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Now, in the pale light of a chill afternoon, the nursery was eerily silent. Margy and Bess were downstairs being fed up by the housekeeper, who had taken one look at their thin wrists and set about applying puddings. Anna slept in a basket by the fire in Chester’s study, one fist jammed against her cheek.

It was not, strictly, duke-like to have a baby dozing three feet from his desk while he dealt with policy.

He found he did not particularly care about what Society might think of him. He didn’t have a high opinion of Society either.

Reed stood opposite, an open folio in his hands, expression set to its usual unobtrusive competence.

“The revised circular,” Reed said. “With your amendments, Your Grace. Noon payment as standard for any house serving bread within city limits, regardless of size. Dock inspectors to be rotated quarterly and paid from the Board’s general fund, not…gratuities.”

“In other words,” Chester said, “we spend more of our money to stop other men stealing other people’s.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Good.” He tapped the desk. “We’ll put it before them in time for the next hearing.”

Reed’s mouth twitched. “They’ll scream.”

“They always do,” Chester said. “We’ll survive it just like we survive Anna’s screaming.”

Reed opened his mouth to reply and then closed it as the door burst inward without the benefit of a knock.

Darley arrived like a gust that had misread the time of year, all expensive wool and affronted color.

“Have you gone entirely mad?” he demanded.

Reed stepped discreetly to one side, folio still in hand, the very picture of a man who would witness but not interfere unless asked.

“Not that I’m aware of,” Chester said. “Good afternoon, Darley.”

Darley flung a hand toward the papers. “Half the hotelmen between here and Brighton are in hysterics. The dock interests are muttering about betrayal. I can’t take three steps in White’s without someone asking whether Wyndale has had a blow to the head.”

“Then they read quickly,” Chester said. “We only drafted that yesterday.” For the record at White’s, Darley had been the one to take the blow.

“You drafted treason,” Darley shot back. “Repealing your own bill? Adding safeguards for small shops? For tradesmen?” The last word came out as if it tasted sour. “What are you thinking?”

Anna stirred at the rise in his voice. Chester put a hand absently on the side of the basket, the way Pepper had steadied trays on the Pavilion’s tiles.

“Keep your voice down,” he said. “She just fell asleep.”

Darley blinked. “She?”

Chester glanced toward the basket. “Anna.”

“Who’s Anna?”

“An orphan,” Chester said, as if that were the most ordinary thing in the world. “One of three. The other two sisters lodged upstairs. Temporarily.” He shot Reed a look. “Assuming the Society comes to its senses and keeps them together.” In other words, I don’t know yet.

Darley stared. “I thought that was a joke,” he said slowly. “Men said you’d taken in baker’s brats. No one believed it. We said—” He cut himself off, eyeing the basket as if it might bite.

“Do finish the sentence,” Chester invited.

“We said,” Darley muttered, “even Wyndale wouldn’t go that soft.”

Chester felt something in his chest give a quiet, deliberate tilt. “Soft,” he repeated. “Is that what they call it now? Keeping three children together and safe because illness took their parents and left them alone in the world?”

Darley shoved a hand through his hair. “You’re a duke,” he said. “Your people are the men on that Board. The great houses. The shipping magnates. The hotel proprietors. Not bakers and orphans and…” he flapped a hand at the basket, “whatever that is.”

Anna, as if in answer to being called a whatever, made a sleeping little grumble.