A Compromised Lady (35 page)

And she would not now be a bastard. That bit in the Bible…about the “sins of the fathers”? I’ve always hated it. I can’t condemn my own child for her father’s crime.’

‘Thea, must you—?’

‘She needs a family, David. Even if it is only me.’

‘You will permit me to visit you?’

Her heart leapt. ‘You would do that?’

‘I would do that. I shall like having a niece.’ Bitterly he said, ‘Blakehurst is a fool!’

Sudden fear consumed her. ‘No. He is not. You will give me your promise, David, that you will not quarrel with him over this.’

‘Dash it, Thea! I—’

‘Your promise, David!’ If he were to challenge Richard…Her heart lurched in terror at the thought.

He swore under his breath. ‘Very well,’ he went on. ‘You have it.’ He looked at her narrowly. ‘You love him, do you not?’

‘Yes. I returned his love.’

David stared. ‘You returned—? And yet he will—’

She flung up her hand. ‘Ask yourself: what would you do in his position?’

His eyes fell.

She smiled sadly. ‘Precisely.’

T he chaise rocked on its way and Thea sat huddled in the corner, staring out at the passing countryside, scarcely seeing it. All she could see was Richard’s set face, the dark eyes resigned, full of pain. Pain that she had caused.

Maybe this was for the best. He deserved better than to be caught in a trap of his own decency. As perhaps he had been. She did not think she could have borne it if they had married and he had come to regret it or to resent her. His pain would pass. She had to believe that, and accept that one day he would find another woman to love.

Just as she had to accept that in comparison to her daughter’s need, her own pain and despair could not be allowed to matter. There would be no one else for her.

She forced herself to think of Sophie Grey. The child she had borne; who had been taken away, brought up without knowing anything about her parents, believing herself unwanted.

Shame seared her. The memory of her initial relief when they told her the child had died—memory took her further back, remorseless. The day she had first felt the baby moving, an intangible fluttering within her and had realised it as a physical presence for the first time. Had realised that an innocent was condemned to bastardy.

Almost against her will, she had begun to wonder if it might be possible to keep the baby—and then the terror would take her, the fear choking her in nightmares that came each night, dreams when she relived what had been done to her. Feeling the child kick inside her then had terrified her.

She had been relieved when Aunt Maria told her that the babe had died. It had never occurred to her to doubt the lie. Why should she? Her parents and Aunt Maria had already settled it between them that the baby was to be fostered—she had been so dazed and panic-stricken at events that she had not so much as murmured a protest. All the protest had been shocked out of her. Yet in the end they had lied and told her the child was dead. Perhaps they had even meant it kindly, thinking to spare her.

And, yes, she had been relieved at first. And then had come more shame, more guilt, that she could have felt relief at the death of one who had been totally and utterly innocent of everything.

Relief at the death of a baby who had been given no chance for life at all.

And now? Now she had the chance to put it at least partially right. She could give her daughter at least some part of the life that should have been hers.

If it was not too late.

Seven years. Seven years for Sophie to know herself unwanted by her family, an object of disgrace. Seven years knowing little but resentment. What if the child hated her?

A shudder racked her—what if her daughter resembled Lallerton? What if she could not look on her daughter without being reminded…no! She would not allow that to weigh with her!

She had made the right choice, the only choice, but the memory of Richard’s hurt, and the knowledge of what she had lost, left an aching void within her.

Richard sat staring into the fire. He had not bothered to light the lamps. It was still light outside, but he had drawn the curtains early against the chill of the evening. A book lay abandoned on the wine table beside him. He didn’t feel like reading—for once in his life the solace of the printed word had failed utterly.

Around him, Tarring felt empty, echoing. Which was patently ridiculous. He had moved in today and knew for a fact that it was full of people, his staff, all of them hell-bent on making him far more comfortable than he had any right to be. But in two days since Thea’s return to London the whole world had felt like a sunless wasteland. He’d left Blakeney without a word to either Max or Verity, leaving a brief message. He’d needed to think, not talk. But now…

What in Hades was he to do, all by himself, in a house like this that had been intended for a family? The question had not occurred to him when he had bought the estate. He had vaguely thought that one day, he would marry, bring his bride here and set up his nursery. It had been a pleasant thought, something to look forward to in a comfortable sort of way.

That was before he had met Thea again. Before he had fallen in love. And before he had lost her.

Now the house echoed drearily, where before its quietness had seemed to wait in anticipation.

Now all the improvements he had planned seemed futile, a way to fill time that stretched out relentlessly.

She would never forgive him.

God in heaven, what a damned fool he’d been. What a blind, stupid, insensitive fool.

He took a sip of his brandy, and swallowed, watching the flicker of firelight in the amber liquid.

The door opened.

He didn’t bother to look up. He knew who it would be.

‘His lordship, sir.’

‘Thank you, Minchin. I won’t need you again tonight.’

‘No, sir. Good night, sir.’

The door shut and Max said, ‘For God’s sake, Ricky. It’s like a tomb in here. I received your message.’ The bright eyes narrowed. ‘What’s amiss?’ Then, urgently, ‘Ricky, are you all right? Your betrothal—’

Trust Max to see straight to the heart of the disaster.

‘Is off,’ said Richard. Not that it was going to be off for long if he had anything to say about it, but at this moment that was the literal truth. It might remain the truth; it was entirely possible that Thea would tell him to go to the devil when he caught up with her.

‘What the devil d’you mean?’ rapped out Max.

Richard sighed wearily. ‘Have a brandy…’ he waved at the decanters on a side table ‘…and let me tell you a story.’

Max poured himself a glass of brandy, and sat down in the wingchair on the opposite side of the fireplace. ‘Something tells me I’ll be needing this.’

Richard avoided his eyes. The worried frown shamed him. Once Max knew…

Quietly, he told the story, as it had been revealed to him, leaving nothing out. Max sat listening, occasionally sipping his brandy. At the end he tossed off the rest and went to pour himself another.

Richard waited.

‘She refused to marry you for the sake of a child she had thought dead? A child most sensible women would be only too glad to ignore.’ Max’s voice was quiet, non-committal.

Richard nodded. A mother who would not abandon her child, regardless of the cost to herself.

Exactly what he had wanted.

‘She chose her child’s happiness and safety over her own?’

Still Richard could only nod, his heart aching. Max had seen it immediately, as Richard had known he would. Why the hell had it taken him so long to see it? Was he so caught up in his own self-importance that he had not seen her courage? Her integrity?

‘It won’t be easy, Ricky,’ said Max quietly. ‘People will realise the truth. There will be some who’ll never accept her. Are you willing to live with that?’

Yes. It made no difference to him.

He looked straight at Max. ‘Will you support me?’

Max stared at him, jaw sagging, as if in utter disbelief. ‘Confound it, Ricky! Did you have to ask?

And would it make any difference?’

Richard’s lips twitched at the outrage evident on his twin’s face. ‘Not the least. But I had to tell you. My mind is made up and there will be no hiding the truth. I don’t give a damn what anyone says. Not even you. I’m going to marry Thea Winslow and her daughter will be accepted as my own.’

If Thea will have me now. If I haven’t ruined everything with my stupid pride.

Max smiled at him. ‘Good. I shall enjoy having a niece to spoil until Verity does her duty and provides me with a daughter or two.’

‘A niece?’ Did Max mean what he thought he meant? He had known that Max would accept his decision, would publicly support him, but…

Reading his mind, Max answered the unvoiced question. ‘Your daughter will bear the name Blakehurst, will she not, Ricky?’ He smiled. ‘As such she will be my niece. Tell Miss Winslow that.

Tell her that I will be proud to stand up for you. And to act as godfather to your next child.’

Calmly he tossed off his brandy and rose. ‘I’m going home to Verity. No doubt you’ll be making an early start tomorrow? I suggest that you bring them back to Blakeney before the wedding. It will take a couple of days to get the licence—shall we say, Friday week? That gives you ten days. I’ll tell the rector.’

That was a bit much. Richard gave him a frosty look. ‘D’you know, I think I can just about manage to get married without your advice, brother.’

Max raised a brow and grinned. ‘Oh? The same way I managed to sort out my marriage?’

Richard laughed. ‘Touché. Lunacy must run in the family.’

Max snorted. ‘Ah, well. At least we’re doing our damnedest to breed it out. Congratulations, Ricky.’

Richard stood up. ‘You haven’t said it yet, Max.’

‘Said what?’ asked Max. ‘Oh—that you’re a damned idiot? It would be a case of the pot speaking to the kettle. Besides, you know it already.’ He frowned and said slowly, ‘There is one thing that occurs to me, though.’

‘What?’

Max frowned. ‘Stubble it…I’m thinking.’

Richard waited. Max’s frown had deepened as he stared out of the darkening window.

‘You know,’ he said at last, ‘society is really very hypocritical about these things.’

‘Fancy that,’ said Richard drily.

‘Yes, they are,’ continued Max. ‘No one would turn a hair if you had an illegitimate child—except to mutter that they’d always known you couldn’t possibly be as sober living as everyone thought.’

‘Pardon?’

‘And gloating over what a complete scoundrel you were to make up to Miss Winslow, convince her to marry you, and then foist your bastard daughter on her.’

All Richard could do was stare in disbelief at his twin, who grinned and said, ‘I believe you pointed out to me last year that love had completely addled my wits? Welcome aboard, Ricky!’

Making an early start the following morning, Richard drove through the Knightsbridge Turnpike as dusk was falling. Carefully he guided his horses through the streets to Grosvenor Square, drawing up outside Arnsworth House.

He got down, passing the ribbons to his groom. ‘Take them around to the stables here. Her ladyship won’t mind. Have a fresh pair in the shafts first thing in the morning, I’ll be making an early start.’

‘Yessir.’

Richard stared across the Square. He’d sent a messenger ahead. Aberfield should be expecting him. Hoping that his self-discipline was up to the interview ahead, he walked around to Aberfield House.

Aberfield received him in the library, rising from his desk as Richard limped past the butler, still wearing his greatcoat, hat and driving gloves.

‘Your coat and hat, sir?’ asked the butler.

Richard shook his head. ‘I won’t be here long enough for you to trouble.’ He jerked his head at the door. ‘Out.’

‘How dare you dismiss my servant, sir!’ blustered Aberfield, coming around the desk towards him.

Richard raised his brows. ‘I do beg your pardon, Aberfield.’ He turned to the butler. ‘You had better stay and listen, then.’

‘That will be all, Carnely!’

Aberfield glared at Richard.

He waited only until the door closed behind the butler. ‘You should be horsewhipped, Aberfield,’ he said softly. ‘What the hell did you think you were doing?’

The older man paled and took a step back reaching for the bell pull.

‘I wouldn’t,’ said Richard, in conversational tones. ‘You really don’t want your staff speculating on the reason for my visit, do you?’

‘For God’s sake, man! There was no intent to deceive. Had you applied properly for Dorothea’s hand, you would have been apprised—’

‘Apprised? Apprised of what, Aberfield?’ asked Richard, his voice a silken whip. ‘What do you imagine to be the cause of my quarrel with you?’

‘You feel deceived, naturally, now that Dorothea has confessed her lack of virtue.’

Richard’s hands balled into fists. ‘Her lack of virtue,’ he repeated. ‘I see.’

‘You would have been told!’ snapped Aberfield. ‘Ask Dunhaven, if you doubt me! He was told!’

With difficulty Richard restrained the urge to step forward and plant his right fist in the man’s face.

‘Really? You told Dunhaven that you had attempted to constrain your sixteen-year-old daughter into an unwelcome marriage and condoned Lallerton’s actions when he raped her to force her consent.’

‘Rape? Missish nonsense!’

Banked rage surged in every vein. ‘And you told Dunhaven. You handed him a weapon so that he could coerce her! Do you call yourself a father? God help you, do you call yourself a man?’

‘What the hell do you want, Blakehurst?’ demanded Aberfield. ‘You have declined to marry Doro—’

He broke off at the sound of the door opening.

‘The hell I have!’ snapped Richard, ignoring the door. ‘What I want from you is the address of her daughter’s school in Bath.’

‘Why would you want to know that, Blakehurst?’ came a cool voice from behind him.

Swinging around, Richard discovered David Winslow standing just inside the door, the grey eyes glittering.

‘It’s obvious, isn’t it?’ Richard said.

‘Not entirely,’ said Winslow, strolling over to the fireplace and leaning indolently against it. ‘Spell it out.’