She sipped the tea, steeled her nerves, and was about to leave her office when a sound in the hallway caught her ear—a low, urgent whisper. She recognized the rhythm at once: the language of gossip.
Nancy inched closer, standing just behind the door frame.
“I tell you, she’s not slept a full night since the wedding,” came a voice—one of the senior maids, whose name Nancy had never quite caught. “She roams the halls like a ghost.”
A second voice, higher: “And the Duke’s always in his study, even after midnight. Never goes near her rooms. If you ask me, the marriage is all for show.”
“It’s not for show, it’s for the children. Didn’t you hear what Mrs. Tullock said? She took in the twins so the old Duke’s line wouldn’t be shamed.”
“Then why does she keep getting letters? And flowers?” A gasp sounded, then followed by a hiss. “I saw Wilks with a package this morning. He said it was from Town.”
“Well. Maybe she’s got a lover, then.” The first maid giggled, a sound like glass breaking. “Wouldn’t be the first time a duchess?—”
A clatter interrupted the scene—Nancy’s own heel, betraying her on the threshold. She made a show of clearing her throat.
The effect was instantaneous: the maids leapt apart, faces draining to the color of spent tea leaves. The senior one gripped a feather duster like a bayonet, and the junior began polishing an already immaculate side table.
“Your Grace!” they sang, in perfect, terrified chorus.
“Is there a new fashion in cleaning I should know about?” Nancy asked, arms folded.
They shook their heads in unison.
“Well, then. I believe the drawing room needs attention,” she said, and swept past them.
The hallway was thick with guilt. Nancy let it hang there and made her way to the morning room. If the household wanted a scandal, she could at least provide an entertaining one.
But the fun was dampened by a new discomfort—a cold knot of dread that wound itself tighter with every step. If even the staff believed the marriage a farce, what did that mean for the rest of Society? What did it mean for her, and for Oscar, who could not even bother to eat his dinner in the same room as his wife?
A second delivery awaited her in the morning room: Wilks, again, materialized at her elbow. “A caller for you, Your Grace. Lady Lavinia Pembroke.”
Nancy blinked. “Lavinia?”
“Yes, Your Grace. She is in the receiving room.”
She considered refusing the visit, but curiosity won out. “Show her in.”
Lavinia entered with the cautious confidence of a girl who had learned to move through life by walking just to the left of disaster. She wore a dress of faded lilac, and her gloves had been mended, but she stood with the upright bearing of a general.
“Lavinia!” Nancy moved to greet her. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I was passing through Town, and thought I’d call. If it’s a bad time—” Lavinia’s eyes darted to the tray, the letters, the staff still visible through the hall window—“I can come another day.”
“Not at all,” Nancy said, waving her to the sofa. “You rescue me from my own thoughts. They’ve been threatening mutiny since dawn.”
Lavinia sat, perched on the edge of the cushion. “Is everything well, Nancy?”
“Perfectly,” she lied, and poured tea. “Unless you count unsolicited flowers and the disintegration of household discipline.”
Lavinia smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You seem out of sorts.”
“I am never in sorts,” Nancy replied, buttering a roll with surgical care. “But today, I suppose, is more than usually peculiar.”
Lavinia studied her a moment, then asked: “Is the Duke here?”
Nancy considered the question, trying to read the shape of it. “He’s in the city on business. Why?”
“I only wondered.” Lavinia blushed and took a rapid sip of tea. “It’s just—well, people say things, you know.”
