Frances shook her head. “So they havealwaysbeen ridiculous.”
Frances lowered the page. A faint smile touched her mouth despite herself. She could imagine him doing precisely that: amused, polished, just close enough to seem warm and just distant enough that no one could accuse him of belonging to the moment.
She searched for nearly half an hour.
The pile beside her grew. The box emptied. Her knees began to ache, and a strand of hair slipped free near her cheek. Still, she continued, half irritated by her own persistence and half convinced that the next paper must contain something more.
But Andrew, it seemed, had been remarkably dull before becoming the most interesting problem of her life.
There were mentions of his estate, his charm, his refusal to marry, so frequent and so amused that society had evidently made a sport of failing to catch him.
At the very bottom of the crate she found a column dated several weeks before the first scandal about the baby had appeared. Her pulse quickened. She smoothed it upon the carpet and read:A Duke in the Country.
“The Duke of Sinclair has lately been much absent from town, preferring, it seems, the solitude of one of his smaller country properties to the pleasures of London. One hopes His Grace has not grown weary of society, though society has certainly not grown weary of him.”
She read the next line quickly.
“No lady has been observed as the cause of this retreat, which will disappoint those who prefer romance to estate management.”
Frances let out a frustrated breath.
“That is all?”
She searched the rest of the page, but the column moved on to a marquess’s waistcoat and a countess’s unfortunate poem.
Nothing.
Andrew had gone to the country. The child appeared later. Society had noticed his absence but not its meaning. Frances sat back and pressed the heel of her hand lightly to her brow.
“Very useful,” she told the newspapers. “You have confirmed that my husband was handsome, admired, evasive, and irritatingly private. A revelation indeed.”
That was when the library door opened. Frances started so violently that a pile of papers slid from her lap. Mrs. Carter paused on the threshold with a neatly folded list in one hand.
“Oh, Your Grace! Forgive me. I did not mean to startle you.”
Frances gathered the nearest paper with what she hoped was dignity. “Not at all, Mrs. Carter. I was merely…”
She looked down at the chaos of old scandal sheets around her. The housekeeper’s brows lifted, polite but unmistakably curious.
Frances cleared her throat. “Investigating the past failures of the press.”
“I see, Your Grace.”
“You wished to ask me something?” Frances said quickly.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Mrs. Carter came farther into the room. “Cook asked whether you would prefer the apricot tart again for dinner.”
“Yes, please. And perhaps something plain as well, in case the tart offends His Grace on principle.”
“I shall tell Cook,” the woman nodded, smiling.
Mrs. Carter glanced again at the papers. Frances pretended not to notice.
Mrs. Carter, being a housekeeper and therefore professionally incapable of failing to notice anything, asked gently. “May I ask what you are doing with the old newspapers, Your Grace? I believe Mr. Carter had them set aside to be thrown out.”
“Oh,” Frances said, much too quickly. “Nothing.”
Mrs. Carter’s expression remained pleasant.
