She crouched beside the box and lifted the first paper.
“The Morning Trumpet,” she read under her breath. “Promising title. Entirely lacking in modesty.”
The date was nearly four years old. She skimmed it quickly, finding nothing but a tedious account of a baron who had argued with a bishop at dinner, and an actress whose jewels had supposedly come from three different protectors.
She set it aside and took another. Her fingers moved faster.
She told herself she was only curious. That was not a crime. Curiosity was a natural consequence of intelligence and under no moral obligation to apologize for itself.
Besides, these papers were public. They had been printed, circulated, read by any number of bored ladies over breakfast. If Andrew happened to appear in them, it was hardly her fault.
Frances unfolded a crumpled column and scanned the page.
“Ah,” she whispered. “Here you are.”
The headline was printed in unnecessarily dramatic type:The Duke Who Never Dances Twice.
Frances settled back on her heels.
“The Duke of Sinclair was observed at Lady Pembroke’s assembly last Thursday, where he displayed his usual talent for smiling warmly and remaining entirely unreachable.”
She paused.
“Well,” she admitted softly, “that is not inaccurate.”
She continued reading.
“His Grace honored three ladies with a dance, yet none with a second, leaving several hopeful mothers to wonder whether the duke’s heart is made of marble or merely very expensive ice.”
Frances looked toward the closed door, as though Andrew might materialize to defend himself.
“Expensive ice,” she repeated. “I wish I had written that.” Then she frowned. “No. No, I do not.”
She folded the paper and placed it beside her. The next mention came two months later:Sinclair Smiles, Society Sighs.
Frances rolled her eyes before reading further.
“It must be acknowledged that few gentlemen possess His Grace of Sinclair’s gift for making every lady in a room believe she has been particularly noticed while ensuring not one of them can claim any true encouragement.”
She lowered the paper.
“That is rather a talent, unfortunately.”
Another sheet offered another title:A Duke Too Charming to Catch.
“Mamas with marriageable daughters are advised not to set their hopes upon Sinclair. His Grace remains as courteous as ever, as handsome as rumor insists, and as elusive as a promise made by a politician.”
Frances snorted softly. The baby would have liked that sound, she thought absurdly, then caught herself and returned to the paper.
There was nothing useful there, nothing about children, nothing about a woman hidden in the country, nothing about old debts, strange visits, secret attachments, or anything that might explain why Andrew had taken a child into his house under cover of silence. It was the same portrait society had always painted of him: charming, remote, courteous, unobtainable.
She went deeper into the crate. Dust rose and made her nose itch. She shifted onto the carpet, with her skirts pooling around her, and unfolded a scandal sheet that had yellowed at the edges:Sinclair and the Widow’s Fan.
Frances blinked. “Good heavens.”
She read on.
“At Lady Bracknell’s musicale, the Duke of Sinclair was seen retrieving a fan belonging to a certain merry widow whose admiration for younger gentlemen is well known. The exchange lasted no more than ten seconds, which was quite long enough for half the room to invent a history between them.”
