Page 26 of Duke of Emeralds (Dukes of Decadence #2)

H ester should have fainted. Surely, any respectable duchess would have. Instead, she stood there and stared at the slip of parchment in her hand, reading the line again and again as if the words might shift under pressure and rearrange themselves into a kinder reality.

Here is the burden you left me with. I can no longer bear it. You must look after your daughter now.

Her fingers trembled so violently, she thought the note might tear in half.

The child’s eyes—unnaturally clear blue, so at odds with the mud on her cheeks and the clumps in her hair—remained fixed on Hester, unwavering, not with the wild terror of Noah at the orphanage but something steadier, hungrier.

She shoved the letter into her sleeve, summoning all the authority she could muster. “Mrs. Smith. Slater. Take the child inside immediately. She’ll catch her death of cold.”

Her own voice sounded shrill to her ears, as if she’d lost control of it. She tried again, softer, for the child’s sake. “Come. Let us get you warm, and fed. You’ll have dry clothes and a bath this instant.”

Mrs. Smith’s face registered a flicker of surprise before she swept into action. “Mr. Slater, can you instruct the kitchen to prepare food? I will see to the girl myself.” The butler nodded crisply and vanished up the staircase, the child’s satchel clutched in his bony hand.

Mrs. Smith placed a gentle hand on the child’s shoulder. “Come, then.”

The girl’s eyes lingered on Hester for another moment before she allowed herself to be led away. Hester stared after her.

Only when the front hall was empty did Hester realize she was shaking. She held her palms together, the fingers interlocked tight enough to leave little crescent moons in her skin.

What had just happened? Was this some sort of prank? A mistake? Some scheme from a distant relative desperate to rid themselves of an inconvenient child and aiming for the charity of the newly wed Lushton household?

Your daughter now.

Hester’s chest tightened, and she shook her head. The girl had called no name, given no sign of recognition. But the note’s accusation rang like a bell. Was it possible? Had Thomas—? No, she would not finish the thought. Not yet.

She found herself drifting through the castle, the soles of her slippers making no sound at all, as if she was a ghost in her own home. Only when she collided softly with a settee did she realize she’d wandered to the green drawing room.

At one end, an easel stood covered with a muslin sheet.

Brushes, sorted by size, lined a wooden case beside it.

Thomas’ “office,” as he called it. He’d spent hours here the week before, sometimes alone, sometimes with her perched at the window reading or pretending to embroider while stealing glances at him.

She circled the easel with her hands at her sides and reached for the cloth, but she pulled back before her fingertips touched it then swallowed against the pulse that thudded at her throat.

She could not remember Thomas mentioning a daughter. Not even a rumor. The notion felt both possible and impossible at once, like discovering a hidden staircase in a familiar home.

Does he even know? Or… She stopped. A sudden, hot wave of anger crested in her chest, overtopping all the other feelings.

If he did, and he kept it from me— But she refused to finish the thought.

She could not believe he would do such a thing, not after all their talk of rules and honesty and drawing clear boundaries around their arrangement.

But then, if it was a secret, wasn’t that precisely the point?

Hester’s hand hovered over the easel again.

If she lifted the cloth, would she see evidence of the child—her portrait, perhaps, hidden away in oil and canvas, waiting for the right moment to be revealed?

Or would she find the landscape he’d said he was working on and nothing more? Her hand shook, and she let it fall.

Hester retreated from the room, retracing her steps until she reached her study. There, she sat at the escritoire and pulled a sheet of pale blue stationery from the drawer. She seized her pen, dipped it, and wrote:

My dearest Leonard,

I trust you are well. How is Mama faring? Do tell her that Lushton Castle is every princess’ dream. The grounds are enchanting, the walls magical with ivy crawling up the stone, and the turrets remind me of ancient knights. I am doing quite well and trust you are the same.

Do write back soon so I know how you are.

With fondness,

Hester

She sanded the page, folded it with care, and sealed it with the Lushton crest. Nowhere did she mention the child or Thomas or the way her heart had gone cold at the sight of those blue eyes.

Hester retreated to her chambers upstairs and sat by the window overlooking the garden. She did not move for a long time, and the castle seemed to settle around her—its timbers creaking, wind rattling a shutter, the distant echo of Mrs. Smith’s instructions somewhere above stairs.

When the knock finally came, the sky beyond the windows had gone nearly black.

“Come in,” she called, voice steadier than she felt.

Miss Holt entered, curtsying before she crossed the threshold. “Mrs. Smith asks if Your Grace wishes to dine downstairs this evening or take your supper here.”

The thought of facing the dining room, with all its empty chairs and the memory of last night’s laughter, made Hester’s stomach lurch. “Here, please,” she said. “A tray will be sufficient.”

Miss Holt dipped again and vanished. The door had not even latched before Mrs. Smith herself appeared with a tray bearing tea.

She set it on the low table and drew a single chair close. “You must forgive the intrusion, Your Grace. I wanted to be sure you were… all right. I took the liberty of bringing you tea before your dinner is served.”

Hester blinked then shook her head. “I am quite well, Mrs. Smith. Thank you.”

The housekeeper looked unconvinced. “There’s something else.

The girl. We dressed her in one of the laundry maid’s old frocks, but it will not do for more than a day.

She arrived with nothing but the frock she had on, a single shift, a blanket, and her satchel, which contained little more than a cracked slate and two bits of dry biscuit. ”

“Send word to the village modiste,” Hester said. “Have the girl’s measurements sent, so she can alter whatever is available.” She paused. “And if she is still cold, add more blankets to her room. She seemed very thin.”

“She is,” Mrs. Smith agreed. “But I daresay she ate nearly half a loaf of bread and two bowls of soup, so there is hope yet.”

“Good,” Hester said then, after a beat: “Has she spoken?”

Mrs. Smith’s mouth turned down a fraction. “Not a word. Nor a tear, nor a tantrum. She simply sits at the edge of the hearth, clutching her satchel.”

Hester nodded, more to herself than to Mrs. Smith. “Children will speak when they are ready.”

“So I believe. But it’s a strange thing, how quiet she is. Stranger still, the color of her eyes.” The housekeeper’s gaze lingered, as if waiting for Hester to confirm some secret suspicion.

Hester’s mind circled the phrase. “It is good for children to eat well,” she said at last, feeling utterly absurd as the words left her mouth.

Mrs. Smith looked as though she wished to say more but only dipped her head and retreated, leaving Hester.

When her dinner arrived, she sat and tried to eat. The roast duck congealed on her plate. The wine, which she sipped out of stubbornness, tasted like vinegar and something bitter.

Why did he leave me just before this storm broke? Did he know? Did he ? —

No. It was a mere accident of timing; that was all.

She pressed her hand to her chest and tried to slow her heartbeat, as if that could keep the world from tilting any further beneath her feet.