“No,” Penelope said once more, meeting his gaze with a certainty that surprised even herself.
“We cannot do that.”
“Cannot?” His voice rose slightly, frustration bleeding through the cracks in his composure. “Miss Hartwell, be reasonable. We are strangers who happen to have our names in a letter. We have no obligation to?—”
“Someone trusted us.” She gestured at the letter still clutched in her hand. “Someone who knew us both well enough to believe we would not abandon their child chose us specifically. There must be a reason.”
“Perhaps the reason is madness.” He turned away, pacing toward the window with the restless energy of a caged animal. “Perhaps this mysterious M simply plucked our names from thin air because we are both convenient and unlikely to question?—”
“You do not believe that.”
Her quiet words stopped him mid-stride.
“You do not believe that,” she repeated, “or you would have already taken the child away. You would not have summoned me. You would not told me at all. You knew I’d run off if you told me, but you also knew I’d be back.”
His shoulders tensed, and for a long moment he stood silhouetted against the morning light, saying nothing.
“What would you have me do?” The question was tired, defeated. “What solution could possibly exist for this impossible situation?”
“I do not know yet.” Penelope moved closer, drawn by the exhaustion in his voice, by the vulnerability he was fighting so hard to conceal. “But giving the child to strangers, abandoning them to an institution when someone trusted us enough to?—”
“And what do you suggest?” He spun back toward her, and there was something wild in his eyes now, something close to panic. “That we take care of a child, though we can hardly stand each other? How do you suppose we manage that?”
“I am not suggesting anything,” she managed, though her voice wavered. “Not yet. I am simply asking you to wait. One day. Give me one day to try to understand who might have done this. To determine if there is someone we know who?—”
“And if there is not?” He closed the distance between them in two strides, and she could smell the brandy on his breath, could see the fine tremor in his hands. “If we discover nothing? If this M remains a mystery? What then, Miss Hartwell?”
She had no answer. None that made sense. None that would not alter everything.
“One day,” she whispered. “Please. Just give me one day.”
He looked down, a frown between his brows deepening. Finally, he nodded once, sharp and decisive.
“One day. But after that, Miss Hartwell, I am taking the child to the hospital. I will not allow sentiment to cloud judgment.”
“Of course.” She folded the letter carefully, her fingers steady despite the chaos in her chest. “I will write to you tomorrow. Once I have had time to think.”
She turned toward the door, her mind already racing through possibilities, through names and faces and connections she had never thought to question. Marianne. Could it truly be Marianne? And if so, why would she include the Duke’s name? What connection could possibly?—
“Miss Hartwell.”
Alastair’s voice stopped her with her hand on the door handle.
“Yes?”
“When you leave here...” He paused, and when she glanced back, his expression had shuttered once more into careful neutrality. “You were never here. Whatever you discover, whatever conclusions you reach, remember that your reputation?—”
“My reputation,” she interrupted softly, “is my concern. Not yours.”
She left before he could respond, slipping into the corridor where Annie waited with ill-concealed anxiety. They moved through the silent house quickly, neither speaking until they emerged onto the street where the hired carriage waited.
Only when they were safely inside, the door closed against prying eyes, did Penelope allow herself to breathe properly.
“Miss,” Annie spoke at last, “what are we going to do?”
Penelope shook her head.
“I have no idea.”