Love's Peril (Lord Trent Series) (32 page)

“Certainly.”

“I hope you pour French.”

“I do.”

“They’re so much better at everything.”

John whipped away, struggling to control his racing pulse, his visceral dislike. But there were other sentiments roaring through him, too: amazement, confusion, distress. His curiosity was flaring, roiling him so thoroughly that, as he reached for the decanter, his hands were trembling.

He poured Charles a glass, but poured his own, too. Desperate to calm himself, he inhaled a deep breath, and another, then spun and delivered the man’s brandy. He plopped into the chair opposite.

He was a few inches taller than his father, broader across the shoulders and arms, but other than those slight differences, they looked exactly alike. Charles’s blond hair had silvered with age, and John felt as if he’d somehow been transported twenty years into the future, as if he was staring at a vision of himself and how he’d appear when he was older. Not that he would live to be older.

His days were numbered.

John viewed himself as being very intimidating, able to awe and daunt with a glare, but apparently, it was an inherited trait. He glowered at Charles, determined to rattle him, but Charles placidly gazed back, not disturbed in the least.

John took his father’s measure, greatly bothered to find that Charles was gracious, handsome, and charming. Over the decades, John had burned with notions of Charles being a wretched lout, the images so virulent that John often described him as an ogre, the type of grotesque monster that lurked under bridges and gobbled up unsuspecting travelers.

Yet his mother had claimed that Charles was wonderful, and her friends in Paris had agreed. John hadn’t believed them. He’d pictured Charles as ugly and twisted and horrid. But he wasn’t.

There was an aura about him—of composure and assurance—that made you want to wallow in his presence, that made you want to get closer and become a confidante. John could see why a foolish girl like his mother would be smitten by Charles Sinclair, why she’d ruined her life for no good reason.

John was conflicted and perplexed. He’d always told himself that if he ever met Charles, he’d feel nothing, but to his disgust, he was churning with agitation.

He might have been ten again, alone and scared and praying that Charles would rush to France and save him. He could barely stop himself from jumping up and turning in joyous circles as he cried,
He came for me! He came for me!

“Shall we chat in English,”Charles asked, “or is it easier for you in French?”

“Pick your language. It matters not to me.”

“I’ll stick with French, then. It will keep the guards from eavesdropping.” Charles switched as effortlessly as John could, speaking with no accent, as if he’d been born and raised in Paris rather than London.

“It’s always unnerving to meet one of my children,”Charles said.

“Maybe if you weren’t such an unrepentant rogue, you wouldn’t have that problem.”

“I should probably check to be sure you are who you say you are. I assume you bear my mark?”

He referred to the birthmark on John’s wrist, the one in the shape of a figure-eight that was carried by so many of Charles’s bastards.

“Unfortunately, yes.” John tugged at his sleeve to reveal the evidence. “I wear your mark like a bad stain.”

“There’s no need to be surly, is there?”

John sighed. “Why are you here, Lord Trent?”

“You may call me Charles if you like. It seems silly to be on formal terms.”

“Let’s not pretend we’re cordial.”

“Why can’t we be? I don’t care for bickering. If we can be civil, we’ll come out of this with a much better ending.”

“I repeat: Why are you here?”

Charles sipped his drink, very set on himself and not inclined to allow John to control the tenor or topics of conversation. He studied John, as if checking for flaws, then said, “I see all my best traits in you, but I don’t see much of Florence. You don’t look like her at all.”

John straightened as if he’d been poked with a pin. “You don’t get to talk to me about my mother.”

“Why shouldn’t we discuss her? It appears that my relationship with her has been vexing you for ages.”

“We’re
not
talking about her.”

“I’d like you to know that—when I took up with her—I was little more than a boy myself. Back then, I made many bad decisions.”

“My
mother
was a bad decision?”

“No, she was actually quite incredible, but I shouldn’t have involved myself with her. I was too young and vain to temper my conduct. I thought I was omnipotent and could have whatever I wanted.”

John hadn’t intended to comment, but his fury had been percolating for thirty years. Before he could remember to be silent, he spat, “When she was dying, I wrote to you. I begged you to help us.”

“I never received any letter from you.”

“If you had, would you have assisted me?”

Charles lifted his shoulder in an elegant shrug. “Probably not.”

“Asshole.”

“Would you rather I lied?”

John felt as if he was choking, and it occurred to him that if Charles mentioned Florence again, he might leap over and pummel him to the floor.

Still, Charles persisted. “Your mother was very beautiful.”

“Lord Trent, are you aware of the types of criminal behavior for which I’m renowned?”

“Very aware.”

“I’d be happy to murder you, right here, right now. I’ll strangle you with my bare hands, and I won’t break a sweat.”

“Don’t be melodramatic,”Charles scolded as if John was a toddler throwing a tantrum.

“If I say that I won’t discuss my mother with you, I expect you to heed my request. I give a command exactly one time, and if I’m forced to give it a second time, there are consequences.”

“Honestly, Jean Pierre, you really can be annoying.” Charles fussed with the lace on his cravat, smoothed his lapel. “You remind me so much of Phillip. You haven’t met him, but if you ever have the chance, you’ll find the experience fascinating.”

Charles downed the last of his brandy, then held out the glass so John would refill it. John hesitated, then grabbed it and trotted over to the sideboard like a pet dog. As he finished and sat again, Charles was coolly serene, while John was a mess of jumbled emotions.

He’d insisted he wouldn’t talk about his mother, but he was awash with questions and yearned to shout: Why did you seduce her? Why did you leave her? Why are you so callous and cold? Why am I so much like you?

Charles was notorious for his high-stakes wagering, and John could see why he was so successful. He was in a cell in Newgate Prison, chatting with a bastard son who was charged with heinous crimes and facing execution. Yet they might have been having tea in a fancy London drawing room.

He was unflappable and unflustered, and John should have been too, but he couldn’t match his father in unruffled aplomb.

“I’m told you’re an avid gambler,”John said.

“I’ve placed a few bets in my day.”

“Can you track the cards? Can you guess which card is coming before it’s dealt?”

“Absolutely.”

“Do you cheat?”

“Do you?”

“If I have to.”

“A chip off the old block,”Charles murmured.

John seethed. He wanted to hurt Charles, wanted him to be sorry or at least feign regret, but it seemed impossible to disconcert him.

“You’ve been married for decades.”

“To my wife Susan. Yes.”

“What’s her opinion of your philandering? I don’t imagine your foul habits are conducive to happy banter around the family supper table.”

Charles flashed a tight smile. “I don’t get to talk about Florence, and you don’t get to talk about Susan.”

“How many illicit children have you sired anyway?”

“I have no idea. Phillip has found several of them.” More to himself than to John, he grumbled, “I sire so many blasted girls.”

“You poor thing,”John sarcastically cooed. “All those ruined maidens and nothing to show for it but a crop of daughters.”

“And two strapping sons,”Charles sharply said, “both of whom vex me enormously.”

“How does Phillip vex you?”

“He tries to make me a better man—when I don’t wish to be.”

“Up until this moment, I’ve never met you. How could
I
be vexing you?”

“You’re determined to be hanged, and believe what you will about me, but I won’t permit you to be killed in such a pointless way.”

“It’s always been my fate. There’s no reason to deny it.”

“What a stupidly ridiculous comment.”

“It’s true.” John shrugged. “From the day I stole my first purse from a man’s pocket, I’ve been heading to the scaffold. I’m amazed I’ve lasted this long.”

“So am I.”

“If I’d known I’d arrive at this paltry conclusion, though, I’d have let some oaf shoot me years ago. I hate to give the Crown the pleasure of executing me. I should have arranged my own grand finale. I’d have orchestrated an ending that was much more creative than a noose and a rope.”

To John’s surprise, fury flared in Charles’s eyes. It was there and gone in an instant, but John was positive he’d observed it.

Why would Charles fret over John’s predicament? Charles had never previously evinced any concern, not through any of John’s lengthy trials and tribulations. Why had he suddenly tripped over his paternal instincts? It made no sense.

“Stop it, Jean Pierre,”Charles fervidly said.

“Stop what?”

“Stop bragging about how you want to die, about how they’ll kill you.”

“Well, they will. Why pretend it won’t happen?”

“Fight, dammit! Fight for your life!”

“But that’s the problem, Charles. I don’t give two figs for my life, and I have no desire to fight for it.”

“I won’t let you do this.”

“I don’t see how you can prevent me.”

“I’m hiring a lawyer for you.”

“I neither want nor need one.”

“I won’t argue about it. He’ll visit you later this afternoon, and I expect you to fully cooperate with whatever he advises.”

“Fine,”John muttered. “It’s your money. Waste it if you choose.”

“Then I’m announcing to the entire world that you’re my son. I’ll provide you with an alibi.”

John had just swallowed a mouthful of brandy, and at Charles’s absurd remark, the liquor slid down wrong. He coughed and coughed and pounded on his chest.

“You’re going to what?”he wheezed when he could speak again.

“I’m publically claiming you. I’ll say we’ve always been close, and we were together on any date they allege an attack to have occurred.”

“No, but thank you.”

Charles continued as if John hadn’t replied. “In return, you’ll abandon your life of crime. In a few months, we’ll spread stories that the real French Terror’s ship sank in a storm, that he and his crew drowned. You’ll fade from memory, and the Crown can find other enemies to chase.”

“No, Lord Trent.”

“Yes, Jean Pierre. You will not dissuade me.”

“I’ll deny your paternity. I’ll deny kinship.”

“You hate me that much that you’re willing to die over it?”

“I don’t hate you. Don’t flatter yourself. You’re nothing to me, and whether I perish or don’t, it’s naught to do with you.”

Charles snorted with derision. “Gad, you’re as stubborn as Phillip.”

“I’m not acquainted with the man, but I’ll take it as a compliment.”

Charles relaxed in his chair, trying to figure out another tactic that might sway John.

What a pretentious ass!

How dare he suppose he could waltz in and tell John how to behave! How dare he suppose he could flaunt his fatherhood and that John would listen because of it! How dare he assume John would be thrilled by his sudden, unwanted interest!

“Your recent whore, Miss Dubois, seems an odd choice for an amorous entanglement.”

John scoffed. “As if you’d know my preferences.”

“Why involve yourself with someone so unsavory?”

“If you’d ever been in a bed with her, you’d understand.”

“She’s definitely a woman
scorned
. She’s bent on having you hanged.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“She’s the new belle of London’s risqué society, the new darling of the newspapers. She’s given a dozen interviews about her experiences as your mistress.”

“Don’t worry about her. She won’t give many more.”

“If you have her murdered, it will only go worse for you.”

John laughed. “How could it be
worse
? In case you haven’t noticed, I’m on death row and merely awaiting my official sentence so it can be carried out with a minimum of fuss and bother.”

“Wouldn’t it be nice to stay alive simply to thwart her? Wouldn’t it be satisfying to call her bluff, to beat her at her game?”

“It doesn’t matter what Annalise says about me.”

“Yes, it does! She’s skewing public opinion against you.”

John frowned in confusion. “Why do you care about Annalise Dubois or any of it? Why do you care what happens to me?”

“I don’t know,”Charles baldly admitted, and they shared a moment of shocked silence. John suspected it was the first true comment Charles had ever uttered.

“If you don’t know
,
Charles, then why don’t you leave it be?”

“It’s so wrong for you to perish this way. Look at what you’ve accomplished in your life! Think of what you could become if you put your talents to legitimate ventures. It’s such a waste for it to end like this.”

John suffered the most annoying spurt of delight. His father thought he was extraordinary! His father was proud! It would have been funny if it wasn’t so pathetic.

He sighed with aggravation and regret. “Why don’t you go?”

Charles replied with, “Sarah Teasdale came to see me.”

On hearing Sarah’s name, John felt as if he’d been stabbed in the heart. He was desperate for information about her. Like a smitten boy, he yearned to ask how she was holding up, what she’d said, how she’d acted.

But he’d never reveal his deep and abiding affection, for he was sure that—should others learn the level of his infatuation—they would use it to her detriment. She might be arrested too, might be pressured to disclose details about him. Ultimately, she might be incarcerated, might spend years in prison, unable to gain her release.