The scent of breakfast led her straight to the morning room, whereMrs. Wetherby was already stationed, supervising the final placement of dishes with watchful precision.
The housekeeper glanced up as Rosamund entered.
“I’ll have Tilly prepare your bag,” she said, her tone pleasant enough. “So your departure won’t be delayed.”
Rosamund smiled as though she’d been offered a kindness rather than a directive. “That’s very thoughtful of you, but it won’t be necessary.”
Mrs. Wetherby’s brow rose a fraction.
“Was Tilly the one who prepared my chamber last night?” Rosamund continued warmly. “I should very much like to thank her. Everything was done so efficiently.” She paused, then added lightly, “I’ll manage my belongings myself. I wouldn’t wish to put anyone to extra trouble.”
A silence followed—brief, assessing.
Mrs. Wetherby turned away from the sideboard. “Breakfast is served.”
The table was set for one. The chair at the head remained conspicuously empty.
Rosamund took up a plate and then, after a moment, she looked up again. “His Grace won’t be joining me this morning?”
“The duke does not entertain guests,” Mrs. Wetherby replied evenly. “Last night was an exception, obviously.”
“I see.”
Rosamund helped herself with deliberate care—spooning out creamy eggs folded with herbs, crisped bacon still glistening with fat, stewed apples scented with cinnamon, and a pot of oat porridge set beside a crock of honey.
Her mouth watered traitorously as she arranged her plate, the simple pleasure of it grounding her far more than it ought.
Mrs. Wetherby hovered nearby, and when Rosamund took her seat, the housekeeper poured tea into her cup. “When you have finished your meal, Miss Belle, Finch will be happy to bring your horse around.”
In other words,you must leave.
Rosamund folded her hands neatly in her lap and looked up again. “Will the duke be down soon, though?”
Mrs. Wetherby set the teapot down before answering. “You think His Grace lies abed all morning? He is not idle like other nobility."
Rosamund glanced up. “What do you mean?”
“It means that he keeps himself busy. Just like his father,” Mrs. Wetherby said shortly, lips pursed. She paused, then added briskly, “Not that it’s any concern of yours.” A faint cough. “As I said, Finch is waiting.”
Rosamund met her gaze over the rim of her cup and smiled. “Thank you, Mrs. Wetherby. I’ll let him know when I’m ready.”
“The bellpull is in the corner.”
“Thank you,” Rosamund said, and with one last disapproving look, Mrs. Wetherby swept out of the room.
In no hurry whatsoever, Rosamund ate with enjoyment, savoring the food, and as she did so, she allowed her mind to run through what she already knew.
Ironwood Manor lay in a neighboring county to Fenmere Park, her father’s estate, but the border between them was narrow, and Hallow’s Bridge—a place where opinions traveled faster than the mail coach–—sat squarely between them. So of course, there had been rabid gossip when word got out that the sole heir to Bexley intended to go to war.
Some called Julian Cavendish brave; others whispered that it was reckless. Irresponsible.
At first, admiration had carried the day.
But he had not returned as stories preferred their heroes—no triumph, no glory. Only scars and rumors of behavior altered enough to unsettle those who had remained safely behind.
Opinions hardened after that.
And yet the man she had dined with the night before—although abrupt—did not fit the beast they described.