10. His Fault

HIS FAULT

M alum sat at his polished mahogany desk within the inner sanctum of the Domus , his fingers steepled in thought. Papers lay before him—ledgers, correspondence, matters requiring his attention—but his focus faltered, drifting against his will.

He didn’t dwell on young women he barely knew. He certainly didn’t waste time wondering why their curtains remained drawn or why they suddenly altered their routines.

It had been a week since Lady Melanie Rutherford had stepped into his life—uninvited, inconvenient, and impossible to ignore. She hadn’t returned—not that he’d expected her to—but she’d also disappeared from the window. The fleeting figure behind the glass, a detail he’d never intended to notice in the first place, was conspicuously absent.

Malum tugged at his cravat.

He only involved himself in other people’s drama when it affected his business, or if one of his investigations required that he do so. And this… well, it didn’t fall into either category.

Still, he’d gotten involved.

And he couldn’t dismiss the possibility that his disclosures—that she’d ventured not just outside her home, but to the Domus Emporium , albeit on behalf of an innocent baby—might well be to blame somehow for her sudden absence…

Especially after Helton’s response.

The earl had said that even amongst close members of her family, she rarely spoke. He’d said she wasn’t capable of making normal conversation.

Which made Lady Melanie something of a puzzle. She had spoken easily to him, for the most part. But when he replayed their conversations in his mind, he couldn’t remember if she had, in fact, conserved her words. When he’d dismissed her from the nursery, she’d looked as though she was going to say something, but she hadn’t.

Malum remembered how her shoulders curled forward, making her look even smaller than she already was. Had she done the same at the end of their first meeting, after she’d carried Ernest’s basket into Preston Hall?

The door to his office creaked open, pulling Malum from his thoughts. “Mrs. Nell, to see you.” Mr. Huxley, his secretary, announced the scheduled appointment.

“Send her in,” Malum ordered, hoping for some good news.

The middle-aged woman with more than a hint of silver streaking her dark hair stepped into Malum’s office, exuding her own quiet authority. Nell was a former prostitute and no-nonsense matron who now managed the courtesans at the Domus .

“Tell me you’ve had luck in locating Miss De la Cour’s family,” Malum said.

Nell grimaced and, glancing down, opened the small journal she normally carried in her apron.

Her loyalty to the women she managed was a powerful thing. Knowing this, Malum had instructed her to head up the efforts to find Ernest’s mother.

The infant’s resemblance to Stella De la Cour was uncanny. Between that and the timing, Malum was left with no doubt she was the woman they were looking for.

“Not much, unfortunately.”

“You mean De la Cour isn’t her real name?” Malum sighed. He hadn’t truly held out much hope that it would lead them to her—no woman working at a brothel went by their original surname—but it certainly would have made things easier.

“Shocking, isn’t it?” Nell answered, rolling her eyes before turning serious again. “Delilah Rothschild, however, the woman who roomed with her, said Stella had planned to bring her condition to me eventually, but wanted to contact her family first.”

Malum frowned. No matter that these women worked at London’s most exclusive brothel, it was still a brothel. Families could be rather unforgiving when they learned the nature of their daughter or sister’s line of work.

“Did she mention where they’re from?” he asked.

Nell pursed her lips. “Unfortunately, no.”

Not unexpected either. His employees tended to keep their home and business lives entirely separate—for good reason, of course. Normally it would not pose any significant issue.

“Do we have any leads?”

Nell consulted her notebook again. “One of her clients, a Mr. Porter, said she mentioned that she came from a family of butchers.” At the flash of Malum’s eyes, Nell quickly continued, “In the literal sense. He got the idea that the shop was something of a legacy.”

“Could be Yorkshire—Shambles Street.” A long shot, but Malum’s instincts usually proved right, and he’d learned to trust them.

“Her accent was thick.” Nell was nodding. “Even after her lessons, one would get the impression that she swallows half her words.”

Malum stood and paced behind his desk. “Send someone up there, then, to visit every last butcher—starting with those who’ve been in business the longest. Have them take Miss Rothschild along—a friendly face never hurts.” Stella De la Cour must have had good reason to abandon her child; she might flee again if she felt hunted.

Malum stopped at the window, looking out at the sun-brightened street. He couldn’t keep a baby indefinitely. A duke running a brothel was one thing; a duke raising an infant while running a brothel was quite another.

The new nursemaid was more than adequate, and yet a different sense of responsibility—likely brought on by Lady Melanie’s reprimands—had Little Ernest claiming more of his thoughts—of his time—than he’d like. The hour he spent in the nursery each morning could have been better spent in his study.

Impossible.

He turned, fixing Nell with a hard gaze. “I can’t keep the child.”

Nell raised an eyebrow but said nothing, though there was a flash of something in her eyes. Not sympathy—something closer to resignation.

“I’ll keep you posted,” she said, turning to leave.

As the door clicked shut behind her, Malum sank back into his chair, hands resting on the arms. The silence in his office, something he normally valued, was unusually loud today.

He ran the back of his hand across his brow. Ernest’s mother was missing, Lady Melanie was gone from her window, and here he was, responsible for a baby. All while doing his best to put an end to Crossings’ diabolical trade.

Blast and damn.

Normally, Malum could bury himself in work for hours, drowning in numbers and distractions until the world outside ceased to exist. But not today. No, today, that wasn’t happening.

With a sigh of resignation, he ordered his secretary to cancel his afternoon meetings, ignoring the raised eyebrow that clearly asked if he was losing his mind.

He bypassed the public rooms, descended the back staircase, and waved off an overly eager employee offering to summon his carriage. The idea of being trapped in a box on wheels, stewing in his own thoughts, felt even more intolerable than his office.

Instead, he set off alone, his stride clipped and determined as he entered the secret tunnel leading to the discreet exit on Jermyne Street. It seemed, for today at least, the devil was taking the scenic route.

Ten minutes later, the unexpected warmth of the sun on Malum’s face did something absurd—it almost improved his mood. In a city like London, where the rain never seemed to miss a day, he’d nearly forgotten the peculiar magic of sunlight.

How quaint.

On a whim, Malum cut through St. James Park, his strides purposeful as he headed for No. 13 Regent Street.

A conversation with the second Rutherford daughter was overdue. If he owed Lady Melanie an apology, she’d have it. But first, his curious little neighbor had some explaining to do, and he found himself almost looking forward to hearing it.

Just as he resolved to pay her a visit, Malum rounded the path at the edge of the lake—and stopped short, his steps faltering.

A familiar figure was heading straight toward him.

Lady Melanie .

Only, she wasn’t alone today.

She was walking beside a slightly taller version of herself, likely the youngest of Rutherford’s sisters, while Lady Roland, their mother, followed closely behind, accompanied by the eldest sister, Lady Caroline Helton.

It wasn’t the encounter he had planned, and if not for Helton’s wife—whom he had met on a few occasions and would most certainly recognize him—he might have simply stepped aside, pretending not to see them.

He doubted Lady Melanie would have said anything about it.

But here they were, and aside from leaping into the nearby bushes in what would have been an embarrassingly undignified escape, he had no choice but to do the proper thing.

Malum pinched his mouth tight and inhaled a deep breath through his nostrils.

“Your Grace,” Lady Helton said, her voice steady as they all came to a halt facing him.

He inclined his head to the countess. “My Lady,” he replied.

Malum felt Lady Melanie’s presence without having to actually look at her.

Lady Caroline turned slightly, gesturing toward the older woman. “Mother, may I present the Duke of Malum?”

Lady Roland’s eyes widened, but she managed to incline her head graciously. “Your Grace, a pleasure to meet you.”

Malum nodded. “The pleasure is mine, my lady.”

“May I present my sister, Lady Melanie. Melanie, the Duke of Malum.” Lady Helton made the introduction as though it was the first time, even though both her and their mother’s expressions conveyed that she knew otherwise.

Here in Mayfair, an introduction couldn’t be acknowledged if it hadn’t been manufactured by Society itself. Even if they were, in fact, neighbors.

But this need for propriety did, fortuitously, allow Malum to get a good look at the woman who’d occupied far too much of his thoughts.

She’d been standing a little apart from the others, her expression distant, but she stepped forward to offer her hand.

Malum bowed as he took it, her touch cool and impersonal. She didn’t look at him. Was her silence a quiet rebuke?

Her posture was as poised as he remembered, but there was something different now. The strength he’d sensed before—strength that had brought her to the Domus —seemed diminished. Her lips were slightly pressed together, drained of color, and her eyes—those bright, crystal-blue eyes—looked…

Shuttered.

Lady Melanie had spoken to him before, but now, in the presence of her family, she remained silent. Malum frowned inwardly.

Her mother, visibly embarrassed—and if he wasn’t mistaken, frustrated by her daughter’s silence—spoke up to fill the void. "Lady Melanie is returning to Society. Isn’t that exciting?" Whether she was oblivious to her daughter’s discomfort or simply didn’t care, it was hard to tell.

Lady Melanie’s lips remained sealed in silence, her gaze drifting toward the ground.

"Exciting?” He answered coolly. “That’s debatable.” Malum watched Lady Melanie’s reaction closely.

Until recently, her family had been content to let her have her solitude. Was this their way of punishing her for visiting his brothel?

Ah, hell. That would make this his fault.

Damn Helton.

No, damn himself .

The slight shadows beneath her eyes hinted at sleepless nights.

His chest tightened at the sight.

He’d meant to meet with her and offer up a simple explanation, perhaps to appease the sense of guilt nagging him.

"It is always exciting if one manages to make a good match. Lady Josephine is out as well," Lady Roland continued, shifting the attention to her youngest daughter, who stood nearby, wide-eyed and eager.

Upon the final introduction, the girl’s cheeks flushed prettily, and she gave a shy, almost coquettish smile. “It would be more exciting if more dukes were in attendance,” she murmured, her blue eyes bright with youthful optimism.

God help him. It was always the same. This was the place where any proper gentleman would say something complimentary.

Her efforts were wasted on him.

He gave a polite nod but kept glancing over at Lady Melanie. This was not the woman who had sought him out at the Domus , who had censured him for not vetting Ernest’s nursemaid properly.

It was strange to think of her in one of the ton’s ballrooms, parading about for suitors. He certainly couldn’t picture her thriving in that environment.

This was a woman being forced into a role she didn’t want to play.

And, somehow, he cared. More than he should.

But what the hell was he supposed to do about it?