Page 8 of Duke of Iron
Logan blinked. “Him?”
He stepped forward, now fully alert. “You will explain yourselves. Now.”
Mrs. Paxton wrung her hands. “He just appeared, Your Grace. In the front parlor. A basket, a blanket, and—well—we thought perhaps…”
“Perhaps what?” Logan snapped, incredulous.
“Well, there was a note,” Bexley said in a strangled voice. “And no name.”
Just then, a sound cut through the air.
A thin, high-pitched cry. Wailing, persistent and impossible to ignore.
A baby.
Logan stared at them for a single, stunned heartbeat. Then he took the stairs two at a time, the thunder of his boots followed closely by the scrambling feet of the servants behind him. The cries grew louder, more desperate. He flung open the first nursery door.
Chaos met him.
Two young maids stood over a small dressing table near the hearth, both hopelessly entangled in an effort to wrestle a wriggling infant into a nightdress. The child’s face was red from exertion, fists flailing with fury.
Blankets were strewn across the floor. A bowl lay on its side atop the changing table, and a stuffed rabbit teetered on the edge of a chair like it too was trying to flee.
Logan stared. Then turned, very slowly, toward Mrs. Paxton and Bexley, now huddled in the doorway. “Where did this child come from?”
Mrs. Paxton clasped her hands tightly. “He was left on the doorstep, Your Grace. In a wicker basket, wrapped in linens. Mr. Bexley heard a knock and opened the door. There was no one in sight.”
Bexley nodded, swallowing audibly. “By the time we stepped out onto the stoop, the street was empty. Not even a carriage in the distance.”
Logan’s jaw flexed. “And you brought him inside?”
“We could hardly leave him out in the cold,” Mrs. Paxton whispered.
“Why in God’s name would anyone leave a child here, at my house?”
The servants looked expectantly at him, though neither seemed willing to meet his eye. And then he saw it—that uncertainty, pity, maybe judgment, crossing Bexley’s face.
They thought he knew. That he had some inkling of who the child might be. Or worse—that he was the father.
Why the devil would anyone assume that?
But even as the question formed in his mind, the answer followed: because his reputation seemed fit for it. No one in this house had yet learned to stop expecting the worst from the Duke of Irondale.
His jaw tightened. “This is not my child,” he said through his teeth. “But I will find who left him here—and promptly return the babe back to where he came from.”
Three
“She’s coming. We shouldn’t let May see this.”
May stopped just outside the breakfast room, her hand hovering near the doorframe. She blinked and stared straight ahead as her stomach lurched.
They’re talking about me.
She stepped into the room anyway.August and June were seated at the long table, their breakfast mostly untouched. June jerked and hastily shoved something behind her back. August looked like he might combust.
“What’s going on?” May asked, keeping her voice deceptively calm.
“Nothing,” June said too quickly. “Just a little story about—about a goose. Quite a silly goose.”
