Oscar wondered if that was possible. Nancy Gallagher—daughter of the notorious Duke of Neads, Scotland’s last legal menace—had a reputation for impropriety, but even she was not mad enough to call on a bachelor household at ten o’clock, unchaperoned.
“Very well. Bring her to the study.”
Wilks bowed, then paused. “Your Grace—she seems… rather determined.”
Oscar smiled to himself. “That is her defining trait.”
He straightened the papers on his desk, rehearsing the pleasant but immovable speech he would deliver to Lady Nancy. He would be gracious, unyielding, and—above all—unmoved by whatever melodrama she carried with her.
CHAPTER 3
Nancy took a deep breath as the butler ushered her down the hallway and rapped thrice on a large mahogany door that seemed to carry the same severity that the entire manor had.
“Lady Nancy Gallagher, Your Grace,” he announced.
She stepped in. Oscar Rowson stood at the window with his sleeves rolled and collar open. The room suited him: bare except for heavy shelves and a desk that seemed to sneer at frivolity. Even the clock on the mantel ticked with a sort of grim satisfaction.
He turned, regarding her with a smile as neat and joyless as the library catalog. “Lady Nancy, it is rather difficult to keep up with names these days.”
“It happens,” she replied, moving to the center of the rug. “I do try to be accommodating.”
He lifted a glass in sardonic toast. “I am told that’s your most winning trait.”
The butler hovered, clearly desperate to flee but unwilling to abandon propriety. Nancy shot him a look of pity; no one deserved to be caught between a Rowson and a Gallagher at close range.
“Thank you,” she said.
The Duke gestured toward the guest chair, though he did not sit. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? Or is it obligation? That would suit your father’s reputation, at least.”
Nancy smiled without showing her teeth. “This is not a social call, and certainly not a condolence visit. I would as soon offer sympathy to a stone wall as to you.”
His dark blue eyes narrowed. “Then you will understand if I ask you to dispense with the pleasantries.”
“Gladly.” She set her hands on the back of the chair, bracing herself against the splinters of decorum. “I have come about the children.”
He tipped his head, as though she’d said something in Greek. “What children?”
“Clara and Henry,” Nancy said, fighting to keep her voice steady. “Your niece and nephew.”
A pause, weighty as a gravestone.
He approached, then leaned against the desk, folding his arms. “My, my. The word travels quickly in London. Are you so bored of courtship that you have turned to charity work?”
Nancy bit down on the urge to hurl the decanter at his head. “You know perfectly well I am not here for amusement. I knew Teresa. I have known her since I was twelve. I love those children as my own kin.”
For the first time, the Duke’s mask slipped; something like confusion—no, consternation—tugged at the corner of his mouth. “You? The daughter of the Duke of Neads, consorting with my brother’s?—”
“Wife,” Nancy cut in. “The word is wife. Or would you prefer ‘scandal’?”
His face returned to its usual ice, but the glass in his hand made a sharp noise as he set it down. “She was a servant.”
“She was my friend,” Nancy said, and if she heard the rawness in her own voice, she made sure he heard it, too.
The Duke regarded her as one might a riddle. “You mean to say you have a personal interest.”
She considered her reply and settled for, “A great deal more personal than yours, it would seem.”
He gave a slow, deliberate smile. “Is that why you’ve invaded my house in the dead of night? To accuse me of indifference?”
