“I have my suspicions, yes.” The flat statement offered no details or elaboration. “But I could be wrong about the identity of her father.”
There was weight in that pause, years of history compressed into silence that he clearly had no intention of sharing.
“And the mother?”
“Perhaps she is dead, missing, or unable to care for her. Why else would she abandon her child like this?” His voice had grown rough, but he offered nothing more specific.
Iris felt her frustration mounting. “You’re being deliberately evasive. If you expect me to help raise this child, don’t I deserve to know the truth?”
“You deserve to know what’s necessary for her care and protection. Nothing more.” He turned to stare at the fire. His posture was rigid with finality. “I suspect that the details of her parentage are complicated. Better left buried with the dead.”
“Complicated how?”
“In ways that could destroy us all if they became public knowledge.” He faced her again with a hard expression turning down the corners of his lips. “That’s all you need to understand.”
The calculated coldness should have appalled her. Instead, she thought of Evie’s future. The security they could provide versus the dangers that clearly lurked in whatever truth Owen was determined to keep hidden.
“You’re asking me to trust you blindly.”
“I’m asking you to be practical. We’re the Duke and Duchess of Carridan. We can give her everything: legitimacy, education, protection. Whatever alternative exists would be far worse.”
She wanted to argue and demand the full truth. But the baby’s welfare hung in the balance, and Owen’s grim certainty suggested horrors she might not want to know. “God help me, you’re right.”
“Then we’re agreed?”
Iris looked down at the baby in her arms. So small. So helpless. Already, the fierce protectiveness that had been building over the past two days inside her was solidifying into something permanent.
“Yes,” she said. “We’re agreed.”
He called for Peters then and issued rapid instructions about establishing a nursery, sending for a wet nurse, and notifying the household. Throughout it all, Iris stood quietly, holding Evie and wondering what she’d just committed to.
When Peters left, the Duke turned back to her. “You’ll need rest. The journey from Carridan must have been exhausting.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re swaying on your feet.”
Was she? Iris hadn’t noticed, but now that he mentioned it, the room seemed to be tilting slightly.
“When did you last eat?” he pressed.
She tried to remember. Yesterday? The day before? Everything had blurred together in a haze of baby cries and frantic travel preparations.
“That’s what I thought.” He moved toward her, and for one wild moment, she thought he would touch her. Instead, he gestured to the sofa. “Sit. I’ll have Peters bring food.”
“I should get Evie settled first?—”
“The staff will handle everything.” His tone carried the same cool dismissal she was quickly becoming accustomed to once more. “You need food and rest, in that order.”
“I can manage?—”
“Can you? Because from where I stand, you look ready to collapse.” He studied her with clinical detachment, as if she were a problem requiring efficient solution. “This arrangement benefits no one if you make yourself ill.”
Peters appeared with remarkable speed, followed by a parade of servants bearing trays and an older woman in crisp black who could only be the housekeeper.
“Mrs. Pemberton,” the Duke said without preamble. “The Duchess requires immediate accommodation. The blue suite should suffice.”
“Of course, Your Grace.” The housekeeper’s voice carried warmth that her employer’s lacked. “Shall I begin inquiries tonight?”
