“I’m sorry, Soph. But I do think it’s for the best.” He helped her to her feet, and she tried to dress herself in spite of her shaky legs and her bruised heart. He gathered up her stockings and slippers and handed them to her, regret plain in his eyes. “I can drive you home in my curricle, if you’d like, but if you’d prefer that my driver take you in the coach, I can guarantee his discretion.”

“The coach is fine.” She was beyond caring about her reputation. All she wanted now was the privacy of her guest bedchamber at Fiona’s house, so that she could release the sobs that threatened to bubble up in her throat.

She turned her back to him, and he slowly, gently laced up her gown—as though, in spite of his apparent determination to say goodbye, he was truly reluctant to let go.

When she spun around to face him, lines marred his brow. “You said there were two things you wanted to tell me,” he said. “But you only told me one.”

Oh God. She’d forgotten about Violet and Reese’s brother and the baby. “The second thing might be difficult to hear,” she said. “But if I were in your shoes, I’d want to know.”

He gave a curt nod. “Please.”

“It concerns a maid that worked here at Warshire Manor—up until a few months ago. Her name is Miss Violet Darby, and she’s with child. She should deliver the baby in another month or so.”

“I don’t recall meeting her. She must have left before I returned.” Reese frowned. “Is she ill?”

“No. She’s doing quite well, physically, but I thought you should know that the father…” Sophie hesitated, unable to make her mouth form the words.

Reese searched her face, confused. “Is he one of my staff? If he’s harmed her in any way, or if he’s refusing to do right by her or the child, I swear he’ll answer to me.”

“It’s not one of the staff,” she said soberly. “The babe’s father is … Edmund.”

Chapter 29

“Edmund?” Reese repeated, incredulous. There was no way on God’s green earth that his brother—his honorable, principled, upstanding brother—had fathered a child out of wedlock. “Impossible. There must be some misunderstanding.”

Sophie placed a hand on his forearm. “I’m afraid not, Reese. It’s the truth.”

He raked his fingers through his hair, beyond agitated. The serenity of the garden where they stood was no match for the anger that simmered in his chest. “This woman,” he spat, “Miss Darby, was it?—has no right to spread salacious rumors about my brother. She’s sullying his name, knowing full well he’s unable to defend himself.”