“I’ll handle it,” she said quietly. “Please have Mrs. Morrison prepare the blue bedroom. The one with good light. And send someone to the village for a wet nurse. The baby needs to eat.”
If Jeffers found her instructions odd, he didn’t show it. “Of course, Your Grace. Shall I prepare a carriage for London? To fetch His Grace?”
Iris looked down at the baby in her arms. Evie had fallen asleep with one tiny fist curled against her cheek. She was innocent of the circumstances that brought her here. Innocent of everything.
“Yes,” she said softly. “But not tonight. Tomorrow will be soon enough.”
Tomorrow, she would face her husband. Tomorrow, she would demand answers.
Tonight, she had a baby to tend to. This child deserved better than to be abandoned on a doorstep with nothing but a cryptic note and a mother’s desperation just like Iris had deserved better than a husband who couldn’t even pretend to want her.
She settled into the chair by the fire and adjusted Evie’s position in her arms. The house felt different somehow. Fuller.
For the first time in a year, she wasn’t alone at Carridan Hall.
Even if the company came courtesy of her husband’s betrayal.
CHAPTER 2
“The mines haven’t turned a profit in three years, Your Grace. Surely sentiment alone cannot justify keeping them.”
Owen kept his expression neutral as Mr. Hartwell sifted through the papers before him.
The solicitor’s office smelled of old leather and older ambitions. Around the polished table sat four of London’s wealthiest investors, each one circling the Carridan copper mines like carrion birds.
“Sentiment has no place in business,” Owen replied. “I’m prepared to sell.”
Lord Blackwood, a portly man with shrewd eyes, leaned forward. “Your grandfather worked those mines as a young man. Your father swore he’d never let them go.”
“My father swore many things.” Owen’s voice remained level. “His attachment to legacy over logic is precisely why I’m sitting here with you today, gentlemen.”
The investors exchanged glances. They’d expected resistance, perhaps even anger at the mention of his father. Instead, they only got cold pragmatism.
“Twenty thousand,” Mr. Rothwell offered. “A fair price for depleted mines.”
“Thirty,” Owen countered. “The land itself has value. Good pasture, water rights, proximity to the new coaching route to London.”
“Twenty-five,” Lord Blackwood said. “And we’ll handle the displaced workers.”
Owen considered. The workers had been his primary concern since he’d realized the mines were failing. He’d already arranged positions for most of them at other estates. The rest would receive severance from his own funds—not that these men needed to know that.
“Agreed.”
Papers were produced and signed. As the ink dried on two centuries of Carridan history, Mr. Hartwell pressed the blotter again, more out of habit than need. He closed the folio with care, then looked up at Owen with a genial expression.
“A significant occasion, Your Grace. It’s not every day that one sees the end of such a storied chapter.”
Owen gave a brief nod but kept his face unreadable. “The estate will be better served this way.”
“Indeed, indeed,” Mr. Hartwell said quickly. After a pause, he shifted slightly in his chair and lowered his voice as if he were venturing into more personal territory. “I hope I’m not overstepping, but I recall reading about your recent marriage. A happy union, I trust?”
Owen’s gaze flicked to the window before returning. “We’re well enough.”
Encouraged, Mr. Hartwell asked, “And, if I may be so bold, has Her Grace been safely delivered of an heir yet?”
The room went still.
Owen laid down his quill with deliberate care. “The matter of succession is well in hand.”
