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She stopped dead at Cornelia’s next words.

“I am with child.”

Beatrice’s mouth went dry. She glanced over her shoulder and found Cornelia watching her carefully, one hand hovering over her flat stomach.

“It is Stephen’s, of course,” Cornelia added. “He was thrilled when I told him. We have talked about children before. He wants children, you see. But as I said, not with you. I had not meant to tell you about the baby, but I think perhaps you need to know.”

Beatrice noticed, with horror, that her hand was shaking where it rested on the carriage door handle.

“I never wish to see you again,” she said, her voice thick with emotion.

Cornelia did not react and did not say another word as Beatrice climbed up into the carriage.

The twins sat inside, their eyes wide.

“What did she want?” Daphne hissed as the carriage lurched forward.

“Nothing of importance,” Beatrice said, smiling stiffly. “Girls, I am afraid I will not be coming with you to Anna’s, after all. I need to go home. I need to go home right away.”

Beatrice stood in the hall for a long moment, still dressed in her outer garments, staring down at the floor.

It made sense. Perhaps he did not want to have children with her because he wished to have children with the woman he truly loved—the woman he could not marry, on account of her being an opera singer.

Why would such a thing bother the infamous Duke Blackheart? He does as he likes, everybody knows that. Duty and reputation mean nothing to him.

But how can you say that with certainty? You don’t know him at all.

She squeezed her eyes shut. No wonder the arrangement was so detailed. What was it that Cornelia had said? Men are liars. They mean nothing they say.

He was drawn to me, attracted to me.

Beatrice swallowed hard.

It meant nothing. It never did.

“Your Grace?”

She flinched, glancing up into Mouse’s anxious face. No doubt she had been standing there for too long, staring off into space. Acting strangely, not at all like a duchess.

Clearing her throat, she plastered a smile on her face. “Ah, Mouse. Just the man I was looking for. His Grace plans to leave here and go to his townhouse. Would you be so good as to pack up his things?”

Mouse blinked, uncertain. “H-His Grace never mentioned anything like that to me.”

Something like frustration bubbled up in Beatrice’s gut.

“Just do as I ask, please,” she pressed, far more harshly than she had ever intended.

Mouse flinched, recoiling a little, and guilt washed over Beatrice like an acidic wave.

She swallowed hard. “I… I’m sorry, Mouse, I was too sharp.”

“Not at all, Your Grace.”

“No, I was. I’m sorry. It’s just… His Graceisleaving. Please. Do as I ask.”

Mouse eyed her for a long moment.

For a second or two, Beatrice imagined herself blurting out the whole, horrible story about Cordelia and theobservatoryand her own misery.