6. A Not-So-Silent Night

A NOT-SO-SILENT NIGHT

T he light of morning filtered through the curtains, and Melanie blinked, groggy, as the sound of a crying baby echoed in her head.

There had been several interruptions—small bursts of wailing that had pierced the night, each time pulling her from the edges of slumber. Now, as she sat up, the house was still, and the absence of those cries seemed almost disconcerting.

It hadn’t been the cries themselves that disturbed her, but an irrational guilt—having watched the mother leave the babe on the step—that she ought to have offered to help the duke in some way.

She couldn’t. Of course. She knew that.

Her restlessness definitely didn’t have anything to do with the duke himself, or that she’d fallen asleep to mental images of his rolled-up shirtsleeves and tousled hair. He’d seemed overwhelmed, cradling the helpless infant hesitantly and with unexpected tenderness.

She’d found him aloof and arrogant upon their first meeting, and although she had also found him, well, attractive , he’d also been more than a little intimidating.

Last night, he’d obviously been out of his element. Something about that had been… endearing.

Melanie shook her head and threw her legs over the side of the bed. Such musings were proof of her lack of sleep—that she wasn’t thinking clearly.

She bit her lip.

Now that she’d seen him up close, she couldn’t deny that he was rather good looking.

Gorgeous , in fact.

But he was, first and foremost, a man who owned a brothel. For heaven’s sake, he was the Duke of Malum!

She fluffed her pillows with perhaps more violence than necessary, and then hastily pulled up the coverlet.

Since Eloisa was busy assisting her mother and Josie, which wasn’t at all out of the ordinary, Melanie donned one of her favorite gowns, hoping it would lighten her mood. It was a lovely lemon-colored frock, perfect for the early spring weather, with delicate floral embroidery along the hem and neckline.

Catching her reflection in the mirror over her vanity and seeing that her curls were even more unruly than usual, Melanie grimaced and then went to work taming them. The mixture of rosewater and lemon oil felt like silk in her palm, and as she raked it through the ends, it smoothed out enough so that she could pin most of it into a simple knot at the back of her head.

The style was more than adequate for a person who rarely, if ever, left the house.

Satisfied, she then descended the staircase to join her mother and Josephine in the breakfast room, where the scent of fresh bread and eggs filled the air. Melanie half expected to hear complaints from both her sister and mother about the disturbance coming from the duke’s townhouse. It would almost have been a relief to know others were aware of the situation. But they either hadn’t heard the cries or they hadn’t cared.

And the conversation was typical.

Lady Roland discussed her plans for the day, a fitting with Madam Chantal followed by a drive through the park, and later, Lady Covington’s daughter’s recital.

Josephine picked at her food in distracted silence.

Melanie couldn’t pay attention, really, as her thoughts continued to wander back to the house across the street. Was the baby alright? Surely the duke had hired a nursemaid by now.

When she’d finished her toast, jam, and tea, she excused herself and returned to her chamber. The moment she opened the door, her ears caught it again—the baby’s crying, faint from behind the closed window, but persistent.

She crossed the room and tentatively peered through the curtains. The nursery window was open, and she could see a woman inside, standing at the cradle with her hands on her hips. So the theoretical nursemaid had arrived.

Yet, still, the baby continued crying.

The duke would have hired a professional. The woman must know what she was doing… Mustn’t she?

Nonetheless, whereas Melanie normally spent much of the day in the library or in the drawing room, she couldn’t bring herself to return downstairs—not while the baby sounded distressed.

Keeping one eye on the window, Melanie retrieved an embroidery hoop and set to work. Her needle moved deftly, filling in the last stitches of a delicate floral design with satin stitch and French knots. Once finished, she smoothed the fabric and set it aside.

Still restless, she turned to mending two gowns, her needle gliding through frayed seams until they were tight and smooth, and wishing she could do the same for her nerves.

The fussing and whimpers, originally erratic, gradually turned long and unbroken.

Whatever the nursemaid was doing to soothe the baby, it wasn’t working.

Just as Melanie began considering how to address the problem, a sharp knock sounded on the door. After a short pause, it was pushed cautiously open, and upon seeing Alfie, a boisterous border collie who she considered her nephew, the knot in her chest loosened slightly.

Alfie wasn’t alone, of course, but dragging Caroline, who, as always, appeared full of purpose, behind him.

Running her hands along Alfie’s back, Melanie found herself grinning. She’d been so focused on the ruckus coming from the duke’s residence, she hadn’t even heard her older sister arrive.

Before Melanie could manage a greeting, Caroline tilted her head, a lock of light brown hair curling around her chin.

“Is that a baby crying?” Caroline asked, her voice more than a little hesitant.

Melanie caught the flicker of pain in her sister’s deep blue eyes—there for an instant before it was gone, replaced by her usual composure.

Alfie jumped onto the bed, lazily stretching and glancing toward the window, indifferent to the sound, and Melanie swallowed hard.

Caroline rarely spoke of the child she had lost early in her marriage to the Earl of Helton. True to her nature, she had pressed forward, her resilience unshakable—or at least, that was how it seemed. But now, hearing the baby’s cry, Melanie wondered if that strength was just another way of protecting them all from further heartbreak.

“I... didn’t hear you arrive,” Melanie managed, her voice uneven.

Caroline turned from the window, surprised by the effort. A small, pleased smile crossed her face, but it quickly faded.

“I need to talk to you,” her sister said. “About Mother.”

Melanie raised her brows but didn’t speak again. Already, she could feel that pressure in her throat worsening.

“When we first arrived in London last year, I know we all believed that her… enthusiasm for Society was harmless—a mechanism for coping with Father’s death, right? But—oh, Melanie, she’s… on the ropes.” Caroline brushed past Melanie as she paced across the room, her hands flailing. “Maxwell and I hear things, you know, at the Gazette. It comes with the business. And you know I love Mother with all my heart. I assumed she’d settle down, but people are talking… It cuts.” Caroline paused her pacing and sent Melanie a distressed look.

“What…?” … are they saying?

“Nothing good.” Caroline answered. “That she’s rattle-brained—mad—to allow her youngest daughter to come out when an elder one remains unmarried. That she speaks too loudly. That she is reaching too high. And honestly, I could live with all that. The trouble is, her reckless behavior, and the resulting talk, it also hurts…”

“Reed,” Melanie finished for her sister. Which was far worse than if it were only hurting her or Josephine’s reputations.

“Yes.” Caroline’s gaze landed on Melanie, and they shared a look of mutual understanding.

It had taken nearly a year for the suspicions surrounding Reed to fade into obscurity—ridiculous rumors that he’d killed members of his own family!

And now their mother’s… hysteria was stirring them up again.

But Caroline wasn’t through. “If only you could attend some of these events with them, it might quiet some of the talk.”

No. No. Please, no!

“Melanie, you know I’d normally turn to Reed for help, but until he and Goldie return from Seabridge Manor, she needs a calming influence…”

Melanie shook her head. Because she knew what Caroline was going to ask, and Melanie could not! She could not! The mere thought of accompanying her mother and Josie to ton festivities was enough tobring on that familiar choking feeling.

She pointed at Caroline, but her sister shook her head.

“I’ve tried, believe me, but it isn’t working. The fact that I married an earl, that she has a daughter who’s a countess now, it only seems to feed into her frenzy.” Caroline’s cheeks were flushed, which was unusual. She really was concerned.

“I’m not asking you to flirt, or to even attempt conversation with anyone. Just please, attend a few of these parties with her. Drop a quieting hand on her arm when she…” Caroline closed her eyes, looking frustrated but also a little mortified. “When she references the amount of money she spent on new furnishings last summer, or the size of the Standish seal on her carriage.” She exhaled through her nostrils. “Or the size of Josephine’s child-bearing hips, for the love of God .”

Melanie had suspected something like this might be happening, but she hadn’t realized the extent of their mother’s indelicate behavior.

Josphine had hinted at it, but Melanie simply hadn’t… heard.

Which was ironic.

“And don’t even suggest I talk with Josie about any of that. I already have. She said she’d do her best, but you and I both know she can’t stand up to Mother.”

Caroline was not wrong.

But what Caroline was asking… It was impossible. If Melanie were to attend tonnish affairs with her mother, people would look at her. If they looked at her, they would talk to her. They would ask questions. True, those questions would never go deeper than the weather or the latest fashions, but people would expect her to respond.

And…

Melanie shook her head, doing her best to blink away the stinging in the back of her eyes.

“I know you have this… thing, about not talking.” Caroline was nothing if not persistent. “But you need to overcome it. More than a year has passed. All you have to do is attend. Please, at least consider it? Will you try? Not for me, but for Reed?” But then Caroline whirled around and marched toward the window. “What on earth is the matter with that poor child?” she demanded, although she was likely more frustrated with Melanie than she was with the sounds coming from across Regent Street. “Can’t the nurse hear him?”

Caroline whipped the curtains open, hands on her hips.

And truth be told, despite her concerns that seeing a baby would bring up Caroline’s loss last year, Melanie was grateful for the disruption.

What would Caroline think if she learned Melanie had actually spoken with the Duke of Malum?

“Whose baby is it, anyway? Not the duke’s?” Caroline tapped her chin thoughtfully, and Melanie immediately sensed her sister scheming. If the Duke of Malum was suddenly a father, to a bastard child, no less, that might make for a good news story. And Caroline, who’d married not only the earl, but his newspapers as well, would consider the story even more interesting if it distracted the ton from their mother’s antics, which, in turn, would distract them from gossiping about Reed again.

Her sister’s blue eyes narrowed. “I’d go over there and ask myself if I wasn’t expected at the Gazette this afternoon.” She glanced towards the window again. “Honestly, I don’t know how they can stand all that crying. I hope the baby isn’t ill.”

Melanie straightened her shoulders. She hadn’t considered that possibility.

“Come on, Alfie.” Still frowning, Caroline tugged at the collie’s leading string, and the jolly pup sprang up and off the bed to follow his mistress to the door. “It doesn’t seem normal, does it?” she asked.

Melanie shook her head, swallowing hard. Was it possible the baby was ill?

“I’ll ask Maxwell, but he’s attending meetings at Westminster all afternoon, so it’ll have to wait until tonight,” Caroline announced. But of course! Melanie had forgotten, the earl occasionally did business with the Duke of Malum.

But… What if the baby really was ill? What if it needed help sooner than that?

Left alone again, Melanie returned to the window to reconsider the situation.

She had pulled the window closed earlier, but pushed it open once again. The nursemaid, who was contentedly reading a book, seemed a little too unconcerned, and those hoarse little cries, which weren’t as vigorous as they’d been before, came from the opposite side of the nursery.

“Excuse me,” Melanie called out, perhaps a little too quietly.

The nursemaid didn’t so much as look up.

“Excuse me!” she called louder this time, her throat actually hurting from the strain.

This time, the woman glanced around curiously before looking out the window, obviously surprised to be greeted from outside when they were both three stories high.

“The baby.” Melanie pointed to where the cries were coming from. “It needs you to… do something .”

The suggestion was lame at best, and as she watched the woman rise and approach the window, Melanie wished she’d considered her advice more thoroughly beforehand.

From beneath dullish brown hair, scraped back into a bun so tight it pulled the skin of her face taut, the nursemaid’s brows shot up as though astonished anyone would dare question her methods. She pressed colorless lips into a hard, narrow line, her bearing cold and rigid.

“Something might be wrong…” Melanie insisted, refusing to be deterred by the woman’s unwelcoming demeanor.

Because the baby… was still crying.

“Enough,” the nursemaid shouted away from the window, momentarily scaring her infant charge into silence. “And you,” she addressed Melanie. “Mind your own business.”

“But—”

The woman silenced Melanie with one last scathing look, and then purposefully pulled the windows closed, followed by the drapes.

Melanie was momentarily put off, but not for long.

In fact, the exchange summoned a surge of protective energy to course through her limbs.

Because she’d seen something ominous in that woman’s eyes—something cruel.

Melanie couldn’t sit by while that poor baby might be suffering.

She had to do something.

CHAPTER 7

“You can’t revoke my membership.”

Malum leaned back in his chair, leveling an impassive stare at Lord Northwoods, the man who had so brilliantly demonstrated his idiocy by threatening one of Malum’s dealers two nights earlier.

Northwoods was dead wrong. Malum could do whatever the hell he wanted—this was his club, after all.

And revoking a membership at the Domus wasn’t just a slap on the wrist—it was a death knell. When a man found himself unwelcome here, word spread fast. Other clubs took note. Social invitations evaporated. Reputations crumbled. The humiliation alone could ruin a fellow, and Malum didn’t hand out second chances.

And yet, Malum wasn’t convinced that would be the best way to handle this fellow.

No, Northwoods might still be useful. The Rakes of Rotten Row, Malum’s allies in his effort to dismantle one of England’s most insidious opium-for-tea operations, suspected Northwoods knew more than he let on. Information had a way of slipping from the lips of men who were desperate—or arrogant enough to believe themselves untouchable.

Malum smiled faintly, his decision made.

Not that there was any hard evidence to suggest Northwoods was involved with the Duke of Crossings, but Northwoods had, in fact, been close to the Marquess of Foxbourne just before he’d disappeared.

And Foxbourne had been involved with Crossings.

Furthermore, Northwoods was just the type of man Crossings would have found easy to manipulate, cowardly and self-serving.

If Malum played his cards right, all of those qualities which made the earl a good target for Crossings might well be turned against the blighter in the near future.

“You know the rules,” Malum said, not so much as blinking as he observed the fellow’s reaction.

Losing the membership alone might be enough for Northwoods to start offering his allegiance. If not, Malum had another source of leverage he could use.

Northwoods had gotten himself into a rather nasty bind. At the tender age of one and twenty, the earl had inherited his father’s longstanding and well-maintained estate, and all the privileges and responsibilities that came with it. A decade and a half later, he was approaching complete financial ruin, having lost a significant portion of his fortune to gambling and the rest to poor investments.

Still, this so-called gentleman dressed fashionably, sent flowers to all the ladies, and generally moved amongst the ton as though there was no tomorrow.

But tomorrow had come, because over the past twenty-four hours, all of Northwoods’ vowels, which amounted to over ten thousand pounds, had been bought up. And those vowels were safely tucked away in the top drawer of Malum’s desk.

Northwoods shook his head, his eyes serious.

“No disrespect, Your Grace, but I saw your man dealing from the bottom of the deck.”

“Right.” Malum raised one eyebrow and let the heavy silence that followed speak for itself.

Philbert was not only the club’s top dealer, but he had been with Malum since the club’s opening and proven his loyalty on more than one occasion.

Tiny beads of perspiration dotted Northwoods’ wide forehead, and every few seconds, his eyes shifted to the exit nervously. His swallows seemed a little too hard, and the man clutched the arm of his chair so tightly, the knuckles on his hands had turned white.

Malum resisted the urge to sigh. He’d spent the better part of the night dealing with an inconsolable infant, and now he was forced to babysit this particular brand of spinelessness.

“When did you last speak to the Marquess of Foxbourne?” Malum asked the question abruptly. Foxbourne was one of a long line of members of the nobility who’d gotten involved with the Duke of Crossings’ opium trading. As a result of that relationship, the man had likely met his end. Until a body was discovered, however, the Rakes of Rotten Row couldn’t know for sure.

“February,” Northwoods answered. “Why?”

“What did you talk about?”

The earl blinked, obviously uneasy at this line of questioning.

“We discussed his daughter, Lady Amelia. We were going over the details of a betrothal contract.” Much of the ton , including Malum, had been aware of those negotiations at the time, how Foxbourne had dangled Lady Amelia’s dowry as bait, and how the lady herself had ultimately thwarted her father’s plans. “What does the Marquess of Foxbourne have to do with my membership?”

“What else did you discuss?” Malum asked.

“Isn’t that enough?” Lord Northwoods’ eyes flicked toward the door once again before shifting back to stare at the top button of Malum’s jacket.

Leaning back, Malum crossed one leg over the other and sighed.

“That dowry may have covered your debts, Northwoods, but it wouldn’t have funded your estates for more than a year.”

And Foxbourne had needed funds as well. Two nobles on the verge of poverty, working together in what appeared on the surface to be a zero-sum game.

Northwoods moved his hands off the armrests and clutched them in his lap now. But he proceeded cautiously. “We discussed… a business opportunity.”

“What kind of business opportunity?”

“It doesn’t matter now, does it? Now that he’s disappeared?”

Malum ignored the man’s reluctance. “Tell me about this opportunity.”

“It involved importing tea.” Northwoods rubbed a hand across his brown eyes. “If I invested half the proceeds of Lady Amelia’s dowry, he’d sign the betrothal contract.”

None of this had worked out, of course, seeing as Lady Amelia had just married one of Malum’s most trusted associates instead.

“And you found the terms amenable?” Malum asked.

At this point, Northwoods met Malum’s eyes from across the table. “You know how it is—rents are down, taxes are high. I didn’t have much choice.”

The earl rubbed the back of his neck as he glanced toward the door again.

“Did the marquess provide names of other investors?” Malum pressed.

“He told me I’d double my money, and that it could fund my estate for years to come.”

At this point, Malum opened the drawer and unceremoniously withdrew the tidy stack of vowels. “You mean your gambling?”

The earl’s mouth dropped open. “I… Where did you get those?”

“All over town.” Malum leaned back in his chair, eyeing the other man carefully. “Who else was involved?” He needed names. Even more importantly, he needed irrefutable evidence in order to strengthen the case against the Duke of Crossings. It would have been far easier just to kill the bastard, but Malum wanted to see the duke publicly humiliated—and then rot in jail—like any other criminal would. “I need names, Northwoods.”

The earl flinched and licked his dry lips, refusing now to look Malum in the eye. “He didn’t say,” he mumbled.

“Do you really expect me to believe that Foxbourne didn’t tell you the names of the people you would be in business with?” Sarcasm dripped off Malum’s tongue as he narrowed his eyes. Even Northwoods couldn’t be that stupid.

“He didn’t!” The milksop coward was lying. “I swear!”

The earl was willing to lose his membership to the Domus and also be blacklisted from every gentleman’s club in London, rather than turn against Crossings. Amongst the nobility, losing those memberships was social suicide. Apparently, Northwoods feared he would lose even more by telling the truth.

“Right, then,” Malum said.

As if on cue, the door to his office opened, and his head of security ducked his head as he entered.

“Will you kindly show Lord Northwoods out?” Malum was done with this meeting.

Boris dipped his chin. He was a man of few words.

“But what about…?” Northwoods began, looking confused. “My vowels?” The earl was obviously torn by his desire to escape, but also wanted some reassurance.

Reassurance Malum would not provide. “You’ll know in due time.”

Boris gestured toward the door, and aside from challenging both the giant and Malum, Northwoods had no choice but to take his leave without knowing his fate.

Malum had been willing to give the earl a second chance, and he still might—if Northwoods located his bollocks, that was.

As the door closed behind them, Malum exhaled, his body still aching from the long night he’d endured. Why the devil had the child’s mother decided his doorstep was the best option?

Rubbing a hand over his face, Malum turned back to his desk. An inflated invoice, property reports, and operational updates awaited him—tasks that, compared to the bedlam of the night before, almost felt like a reprieve.

When his secretary knocked a few hours later, Malum didn’t bother looking up. “Enter,” he said, bracing himself for whatever fresh disaster awaited.

“There is a young lady here, says she needs to speak with you.”

This wasn’t unusual—in fact, a good number of the women who worked the streets eventually sought employment at the Domus Emporium . It was clean, and the pay was more than fair, but more importantly, it provided protection and stability that they could not find anywhere else. However, he’d delegated such meetings to his courtesan manager long ago.

“Is Nell not available?” She had Malum’s full authority to hire and fire at will.

“The young woman says she isn’t here to ask for work, but insists it could be a matter of life or death.”

It always was.

“Does she have a name?” Malum asked with a sigh.

“Lady Melanie Rutherford, Your Grace. She says she’s your neighbor.”

CHAPTER 8

Melanie plucked at the seam on her glove, seated in a plush velvet chair, wishing herself anywhere else—anywhere but the Domus Emporium .

If anyone discovered that she’d come here, her mother would never forgive her…

Regardless, she couldn’t leave, not until she’d spoken with the duke himself.

She exhaled a fluttery breath.

True, she’d encountered him twice now—the man her mother had once, after reading a particularly scathing article in the Gazette , called a monster. But her mother wasn’t the only one with strong opinions. Melanie had overheard Caroline and Reed discussing him more than once, their tones sharp, their words far from approving.

Sitting in the heart of his infamous brothel now, her resolve wavered. Because those unplanned encounters hadn’t given her much time to process who he was, but now it was unavoidable.

All the warnings, the whispered stories, the sideways glances when his name was mentioned—they suddenly felt a little too real. Maybe his reputation wasn’t so exaggerated after all.

Another shaky breath left her mouth.

The man she was here to see had enemies on both sides of Society. People feared him. And sitting here, surrounded by the quiet opulence of his domain, she was beginning to understand why.

Melanie kept her gaze on her hands. If she allowed herself to take in her surroundings, an actual brothel, she would be tempted to abandon her mission.

Even after that horrid woman had slammed the nursery window shut, Melanie had still heard the pitiful cries drifting across the way. And although she’d tried telling herself babies cry all the time, she couldn’t ignore the seed of doubt Caroline had planted in her mind.

What if something was truly wrong? What if the baby was ill—or hurt?

Both fears had consumed her, each passing minute fueling her worry until she couldn’t bear it any longer.

That was what had pushed her to cross the street to Preston Hall, where she’d handed Malum’s butler a neatly written note outlining her concerns. She’d even managed to say a few words aloud, which was no small feat.

The butler, however, had looked about as enthusiastic as a man being asked to muck out a stable. He’d promised to convey her concerns to the duke, but there’d been no urgency in his tone. For all she knew, he’d tossed her note straight into the nearest dustbin.

It was then she realized she had no choice.

She would have to go to the duke herself.

For the baby.

Otherwise, no inducement, be it riches or reason, would tempt her to enter this place.

Imagining that poor baby, perhaps feverish or in pain, caused her heart to skip a beat. She twisted around in the chair where she’d been left waiting.

What was taking so long?

Because the infant was not the only one at risk. The longer Melanie lingered in the brothel’s foyer, the more perilous her presence became.

Although she had only ever attended a handful of Society events, she had, while doing so, endured a barrage of introductions before withdrawing altogether. Which meant the possibility of being remembered wasn’t entirely out of the question.

“This way, my lady.” The same man who’d been guarding the entrance, a giant of a fellow, gestured for Melanie to follow him upstairs.

Leading the way, his stride covered the distance of at least three of hers, so she sprang from her seat and hurried behind, doing her best not to stare at the gold trim on the balustrade, the lavish furnishings, or the immense chandelier glittering overhead.

Beneath her feet, the carpet felt thick and soft, and although the clean fresh scent of lemon hung heavy in the air, it didn’t completely hide the aroma of leftover cigar smoke and perfume, a reminder, lest she forget, that she was in a house of ill-repute.

At the top of the stairs, Melanie glanced to her right, her gaze catching on one of several evenly spaced doors left slightly ajar. An unexpected shiver shot down her spine as she took in the room beyond—a small, tidy space, more tastefully decorated than she’d imagined.

It was clean, almost elegant, but the satin-covered bed at its center made her breath catch, her cheeks warming as unease settled in her stomach.

She counted twelve doors in all.

Melanie’s heart pounded erratically as she forced herself to look left, though she barely registered the gaming tables below. Her mind spun as she struggled not to imagine what went on in those rooms when the doors were closed.

Men, many so-called gentlemen of the ton , took their pleasure on those satin-covered beds, pleasure from women who were employed by the man she’d come to see.

The duke’s hard features came to mind, and her throat tightened, because he too would have spent time in one or more of those rooms.

It went without saying, didn’t it?

An abandoned baby on his doorstep was more than proof of that.

The corridor seemed to stretch endlessly, and Melanie had to remind herself, again and again, of the urgent reason for her visit.

Finally, her escort stopped at a massive door at the far end.

“You may go in now, my lady.”

Her chest tightened as she braced herself, not quite knowing what to expect. Having come this far, however, she tamped down her nerves and forced herself to cross the threshold of what might as well be a lion’s den.

What was she thinking? This was the Domus Emporium , for goodness' sake. She had no business being here.

But she did, actually. Because she’d made the well-being of that baby her business.

Inside, the Duke of Malum sat behind a massive desk, exuding an air of quiet power that should have been intimidating. He looked every inch the master of his domain— cold sterling eyes fixed on her, his jaw clean-shaven, and his hair perfectly combed back. The black of his finely tailored jacket and waistcoat contrasted starkly with the crisp white of his shirt, and every detail of his attire seemed as meticulously polished as the man himself.

And yet, she couldn’t reconcile this image with the man she’d glimpsed through the window the night before—pacing the nursery with a wailing baby in his arms, his movements anything but polished.

She should have been frightened, or at least uneasy, but instead, her thoughts snagged on a ridiculous detail. Were his shoes tucked neatly beneath that imposing desk, or had he slipped them off for comfort like he had when he’d opened his door the day before?

The absurdity of the question nearly made her smile. But the memory of the baby’s cries kept her focus sharp, and when the door clicked shut behind her, she lifted her chin and faced him.

“Lady Melanie.” His voice broke the silence—not unkind, but not welcoming either, as if he were deciding, even now, how he would deal with her.

“Yes,” she answered.

Should she curtsey? Neither of them had bothered with any formalities when he’d discovered her—and the baby—on his doorstep.

“Boris says you aren’t here seeking employment,” he said, interrupting her train of thought. “And I hope that’s true, because I doubt your family would approve.”

“Employment?”

His fine black brows shot up, and she suddenly realized what he meant.

No! She shook her head. “I’m here—” Whereas the man himself hadn’t scared her, his suggestion that she’d come to a brothel looking for employment caused her words to get caught in her throat.

He deserved a hard slap to the face. Truly.

When he narrowed his eyes, however, she realized he was only goading her.

“I’ve come.” Melanie took a deep breath. “About the baby.”

“What about the baby?” Her insides vibrated when he spoke, so refined was the texture of his voice.

Why hadn’t she noticed that before?

But those heartfelt cries were still fresh in her mind. Melanie straightened her spine, feeling a surprisingly fierce sense of protectiveness. This might be the enigmatic Duke of Malum she was addressing, but he was only one man. And he had a responsibility to that little baby. “Something’s wrong,” she said.

He blinked. “A nursemaid arrived early this morning. He’s being well cared for.”

But Melanie shook her head again. “He isn’t. She’s not… You need to sack her.”

Both of the duke’s eyebrows flew upwards. “You, the sister of an earl came here , to the Domus Emporium , to suggest that I fire Ernest’s nursemaid?”

“Ernest?”

“Ernie—the baby.” The left side of his mouth hitched, but only for an instant. Aside from that, the man revealed little, if any, emotion.

“He won’t stop crying.” The words sprang from her mouth almost easily. “And she does nothing. She’s horrid.”

At this, he blinked again, and she felt a shift in him. He’d been amused by her before, if curious, but now his demeanor was much more business-like. Serious.

“How so?” His nostrils flared.

“He’s… He’s been—crying… for…” Melanie paused and took a deep breath, trying to gather herself. If she was going to help the baby, silence wasn’t an option. “For hours. It isn’t… normal, and she doesn’t care.” Those silver eyes turned a dark gray. “Your butler said he’d convey my concerns after I tried explaining…” She went to swallow, but her throat felt clogged. “But…”

She’d apparently said enough, however, because the duke was already out of his chair and walking around his desk.

She couldn’t help but notice his stockinged feet, and that he paused to slip on a pair of black shoes that were tucked alongside a tall bookshelf.

The Duke of Malum was not a lion. He was human, like everyone else.

“Was he coughing? Do you think he’s fevered?” He grasped her elbow, steering her toward the door, and Melanie experienced a huge wave of relief at his obvious concern. She didn’t know what she would have done if he’d brushed her off like his butler had.

“I’m not sure…” She hadn’t been able to see him, she’d only heard him…

“And the nurse did nothing? Has she harmed him?”

“I don’t think so.” She recalled the moments when both the baby—Ernie—and the nurse were out of sight. “I’m not sure,” she added, moving to match his pace.

“How did you get here?” he asked as he held the door wide.

“Walked.”

The duke’s lips thinned, but then he turned to the man who’d escorted her inside. “I’ll be at Preston Hall, if anyone needs me, Boris,” he informed the man, not waiting for an answer as he strode past.

A second man looked up from where he was seated at a desk Melanie hadn’t noticed earlier.

“But, sir, you’ve an appointment with Lord Helton this evening,” he said.

Melanie's eyes widened at the reminder that, while Caroline’s husband did not frequent the Domus , he did associate with the Duke of Malum—in business matters.

Which was why, when she glanced around, she half-expected to see her brother-in-law lurking in the hallway.

“Tell Helton we can meet at Preston Hall,” the duke ordered, unyielding.

The duke’s assistant or secretary looked like he might argue, but then thought better of it.

“Right, Your Grace.”

Melanie was lucky, indeed, not to have run into Lord Helton. Because of course, he would have told Caroline—who in turn would have told Reed and their mother.

“She’s from an agency, the nursemaid,” the duke explained as he led her in the opposite direction from where she’d come. “Supposedly, the best in the country. There were references, dammit. Just who did those people send?”

“But you interviewed her yourself, surely?”

“There were references.” His tone was clipped.

Melanie pressed her lips together. Still, she couldn’t help but think he ought to have met with the woman himself, regardless of these so-called “references.” This was about the wellbeing of his own newly born child after all.

And although he was finally taking some action, she could only hope it wasn’t too late.

She needed to see with her own eyes that the baby was safe. All morning, she’d itched to hold the little thing; by now, that itch had turned into an ache.

Melanie lifted her skirts so she could walk faster. “Oh, please, let’s hurry.”

The duke merely nodded, and a few seconds later, they stepped outside where a sleek black carriage sat waiting, already harnessed to a matching set of black horses.

A rough-looking man immediately stepped around from the back of the vehicle, and in a single smooth motion, set down the step and opened the door for them.

“To the townhouse, Jensen,” the duke informed his driver while Melanie ducked her head to clamber inside.

“I hope there isn’t much traffic…” Melanie murmured.

But the duke waved off her concerns. “It won’t be a problem.”

Seconds later, she understood why.

There was no backwards-facing bench, and the carriage’s small frame gave the distinct impression that it had been built for maneuverability—quite the contrast to her mother’s spacious coach, which could easily accommodate six and seemed designed more for appearances than efficiency.

Within seconds, the coach was rumbling towards Regent Street.

Inside, she was near frantic. What if she’d waited too long to find help? Had the nursemaid even tried feeding the baby?

The only thing that rivaled her anxiety was an overwhelming awareness of the duke’s presence.

“You’re right. Of course. I should have met with her myself. What the devil was I thinking?” He ran a hand through his hair, only to grimace as his elbow bumped her arm.

He didn’t apologize, and Melanie didn’t answer his question, which she assumed was rhetorical. Yet, despite her discomfort, a strange sense of accord settled between them, as if, for this moment, they were working toward the same end.

Still, she couldn’t ignore the tingling all along her side. He was too near, and the intimacy of it wasn’t awkward, exactly, but… certainly not proper. She made herself as small as possible and turned to stare out the window.

They’d only been driving for a few minutes, however, when the coach came to a halt. The duke snapped open the driver’s window. “What’s the problem?”

“A farmer’s cart tipped over.” The driver’s answer came immediately. “Shall I take measures?”

Measures?

What kind of measures?

The duke, who was now peering out the window on his side, nodded. “Please do.”

“Right.”

With a sudden lurch, the carriage swerved, throwing Melanie’s weight against the duke’s solid frame, closer, even, if that was possible. She felt herself flushing all over.

Ernest, she told herself, jerking back. This is for little Ernest.

Over the rumble of wheels and pounding hooves, the driver’s shouts to clear the path barely registered, and ignoring the urge to clutch the duke’s arm for safety, she kept her gaze fixed on the glass, trying not to feel overwhelmed by… all of this.

Outside, window shops and pedestrians rushed by in a blur, a smear of indistinct colors. The driver’s “measures”, it seemed, included taking whatever route he saw open, speeding around other carriages, over walkways, and even squeezing through some of the narrower alleys. They weren’t crawling along anymore.

She really, really, ought to feel afraid. But… she wasn’t.

Instead, an unfamiliar weightlessness lifted her heart, and for the first time in months, she felt… not excited exactly, but not so dead inside.

She, Melanie Rutherford, the painfully quiet and fearful second daughter of the Rutherford family, was being carried through the streets of London at alarming speeds, in this unconventional coach, with a man who struck terror in most of the ton : the Duke of Malum.