“Go,” she cut him off, her hand still firm between them. She could not let him lean into her—one touch too low and he would know.
For a long moment he stared at her, fury and pain warring in his face. Then he stepped back, adjusting his clothes with sharp, angry movements. Without another word, he wrenched open the door and strode out.
Jane remained on the desk, skirts falling heavily around her, breath still ragged, hand pressed flat over her belly. That had been far too close.
* * *
The next morning, she returned to South Kensington. Mrs. Radcliff greeted her with the same unflappable calm, offering neither sympathy nor judgment—only tea, and the quiet assurance that the house remained a safe haven. Jane nodded, said little, and braced herself for the rest.
Mr. Jones came first. A merchant of some success, he had the sharp cheekbones and clipped diction of a man who counted both shillings and syllables with equal precision. He assured her that he would give the child his name—but made it clear it would not inherit a penny from him. “The Duke is more than capable of providing for the babe,” he said flatly, “and the less confusion there is about succession, the better.”
He added that they would need to wed at once and travel directly to his sister’s house in Wiltshire. “You will remain there until after the birth,” he said, “so the timing appears natural. The child will be raised quietly in the country, while you will residewith me in town. Discretion is everything, madam. I will not have awkwardness under my roof.”
She thanked him for his candor. And did not ask to see him again. She would have scrubbed floors or begged bread before letting them take her baby from her.
The final suitor was Mr. Marlowe—a second son of a landed family, with the polish of Oxford and the measured charm of a man used to drawing praise. He wore a tasteful cravat, spoke reverently of her father’s writings, and called her “Miss Ansley” as if the name were fine china.
He confessed, unabashedly, that he had been present the day Mr. Radcliff was informed of her circumstances. “Forgive me, madam—I happened to overhear. And I was… moved.” He smiled—practiced, just a little too smooth. “I wished to act. And to ask, humbly, if I might be considered.” He had many compliments. Few questions.
“I seek nothing improper, or undeserved,” he added quickly. “Only the endorsement of His Grace the Duke, should he be inclined to support my candidacy for a Treasury post. My father has a seat in the Commons, which I hope may assist in due time. But a word from His Grace—well, that would carry weight with everyone that matters.”
He promised secrecy. Discretion. Respect. “This will never be spoken of again,” he said, “should you accept my offer. Your name, and the child’s, will be fully protected.”
And in the end, Jane chose him. Not because she trusted him. There was something rehearsed in his manner, something too perfect in his words, too smooth in the way he spoke of virtue and sacrifice. But she saw what the child might gain: a name, a seat at the table, a father whose world included ministers and titles and parliamentary votes. Mr. Wilson had been honest. Mr. Marlowe would open doors.
And so, later that evening, she sent word through Mrs. Radcliff that she would accept Mr. Marlowe’s proposal. But sleep eluded her that night. She had done what was necessary. Whether it was wise, she could not yet say.
* * *
William adjusted the cuff of his fencing jacket, the linen crisp beneath his coat. The light in the front hall was pale with winter sun, catching the silver pommel of his cane-sword where it leaned by the door. He had promised a few of his fellow officers—men who had survived the Peninsula and grown too restless in peacetime—a morning of practice at their usual salle near Soho. It was, as ever, more an excuse to move than a show of vanity, though the younger men often mistook it for the latter.
His valet was just settling the overcoat over his shoulders when the front door opened behind him. A gust of cold air swept in, followed by the sound of voices—one low and formal, the other younger, brighter, and pitched with forced ease.
“I am afraid His Grace is not at home,” said the butler, his tone measured. “You may leave your card if you wish to be remembered.”
“I would prefer not to be remembered,” came the reply, smooth as satin. “Only received. Lady Charlotte assured me this matter was known to the family. I would not press otherwise. And I had hoped to speak with His Grace in person. There are one or two… delicate points best left to male discretion.”
The voice was confident and cultivated—but there was a slight edge beneath the civility, a subtle emphasis on the word delicate that caught William’s ear.
He turned. The speaker stood just inside the vestibule, his gloves tucked neatly in one hand, his posture immaculate. Mid-twenties, by the look of him. Clean-shaven, with light brown curls brushed into careful order and eyes of a pale, almostunnerving green. His coat was well-cut, his boots buffed, and his manner polished. Too polished.
He might have been handsome, William thought, if not for the faint sheen of calculation that clung to him like cologne. There was nothing overtly wrong in his appearance—no vulgarity, no gaucherie—but something in his smile felt off.
And then he had said Charlotte’s name. William’s spine straightened. The man did not look like one of his sister’s usual protégés—no disheveled poet or trembling idealist in sight. This one was composed, clean. And there was something else: an insinuation in his tone, not quite impolite, but just near the edge. He was not here for scholarly pursuits. And he was not here by accident.
William stepped forward, his expression unreadable. “Mr…?”
The man turned to him, offering a graceful nod. “Marlowe, my lord. Edmund Marlowe. I had hoped for an audience with His Grace, but I understand he is otherwise occupied.”
“He is at Court this morning,” William said evenly, his gaze steady. “But you may speak to me.”
There was a flicker in Marlowe’s eyes—surprise, then appraisal. But he bowed with the ease of a man who had prepared for every contingency. “I should be grateful, my lord.”
William turned to the butler. “Please show Mr. Marlowe into the study. I’ll be in shortly.”
“Yes, my lord.”
As the man disappeared down the corridor, William reached for his gloves and drew them off slowly. Whatever this was, it would not wait. And if it concerned his sister—and if Marlowe dared to invoke her name as leverage—then it would be William, not the Duke, who would decide how this matter proceeded.
