Charlotte smiled faintly. “I thought you might.”
Jane sank onto the edge of a chair, her back stiff, her gloves clenched in her hands.
Mrs. Radcliff studied her without judgment. “There is no need to be nervous, my dear. These meetings are arranged. Quietly. No names have been mentioned outside this room. You’re not being gossiped about.”
Jane swallowed. “I understand and thank you for your efforts.”
Charlotte, still standing, moved toward the writing desk and picked up a slim volume of verse. “You’ve added Miss Wright’s newest, I see.”
“Yes. And very pleased with it, too. Her line is much improved since her return to Kent. The countryside seems to have clarified her meter—less strained, more natural. There's something to be said for a rural confinement.” She turned back to Jane, a glint in her eye. “But we’re here to speak of less metaphorical births.”
Jane smiled faintly, at a loss for words. Charlotte finally took a seat beside her, her presence steady and composed.
The maid entered with the tea service, the soft clatter of china filling the pause.
“There are three gentlemen,” Mrs. Radcliff said calmly, pouring tea as if she were discussing the weather. “All respectable. All informed of the circumstances. I vetted them myself.”
Jane’s throat tightened. “And… they’re all willing?”
“To varying degrees,” Mrs. Radcliff said. “They each want something. Influence. Access. Respectability. The Duke’s favor carries weight.”
She handed Jane a teacup. “You are not here to beg. You are here to choose. That distinction matters.”
Charlotte added gently, “If none of them suit, we’ll find others. But I don’t think it will come to that.”
Mrs. Radcliff nodded. “The first gentleman is waiting in the back room. A merchant named Mr. Wilson. He is ambitious, and keen to secure certain import rights. This match would serve his interests—but he knows what is asked of him.”
Jane’s fingers tightened around her cup. “And he knows…”
“He knows you are with child,” Mrs. Radcliff said evenly. “And that, should matters proceed, he would be expected to raise it as his own. You will not need to defend yourself—only decide if he is a man you can trust.”
Jane tried to smile, but her throat felt too tight. She set her teacup down, careful not to let it clatter.
“Would you like a moment?” Mrs. Radcliff asked.
Jane drew in a breath, willing her voice not to shake. “No. You may bring him.”
Mrs. Radcliff inclined her head. “Very well.” She crossed to the adjoining door and paused with her hand on the latch. “Best to speak privately. It’s easier that way.”
Charlotte rose too, smoothing her skirts with unhurried grace. “We’ll be just outside.”
Jane stood as they withdrew, her hands cold despite the warmth of the fire. For a heartbeat, the room was utterly silent—save the ticking of the clock on the mantel and the faint rustle of her own breath.
Then the door creaked open again, and Mr. Wilson stepped through.
He was not what she expected. Perhaps ten to fifteen years her senior, with dark hair touched at the temples by early silver, and a sun-browned complexion that spoke of years abroad. His coat was well-made, but his boots were scuffed, and his hands looked more accustomed to work than leisure. There was something handsome about him—weathered, but arresting.
He stepped forward without the usual bow. “Miss Ansley.”
“Mr. Wilson,” she said coolly, and gestured to the chair opposite hers.
He sat without hesitation, knees wide, hands resting loosely on his thighs. After a moment, he leaned back and gave her a frank look. “Didn’t expect you to be this pretty, if I’m honest.”
Jane flushed. “That’s very kind.”
He gave a short laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. That weren’t polished. I’ll work on that.”
Silence hovered for a moment, but it wasn’t heavy. Just unfamiliar.
