Philip’s expression darkened further, if such a thing were even possible. “That Miss Norton defends you because she knows more than others do. That you are secretly attached. That perhaps the child is only one part of a larger scandal being badly concealed.”
Andrew gave a short laugh devoid of humor. “Oh, for crying out loud! They improve the story by the hour.”
“They will do worse by evening.”
Andrew looked away, toward the window, though he saw nothing beyond it. “This is madness.”
“It is gossip,” Philip corrected him. “Madness would almost be preferable.”
Andrew said nothing.
After a moment, Philip stepped nearer the desk. “If there is nothing in this story, stamp it out. Publicly, if necessary. If there is something in it…” He stopped.
Andrew’s gaze snapped back to him. “There is nothing between me and Miss Norton.”
“That is not what I asked.”
The words landed with uncomfortable weight.
Andrew held his stare. “Why should Frances care enough to do this?”
Philip’s face remained unreadable. “Emma says guilt is a powerful motive.”
Andrew frowned slightly.
“She believes Frances blames herself still for old harms done through careless words,” Philip explained. “If so, she may have thought this a chance to set something right.”
That, maddeningly, sounded plausible.
Andrew looked down again at the page. The lines were clever enough to wound the original writer and bold enough to draw notice. He could imagine Frances writing them with that cool, focused intensity she wore when truly provoked. He could imagine her lifting her chin after the final sentence, dissatisfied only because the blow had not struck hard enough.
Why involve herself in his affairs? Why indeed?
Philip turned at last toward the door. “Whatever her reason, deal with it, Sinclair.Quickly.”
Andrew did not answer.
Philip reached the door, laid one hand on the brass knob, and pulled it open. In the sudden space beyond, a sound rose through the house.
A baby’s cry.
It was small, sharp and undeniably near. Everything in the room seemed to stop. Philip went still, with his hand still on the door. Then, very slowly, he turned back.
His face had changed. The reserve remained, but a cold realization settled as well. Andrew did not move. Philip’s eyes held his.
“You…” he said, but was cut off by another thin cry, which echoed from somewhere down the corridor.
“It is true?” Philip asked. “You have a child?”
Chapter Three
“Have you any idea what they are saying?”
Her mother’s voice cut sharply across the drawing room, startling even the fire into seeming silence. She stood near the mantel with one hand pressed to her breast. Frances, seated upon the settee with far more composure than she felt, looked up from the book she had not truly been reading.
“I imagine,” Frances spoke calmly, “that they are saying exactly what society always says when it is denied certainty: something loud, ugly, and less intelligent than the truth.”
“Frances, do not be flippant,” her mother scolded her.
