Beatrice didn't stop rolling the dough, but her shoulders stiffened slightly. It was the first time he had asked a question about her—real, unforced curiosity.
"Cheapside," she said, keeping her voice even. "London. The markets there are not for the gentle. If you show a copper coin and hesitate, you lose the coin, the bread, and possibly a finger."
"You lived in London?"
"I survived in London," she corrected. She lifted the dough, draped it over a tin pie dish, and began crimping the edges. "My father was a watchmaker. Not a grand one; he fixed the cogs of working men. When he died, the landlord took his tools for back rent. The streets took the rest."
Arthur stopped peeling. He stared at the fire, watching the flames lick around the heavy iron spit where the chicken turned, dripping fat onto the hot coals. He understood the brutality of sudden loss, even if the scale was vastly different.
"And how did you end up in Yorkshire, dragging yourself through the mud to a ruined estate?" he asked gently. It wasn't an interrogation; he simply wanted to know.
Beatrice sighed. She wiped her hands on her apron and leaned against the table, looking at him. "I found a position as a scullery maid in a manor near York. I worked there for three years." She looked down at her hands, tracing the lines of flour on her knuckles. "The master of the house had a son. He returned from university. He was accustomed to taking what he wanted: wine, horses, women. When I refused him, he didn't take it well. He broke three of my ribs. When I complained to the housekeeper, she called me a liar and threw me out in the night. No wages, no coat."
Arthur's grip on the paring knife tightened until his knuckles went white beneath the bandages. A dark, ugly rage flared in his chest—a sudden, violent protectiveness that shocked him with its intensity. He looked at her slender frame, imagining the bruising, the cold, the sheer terror of being discarded into the night.
"I should like to know his name," Arthur said, his voice dropping into a deadly quiet register.
Beatrice looked up, surprised by the venom in his tone. She offered a small, sad smile. "His name doesn't matter. He has a warm bed and a full belly. The world is built for men like him."
"The world is a broken mechanism," Arthur muttered, looking back at the fire. "It rewards the cruel and punishes the honest."
"Is that why you stopped trying?" she asked.
The question hung in the air, blunt and heavy. Beatrice held her breath. She had pushed too far. She expected him to stand up, throw the knife down, and walk out. She expected the Duke to return, cold and untouchable.