Teresa—
I do not know if I will ever make this right. I cannot forgive myself for what passed between us, but I want you to know that I do not blame you. Not for any of it. I was too proud, and Peter suffered for it. If you or the children need anything, please write.
I am sorry, for what little it’s worth.
Oscar
None of the letters bore a seal. None had been sent.
Nancy pressed them back in the bundle, heart thumping. She heard the echo of footsteps in the hallway. The game was still on. She hurried back to the crates, but something—compassion, maybe—drew her to the cupboard where Henry crouched, breathing in shallow pants.
“Henry,” she whispered. “If you’re quiet as a mouse, I’ll make sure no one finds you.”
He nodded, eyes enormous.
Oscar’s voice rang from the hallway. “Ready or not, here I come!”
Nancy ducked behind the curtains, the only place left.
The footsteps entered the room, stopped. There was a long pause.
“Hiding in the music room is very clever,” Oscar said. “It’s rarely used, but not too dusty to leave footprints.”
Nancy froze. She’d left a clear trail in the dust.
Oscar’s steps circled the room. “But the real question is—are you hiding together, or separately?”
He opened the cupboard. “Got you,” he said.
Henry groaned. “How did you know?”
“I always know,” Oscar replied. “But I’ll make you a deal: if you can find where the Duchess is hiding, I’ll declare you the winner.”
Henry, now free, scoured the room. He found her behind the curtain in seconds.
“Ha!” he shouted. “I win!”
Oscar folded his arms. “Very well. The winner gets to choose the next game.”
Henry conferred with Clara, who’d already wandered in, having grown bored of her own hiding spot.
“Blindman’s bluff,” they agreed.
Oscar made a show of protest, but submitted to the blindfold and let the twins lead him stumbling through the house, careening into furniture and occasionally pinching his ear for good measure.
Nancy watched, still thinking of the letters. Of the Oscar who wrote them, and the Oscar who now surrendered himself to childish games without complaint. She felt… something more dangerous: Her heart was stirring.
CHAPTER 26
Nancy summoned Wilks with a single, imperious bell, the sort of ring that carried all the way to the servants’ quarters and probably a little farther. She felt no guilt. What was the use of being a duchess if one could not employ the bell with impunity? Besides, she needed the distraction.
She had made it a point, these past two days, to avoid Oscar. She orchestrated her schedule with a zeal bordering on military genius: breakfast before he rose, then straight to the schoolroom with the twins, then to the gardens, then to any room not on his circuit. If he lingered in the library, she haunted the drawing room; if he prowled the study, she made a great show of managing the kitchen.
If forced into proximity, she feigned deep involvement in Henry’s latest bug collection, or else contrived a sudden and urgent interest in household receipts. It was, she admitted, a little ridiculous, but after the business in the music room—the letters, the breathless not-quite-kiss—she was unsure what would happen if she let herself be alone with him again.
Wilks appeared. “Your Grace?”
“Send for Miss Mercer,” Nancy said. “I wish to confer with her about the children’s studies. And bring up the accounts ledgers from last quarter, if you please.”
