“I would consign myself toyou,” she shot back, “which is not the same as misery. Though I grant you, it is not without risk.”
He laughed, but there was no joy in it. “You have no true notion of what you’re proposing.”
Nancy matched his gaze. “Neither do you.”
They stood, two army generals in a silent field, daring the other to step back.
The Duke broke the silence first. “You think yourself very clever, Lady Nancy.”
“I do,” she said. “But I am also practical.”And desperate, she silently added.
His voice was almost gentle. “You should not be.”
She fought the urge to touch his hand, to see if it was as cold as his words. Raising her chin, Nancy said, “I will go see the children now.”
Nancy did not wait for a reply, nor a summons, nor for the permission she so clearly did not require. She left the Dukeof Scarfield—Oscar—in his own library, gazing after her as if someone had just set fire to his favorite chair. The tap of her heels sounded down the hallway, unhurried and entirely unlike the brisk, nervous shuffle of a woman on the edge of social ruin. If Nancy was to be damned for this, she intended to enjoy every step.
The manor at night felt different. Not haunted—she was not a sentimentalist—but bruised, as if the house itself mourned the loss of its young master and mistress. The lamps burned low, oil rationed by the sort of economy that only an unfeeling housekeeper could muster. Nancy wondered, with some dark amusement, if Oscar made them burn the wicks shorter out of pure spite.
She found a staircase. The butler—Wilks, or something equally apologetic—had tried to explain the layout when she arrived, but she’d interrupted him, “I know how houses work, thank you.” Now she stalked the first landing and nearly collided with the housekeeper, who materialized as if conjured by disapproval.
“Miss—my lady—” the woman gasped, hands clenched in a defensive steeple, “His Grace did not instruct?—”
“He rarely does,” said Nancy, brushing past with a speed that drew a surprised gasp. “You may return to your plotting.”
“But—” The housekeeper, already outmatched, fell behind after two paces. “It’s not proper, Lady?—”
Nancy stopped so abruptly that the woman nearly tripped into her. “I am not here to be proper, madam. I am here to see the twins. Unless you mean to physically restrain me, which, let’s agree, would end badly for you, I suggest you stand aside.”
The housekeeper’s jaw unhinged and hung, swinging between horror and awe. Nancy swept on.
The nursery, by the logic of all grand houses, belonged in the uppermost reaches—farthest from the center of power, but close enough to be heard if needed. A relic of a time when children were half myth, half inconvenience. She climbed the next set of stairs, heart drumming not with fear, but with a tremulous anticipation. They would hate her for not coming sooner. She deserved that.
At the top, she paused outside the heavy door. Some part of her hoped Oscar would appear and order her away. Some part of her wished he’d follow, just to see if he would flinch at the sight of her unaccompanied, bare-headed, in the dark. But the landing remained empty, so she let herself in.
Inside: a hush. The curtains had been drawn poorly, leaving a ragged edge of moonlight that draped itself over the small figures on their beds.
Clara sat upright, back against the headboard, eyes round and wild. She wore an old tartan dress, cinched tight enough to constrict her breathing. Henry, never far from his sister, was curled at the foot of her bed, still in his day-clothes and clutching the rabbit with both hands as though it might otherwise explode.
They both saw her at the same instant. For one perfect heartbeat, they simply stared. Then Clara made a noise—half-sob, half-squeal—and launched herself across the coverlet.
“Nancy!” she screamed, careening into Nancy’s arms so hard the buttons of her bodice left a bruise.
Henry tumbled after, almost tripping on his own nightshirt, and wrapped himself around Nancy’s knees. He did not speak. He just held on.
For the first time in years, Nancy did not have words ready. She kneeled, letting Clara cling to her neck and Henry weep quietly into her skirt. Her own vision blurred, but she would not—would not—let them see her cry.
“You’re here,” Clara repeated, voice hoarse, as if trying to convince herself. “You came.”
“Of course I came,” Nancy managed. “You are my two favorite people on this rotten earth.”
Henry said nothing, but his hold on her tightened.
The housekeeper hovered in the door, making anxious mouth shapes, but Nancy ignored her. She extricated one arm and ran her hand over Henry’s hair, smoothing it into a semblance of order.
Clara said, “We thought we would never see you again.”
“I am here now, aren’t I?” Nancy kissed her on the crown of her head. “And I intend to stay as long as you need me.”
