Page 47 of Duke of Iron
The butler appeared in less than a minute. Logan eyed him for any signs of guilt, but Bexley’s expression remained as stony as ever.
“Who has been in my study?” Logan asked.
The butler considered. “Only myself, Your Grace, to bring the morning correspondence. And Mrs. Paxton, to dust. The housemaid is not permitted to touch your personal effects.”
“Has Mrs. Paxton taken up a new habit of rearranging my things?” Logan pressed.
Bexley’s eyes went to the lion paperweight, as if seeking wisdom in it. “Not to my knowledge, Your Grace.”
Logan pinched the bridge of his nose and dismissed him. “That will be all, Bexley.”
When the butler departed, Logan went over his desk once more, thoroughly and methodically.
He found a second book missing—Mr. Hume’s Dialogues—then two issues of The Quarterly Review that he had left out specifically for reference on a brewing debate in the Lords. Everything else was present, but nothing was quite as it ought to be.
Who the devil is pilfering books and tampering with my things?
He retreated from the study and into the main hallway, determined to search the rest of the house for the missing items or, failing that, for a confession. Logan stalked through the entry hall, then the music room, then the drawing room, his eyes sweeping every surface for a trace of paper, ink, or philosophical argument. He passed only two footmen and a maid along theway, none of whom were carrying anything larger than a serving tray.
The house was otherwise silent—until a voice reached him from the far side of the hall.
It was singing.
He paused, momentarily thrown. The sound was soft, almost a hum, but it gained strength as he neared the smaller drawing room. The song was unfamiliar, but the voice was not. It was May, and she was singing.
He should have walked away. Instead, Logan approached the open doorway and stopped just outside the threshold, unseen.
May was seated in a low, blue-velvet armchair, her back to the door, spectacles perched on her nose, a baby swaddled in her arms. She rocked the infant in an easy rhythm, singing a gentle, wordless melody—something ancient and unselfconscious.
Sunlight from the window caught the edges of her hair, making it look lighter, almost gold, and her face was tilted down in a way that made her jaw seem softer than he remembered.
Logan watched, frozen.
After a moment, she stopped singing and peered into the baby’s face. “You are a very fine boy,” she whispered. “You don’t even scream as much as everyone seems to think. But if you ever needlessons in making a proper noise, you may look to the Vestiere family for inspiration. We are excellent at it.”
She resumed humming, but Logan felt the urge to interrupt, to make his presence known, to do something other than stand like a statue behind the door.
He cleared his throat.
May startled, then turned and caught sight of him. She froze, her expression caught between embarrassment and annoyance.
He did not speak. He could not seem to manage it.
She raised a brow. “Is there something you require, Duke?”
He shook his head. “I was only passing by. I heard…” He trailed off, refusing to admit that he’d been drawn to the sound of her voice like a moth to a candle.
She gave him a look that suggested she doubted him entirely.
Logan lingered in the doorway, a hand braced on the frame. “I see the child is… well.”
She nodded. “He is perfect.”
“I would not have expected such a high opinion from you, given the hour at which he insists on being awake.”
May smiled faintly. “He is not the only one.”
She adjusted the infant’s blanket, and Logan was struck by the sight of her hands, careful and surprisingly gentle. He was not prepared for how that made him feel.
