Andrew gave a faint, humorless breath. “That is one word for it.”
Mr. Turner remained near the hearth, with his hands folded before him. “Has it to do with the gossip, Your Grace?”
“Yes.”
“And Her Grace?”
Andrew turned from the window. “Lady Ravenshaw approached my wife.”
Mrs. Turner’s brows drew together. “Lady Ravenshaw?”
“She gave Frances a letter. One meant to suggest that Mary’s child is mine.”
Mrs. Turner went very still. Mr. Turner muttered something under his breath which sounded distinctly unfit for a morning room.
Andrew’s mouth tightened. “Indeed.”
“But the child is not yours,” Mrs. Turner said.
“No.”
“And Her Grace knows that?”
“I told her so.”
Mrs. Turner watched him. “And did you tell her the rest?”
Andrew said nothing. The answer was apparently clear enough.
Mrs. Turner drew herself up. “Your Grace.”
“Do not.”
“I must.”
“No,” Andrew said, more sharply than he intended. “You must not.”
The room fell silent.
Then Mr. Turner spoke, more quietly than his wife but no less firm. “Mary asked you to protect the child.”
“I am aware.”
“She did not ask you to destroy your marriage.”
Andrew’s gaze cut to him. Mr. Turner did not look away. Andrew crossed to the mantel and laid one hand upon it. He could still see Mary’s face in the upper chamber of this very house: pale, damp with fever, eyes too large in a face already emptied by pain. He could still hear her voice, faint yet urgent.
Protect the child.Let no one know.
“She was afraid,” Andrew reminded them all. “Not merely ashamed.Afraid. She told me the father was a married viscount and that if his name were spoken, the child would be in danger. She died with that fear in her.”
Mrs. Turner’s expression softened, but not enough to yield. “I know.”
“I gave her my word.”
“And you have kept it.”
“Not well enough.”
