But some secrets do not wait for the right moment. They find their own way out.
The Duke had not meant to search Rose's things, but Mrs. Pratt mentioned a broken picture frame missing from the library, and something in his gut tightened. He went to the library himself, checked the shelf where it once hung, and found only dust in its place. Somehow, before he even opened Rose's trunk in the governess's quarters, he knew what he was going to find.
The portrait. Eleanor, young and laughing, arm-in-arm with a girl who was unmistakably Rose Winthrop. Beneath it, the letter.
He read his late wife's words in a room that suddenly felt too small to breathe in. To the woman who will one day care for my son. His hands shook by the time he reached the end.
When Rose returned from the gardens with Charles that evening, the Duke was waiting in the hallway with the letter and portrait in hand. Charles was quickly sent off with Mrs. Pratt. The Duke's voice, when it came, was low and sharp.
"How long have you known my wife?"
Rose did not try to lie. There was no point anymore. "Since we were girls," she said quietly. "I was her companion before she married you. Her closest friend."
"And you said nothing."
The betrayal in his voice cut sharper than anger. "You came into my house, into my son's life, and you said nothing."
"Because I didn't know how," Rose admitted. "Because I was afraid you'd send me away before I ever had the chance to keep my promise."
"What promise?"