Iris smoothed the skirt of her gown with deliberate care. She did her best to keep her face calm, though her pulse had quickened.
Miss Grimsby had arrived at exactly ten o’clock with every reference in perfect order. The nurserymaid’s manners were polished to a high shine. But within moments, it had become clear that beneath the crisp exterior lay a woman who collected gossip as neatly as she folded napkins.
“Lady Evangeline is a joy,” Iris said in a steady voice. “And in excellent health. That is all anyone needs to concern themselves with.”
“Oh, naturally! Though one wonders about the circumstances. Such secrecy around the birth, and then His Grace’s prolonged absence from Society.” Miss Grimsby’s smile was all teeth and calculation. “Thetonhas been positively aflutter with speculation.”
Iris took a steadying breath. This was the fourth interview she had conducted this week, and each had followed a similar pattern. Professional qualifications followed by increasingly intrusive questions about Evie’s parentage, Owen’s behavior, and the ‘unusual circumstances’ of her confinement.
“I’m sure you understand that personal matters remain private in this household,” she said.
“Of course! Though I must say, having served the Marquess of Pembridge’s family, I’ve learned that babies have their own way of revealing the truth.” Miss Grimsby leaned forward conspiratorially. “Features don’t lie, as they say. Lady Evangeline must be the spitting image of one parent or the other by now.”
The woman’s fishing expedition made Iris’s skin crawl. She could practically see the calculations behind her brown eyes. The way Miss Grimsby catalogued every response for later dissection in drawing rooms across London did not escape Iris’s notice.
“Children change so rapidly at this age,” Iris offered. “It’s difficult to say who she resembles.”
“Hmm.” Miss Grimsby’s gaze sharpened, as though she was still wary of Iris’s words.
“Miss Grimsby.” Iris rose stiffly. Her decision was made. “I believe we’ve heard enough about your qualifications. We’ll be in touch regarding our decision.”
“But surely, you’d like to know about my methods? My philosophy regarding infant care?” The woman’s composure cracked slightly. “I haven’t yet had the opportunity to see the nursery or meet the child herself.”
“That won’t be necessary.” Iris moved toward the door, making her dismissal clear. “Thank you for your time.”
Miss Grimsby gathered her reticule with obvious reluctance. “I do hope you find someone suitable, Your Grace. Though I must warn you, good nurses are terribly difficult to come by. Especially for… unique situations.”
The emphasis on ‘unique’ left no doubt about her meaning.
Iris held her smile until the woman was gone, then sank back into her chair with relief.
That made four interviews this week, and four nurses who’d proven more interested in gossip than childcare.
Is it too much to ask for someone who cares more about Evie’s welfare than the circumstances of her birth?
A soft knock interrupted her brooding.
“Your Grace?” Peters appeared in the doorway. “His Grace has returned and requests a moment of your time. In the nursery.”
Iris’s heart sped up, though she tried to keep her face calm. She’d managed to avoid Owen for two days by taking her meals upstairs and moving through the house when she knew he wouldn’t be nearby.
It had worked. She’d needed the space to gather herself and quiet the sting of everything left unsaid.
But now he’d asked for her. In the nursery, of all places, where Evie’s presence might soften whatever he meant to say.
“Of course,” she replied, though her stomach sank.
She found him by the cradle, watching Evie sleep. His jacket was folded over the chair and his cravat was loose at his collar.
The informality caught her off guard. He looked less like the man who had stood across from her at the ball and more like someone comfortable at home.
“You asked for me?” she said.
He turned, and something in his expression made her breath catch. “I have something for you. For the nursery, rather.”
“Oh?”
He stepped sideways to reveal what had been hidden behind his tall frame. A rocking chair sat beside the window, its dark wood gleaming with fresh polish. Exquisite craftsmanship was clear in every detail, from the graceful curve of the arms to the gentle rocker arc. Cushions in soft blue fabric intimated comfort, and delicate carvings decorated the headrest.
