a scone herself, ate half of it, and watched the children. It was only when she reached for a second that she felt Oscar’s gaze. Not a glare, exactly; more a shadow at the edge of her awareness. She looked up and caught him watching.
“Is there something on my face?” she asked.
He blinked. “No. Only that you look—” He paused. “Different.”
