Page 37 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

The ghost of something—not quite a smile, but close to one—crossed Emily’s face before she caught it and put it away. “Fanny,” she said, trying it out as though testing its weight. “The tortoise is still a dreadful idea.”

“Emily…”

“I have to do everything!” The girl’s composure cracked, a hot tear spilling over her lashes as her words tumbled out in a ragged rush. “I have to remind Peter to wash his hands for tea. I have to find his lost primers when he leaves them under the garden bench. I have to listen in the dark when Michael starts walking, so he does not fall down the west stairs! I have to watch everyone all the time! And now I shall have to spend my afternoons washing lettuce and carrying heavy buckets of water just to keep Peter’s creature from perishing!”

Fanny immediately crossed the room and dropped to her knees, heedless of the fine silk hem of her dress. She reached out, gently catching the girl’s trembling hands in hers.

“Look at me, Emily,” Fanny commanded softly, holding her gaze with steady warmth. “You are not going to wash a single leaf of lettuce. You are not going to carry water, and you are not going to look after the tortoise.”

Emily blinked, wiping her wet cheek against her shoulder. “I have to. If I don’t, nobody will⁠—”

“Your father will,” Fanny said firmly.

Emily went utterly still. Her dark eyes widened in sheer disbelief. “Father? Father agreed to touch a reptile?”

“He did,” Fanny said, a conspiratorial smile touching her lips. “He grumbled a great deal about dirtying his cuffs, but he gave his word. He has agreed to spend twenty minutes each afternoon in the herb garden, showing Peter how to build a proper pen and care for Pickles.”

“Pickles?” Emily echoed, her small nose wrinkling in confusion.

“Peter named him after Mrs. Henderson’s dark cellar jars,” Fanny explained with absolute gravity. “So you see, you are officially relieved of all duty. Peter’s pet is between him and his father.”

Emily stared down at their joined hands, her narrow shoulders dropping by a fraction of an inch as the heavy panic began to drain from her frame. Yet a strange, lost expression lingered in her eyes.

“Then… what am I supposed to do?” Emily whispered, sounding very much like the seven-year-old child she was.

“Well,” Fanny mused, tapping her own chin thoughtfully, “two gentlemen left alone with a box of moss and cabbage are bound to make an absolute disaster of the herb garden. They will need someone with exceptional standards to keep them in line.”

Emily’s brow furrowed with curiosity. “What kind of someone?”

“A supervisor,” Fanny declared solemnly. “You may sit on the terrace stone with a book and observe. You will make sure your father does not scold too harshly, and you will make sure Peter does not feed Pickles any pebbles. You will not lift a finger, Emily. You will merely watch, critique, and ensure the work is done to perfection.”

A tiny, surprised breath escaped Emily’s lips. A faint spark of light danced in her dark eyes as she looked toward the gardens.

“A supervisor,” Emily repeated slowly, testing the sound of it.

“Chief Inspector of the Herb Garden,” Fanny corrected with a solemn nod. She released the girl’s fingers and extended her hand forward, palm open. “Do we have a bargain?”

Emily hesitated for a heartbeat before placing her small palm squarely into Fanny’s and giving it two firm, decisive shakes.

“We have a bargain, Fanny,” Emily said, and for the first time since Fanny had entered Hilgrove Manor, the ghost of a real, genuine smile touched the little girl’s lips.

Fanny left the morning parlor with a lighter step, making her way up the wide oak staircase toward the east wing. The quiet was broken only by the muffled chime of the clock striking four down in the entrance hall.

She approached the heavy oak door at the end of the corridor and knocked three times.

The door opened just enough to reveal Veronica’s neat white cap and severe, pale face. The woman stood firmly in the opening, her hands folded across a crisp linen apron, her gaze sliding over Fanny with cold, practiced deference.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” Veronica said, her voice smooth and pitched low. “Is there something I might fetch for you?”

“I came to see Michael,” Fanny replied, offering a polite, pleasant smile as she took a half-step forward. “Peter has found a tortoise in the meadow, and I thought Michael might enjoy hearing about it.”

Veronica did not step aside. She tilted her head, her thin lips pressing into a sorrowful line. “Ah. How thoughtful of Your Grace. But I am afraid Master Michael has only just settled to sleep.”

“At four in the afternoon?” Fanny’s brows drew together. “Is he unwell?”

“He had a very restless morning, Your Grace,” Veronica explained smoothly, lowering her eyes. “His nerves are terribly delicate, you see. The physician always said that too much excitement during the day brings on night walking. I have only just managed to soothe his headache with a cool cloth. It would be a great pity to wake him now.”

Fanny looked past Veronica’s shoulder. The nursery was dim, the heavy velvet drapes drawn tight against the afternoon sun, turning the room into a dark, suffocating vault.