Owen exchanged a look with Iris. “She’s in the nursery.”
“Then what are we doing down here? Lead the way.”
They had little choice but to go along.
As they climbed the stairs, Owen stayed just a step behind the women, listening as the Dowager Duchess fired off with her characteristic directness.
“Now then, how are you finding the London house? I know it can feel rather imposing after the countryside.”
“It’s substantial,” Iris replied carefully. “Though the staff has been wonderfully accommodating.”
“Good. Mrs. Pemberton runs a tight ship, always has. And this neighborhood? Not too noisy for the baby, I hope?”
“Not at all. The square is quite peaceful.”
“Excellent. One can never be too careful about such things.” The Dowager paused at the landing so she could study Iris with sharp eyes. “You look tired, my dear. Are you getting proper rest?”
“As much as one can with a newborn,” Iris said, and Owen noted how her voice warmed slightly at the genuine concern.
“Of course, of course. Though I hope you’re not trying to manage everything yourself? A duchess shouldn’t be expected to tend a baby alone, regardless of maternal instincts.”
“I have help when needed,” Iris assured her.
“When needed?” The dowager’s eyebrows rose. “My dear girl, help should be constant with an infant. Owen, surely, you’ve arranged for proper assistance?”
“Mrs. Pemberton is handling the staffing arrangements,” Owen interjected.
“See that she does. There’s no virtue in exhausting yourself unnecessarily.” The dowager’s tone brooked no argument. “A happy mother makes for a happy child.”
When they reached the nursery, they saw Evie awake in her cradle. At the sound of the door opening, she turned her head. Her dark eyes tried to focus on them.
“Oh.” The Dowager Duchess’s voice softened. “Oh, she’s perfect.”
She moved to the cradle slowly and leaned down to study Evie’s face. The baby stared back solemnly, as if conducting her own inspection.
“May I?” the Dowager Duchess asked.
Iris nodded. “Of course.”
The Dowager Duchess reached down to stroke Evie’s cheek with one gnarled finger.
The gentle touch made Owen’s chest tighten with guilt. This woman had lost her grandson and would never know she was looking at his child. The secret sat like lead in his stomach.
“She has good bones,” she murmured. “Strong features. She’ll be a beauty one day.” She glanced up at Owen, and her expression shifted to something almost unbearably tender. “Your grandfather would be so proud of you, dear boy. Nicholas would be, too.”
Owen forced his expression to remain neutral, but he could feel Iris watching him, cataloging his reaction. He’d have to deflect her questions later.
“Shall we return downstairs?” he suggested. “I’ll have Peters bring tea.”
“In a moment.” The Dowager Duchess straightened slowly. Her hand lingered on the cradle’s rail. “Babies should be admired. It’s good for their development.”
They stood in awkward silence for another minute before she finally agreed to leave.
Back in the parlor, she sat down with the air of someone preparing for a long visit.
“Now,” she said, once tea had been served, “tell me everything. When was she born, exactly?”
Owen and Iris exchanged another glance. They’d prepared for this, but theory and practice were different things.
