“Mr. Langford”and started being“Rhys.”About the intimacy of first names, the permission they granted, the barriers they dissolved.
She thought about shells and trust and the particular terror of becoming someone’s person when you had spent six years carefully avoiding exactly that.
And she thought about a laugh, genuine and surprised, that she wanted very much to hear again.
“Perilous,” she whispered to her own soul.
“This business is fraught with the utmost danger.”
But she could not quite bring herself to regret it.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“His Grace’s preferences for the evening menu have been noted, Miss Grace.”
The words came from Mrs. Kemp, spoken over the afternoon tea that had become a daily ritual between the governess and the housekeeper. They were discussing household matters, as they often did during this quiet hour when the children were occupied with their rest period and the house settled into temporary calm.
Mel’s teacup paused halfway to her lips.
Mrs. Kemp’s face went white. She had caught herself, but too late. The confession now lay between them, heavy with years of silence and secrecy.
“His Grace,” Mel repeated. Her voice was perfectly calm, though something cold had begun to spread through her chest.
“You said‘His Grace.’”
“I misspoke.” Mrs. Kemp’s hands were trembling slightly as she set down her own cup.
“I meant Mr. Langford. Of course. Mr. Langford’s preferences.”
“You did not misspeak. You saidHis Grace.That is a form of address reserved for dukes.”
The silence that followed was absolute. Mrs. Kemp stared at her teacup as though it might offer salvation. Mel stared at Mrs. Kemp as though she might offer explanation.
Neither woman spoke.
“Mrs. Kemp.” Mel set down her own cup with careful precision, the click of porcelain against porcelain unnaturally loud in the quiet room.
“I have been employed in this household for three months. I have cared for those children, taught them, and cherished them deeply. I have earned the right to know who employs me.”
“Miss Grace, I cannot…”
“You can. You will.” Mel’s voice remained steady, but there was steel beneath it now.
“I have built trust with those girls. I have given them stability and consistency and the promise that I would not leave. If that trust was built on a foundation of deception, I have a right to know.”
Mrs. Kemp’s composure crumpled. She was a woman who had served this household faithfully for years, who had protected its secrets with the loyalty that came from genuine devotion. But she was also a woman who could see the truth when it was spoken, and Mel was speaking truth.
“It is not my secret to tell,” she said finally.
“You must ask him yourself.”
“I intend to.”
Mel rose from the table and walked out of the kitchen without another word. Behind her, she heard Mrs. Kemp exhale, the sound of a woman who had just watched something inevitable begin.
The rest of the afternoon passed in a haze of professional competence that required all of Mel’s considerable discipline to maintain. She conducted the children’s lessons with her usual precision. She supervised their afternoon walk with her usual attention. She read them their stories and arranged Viola’s curtains and settled Brutus on Thistle’s pillow with her usual care.
But beneath the surface, her mind was working.
