Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman (33 page)

Chapter 24

I
go to take the waters and return to find that my son has suffered a complete loss of his senses.”

Sprawled in a chair in his library, Stephen was not in the mood for company this evening. It didn’t help matters that his mother arrived with Lynnford in tow.

Mercy’s parting words had been eating at him all day. He’d banged his head against the wall for a good five minutes striving to shake some memories free. Or perhaps he was simply striving to punish himself.

She’d manipulated him into marrying her. Only he’d wanted to marry her. She’d not held his feet to the fire. She hadn’t expected him to marry her. She’d said that. A lie. To give him a small sense of freedom, to make him think the idea was his.

She was not that scheming.

“Now is not a good time, Mother.”

“When would be? When you’ve finished off another bottle?”

“Another two, more like.”

“Oh, Stephen.” In a rustle of silk, she took the chair across from him. “You were happy with her. Why did you send her away?”

Rather than respond, he watched the way Lynnford stood behind the chair and folded his hand over the duchess’s shoulder. How many times over the years had he taken up that exact pose, offering her strength when she had to deal with her unruly and ofttimes rebellious sons?

“Isn’t he stepping in where Leo should be?” he asked, nodding toward Lynnford. He’d hardly been able to tolerate the wait of reaching his majority, because it had meant no longer having to answer to the man who had been stern and implacable when it came to raising him.

“He is your . . . guardian. It is his place to be here.”

“I reached my majority long ago. I’m past the age of needing a guardian.”

“A friend, then,” Lynnford said, his gaze razor-sharp as it homed in on Stephen.

They’d never been close. Stephen had been a constant disappointment to the man who had served as the replacement of a father. After Stephen’s father had died, Ainsley’s father had taken on the role. In his will, he’d named Lynnford as guardian of his son by birth and his sons by marriage. In his youth, Stephen had felt as though there was no permanence. Men came and went. Then, of course, there were his mother’s numerous lovers.

Was it any wonder that he’d never even entertained the notion of settling for one woman? Had never had a desire to marry? Until Mercy. The thought of being with another woman had not even crossed his mind while Mercy had warmed his bed.

Getting a divorce was a complicated process that involved courts and Parliament. If he managed to secure one, he could marry Fancy. Unfortunately, he had no desire whatsoever to take her to wife. Stephen had vivid memories of bedding her, several times. She was delightful. He’d enjoyed her. She was John’s mother.

But he could not envision her as his lady.

Perhaps it was only because Mercy still preyed on his mind.

“I understand that Leo held up my carriage this afternoon. Stole its cargo.”

His mother smiled. “He does enjoy the dramatic. We feared if she got to London, we might never find her, so he sought to catch her before she’d gone too far.”

“Is she in your residence then?”

His mother gave a brusque nod. As much as he wanted to know how Mercy fared, he refrained from asking. Why torment himself further? He did not want to know if she was still weeping. He’d seen her struggling to hold back the tears. God help him, he’d almost begged her to stay.

“She deceived me. She is not John’s mother.”

“She may not have given birth to him, but make no mistake, she is his mother. She will do anything to protect him, to provide him with a safe harbor. Trust me. I know of what I speak.”

“I suppose you’re about to tell me that you did
not
give birth to me.”

She hesitated and his gut tightened. He wished he’d not been drinking ever since Mercy left. Surely, surely, his mother was not here to tell him—

“I most assuredly gave birth to you,” she finally said. “Had a devil of a time of it, if you are even remotely interested in knowing the truth. You were always a difficult child. Two days of hell you put me through, and then you were born . . . and I’ve lost count of all the days of hell you’ve put me through since.”

His mouth twitched. With her acerbic tone, she could always make him smile. He stroked the silky ridge of his damned scar. “Is Mercy all right?”

“Of course she’s not all right. What sort of idiot question is that?”

“Has she at least stopped crying?”

“Probably not.”

“You’re here to torment me.”

“No. Well, it may seem that way when I am done. You think she has deceived you because she didn’t tell you everything. Sometimes we hold secrets to protect those we love.”

“And you no doubt know of what you speak because you have secrets.”

His mothered gnawed on her lower lip. “I do. I have one. I have held it close, because revealing it could hurt so many people. I am torn, because telling it will place a burden on you, and I would spare you the weight of that if I could.”

“I have no interest in your secrets. They are yours.”

“How I wish that was true. But this particular one, while I have kept it, it is not mine, it is yours. But I must have your word that you will not tell a soul, because it can cause great suffering. And I will not have that.”

“You and Leo are well matched. You both love the dramatic.”

“Your word.”

“I prefer that you not tell me, but if you insist . . . you have my word.”

“I would prefer not to tell you as well, but I think you should know so you may better understand Mercy.”

Stephen sat up, remembering Mercy’s parting shot. “You know something about my time in the Crimea?”

“No, darling. I know something about your birth.” She took a deep breath, released it. “The Earl of Westcliffe is not your father.”

Stephen felt as though she’d punched him in the gut. “Then who the devil is my father?”

“I have that honor,” the Earl of Lynnford said.

S
tephen felt like an utter and complete idiot. How could he have not seen it?

He stared at the man who had ridden him hard his entire life . . . He shook his head and came out of the chair. “No. No. You always hated Westcliffe, Mother. You just didn’t want me to be his son.”

“He and I ceased having relations once we knew I was carrying our first child. Since I delivered Morgan, his heir, we never recommenced. He was satisfied with his lover and I . . . I took one of my own.”

Suddenly chilled, Stephen moved nearer to the fire and stood with his forearm pressed to the mantel. “Why not tell me?”

“Several reasons. I was married to Westcliffe when you were born, so on paper, he is your father. I saw nothing to gain for you except to make you feel an outcast. The only thing you and Morgan seemed to have in common is sharing a father. Then, of course, there is Lynnford’s family. I thought it would be very hard on them if they knew that he had fathered you.”

“That he was unfaith—”

“No! He was not married during the time we were lovers. Once he married his countess, everything was over between us.”

Stephen glared at the man who stood stoically behind his mother. “Did you know?”

“Not for some years. Eventually I . . . began to wonder. Then when we thought you were dead, your mother told me.”

She
was the next recipient of his hard look. “And you didn’t think he needed to know?”

“What was to be gained? He had a family.”

He wanted to lash out at her, lash out at Lynnford, lash out at the world. At himself. He did not want to ponder the consequences of this news. “What has all this to do with Mercy?”

“She told you she was John’s mother because she loved him. I did not tell Lynnford you were his son because I knew it would bring him pain and place him in a difficult position. To claim you would hurt his countess. And knowing he was your father wouldn’t change your lot in life at all.”

“You should have told me. I had a right to know.”

“Yes, I quite agree. But my point, Stephen, is that we will do anything to protect those we love. Anything.”

S
tephen stood at the window in his bedchamber, drinking brandy and gazing out at the distant fog-shrouded torches that lined the drive. He couldn’t quite bring himself to climb into bed yet. The bed he’d shared with Mercy.

He’d barely slept while at his brother’s residence. Here, at his own residence, it would be near impossible. There were other beds. He could seek out one of them. But he was determined to be rid of her in his mind and that required conquering every aspect that reminded him of her.

And there was a damned devil of a lot that reminded him of her.

It didn’t help matters that once his mother and Lynnford—his deuced father—had left, Stephen wanted desperately to talk with Mercy. To sit with her on a sofa, to have her caress his hair with her slender fingers. To have her hold his gaze and reassure him that nothing had changed with this sudden news.

But matters had changed. He had five half-siblings, for Christ sake. He’d always enjoyed their company, but he’d be looking at them differently now. He knew what they didn’t. With Lady Lynnford’s failing health, his mother had asked him to hold the secret close. He certainly had no plans to shout it to the world. He wasn’t quite certain how he felt about Lynnford being his father.

A part of him felt a sort of betrayal because he’d not known. But truly, what difference would it have made? Lynnford had served as his guardian, had been there for so many occasions. He’d taught him to hunt pheasant, to fish, to ride.

He’d been his mother’s lover. She’d given Stephen leave to tell Westcliffe and Ainsley, but he wasn’t quite ready for that. What good would come of them knowing?

He continually circled back to that. Not all truths needed to be known by everyone. Some didn’t need to be known at all.

John’s crying intruded on his thoughts. The boy was angry about something, wailing so loudly that Stephen wondered if he’d get any sleep at all tonight. Setting his drink aside, he wandered from his bedchamber to the nursery. Jeanette was pacing, bouncing John. The boy’s face was a mottled red.

Jeanette turned, her disconcertedness obvious. “I’m sorry, sir. He won’t stop crying. I know he’s not hungry. It’s only been an hour since I fed him. He’s not wet. I don’t know why he’s carrying on so. Shall I send for a physician?”

John was wailing as though his heart was breaking.

“No,” Stephen said quietly. “Let me give it a go.”

Jeanette couldn’t hide her startlement at his offer. “Are you sure, sir?” she asked as Stephen took the bawling babe from her.

He’d hoped for immediate silence. Instead he got a rise in crescendo. His son was furious. “You’re not happy with me at the moment, are you, lad? I’m not quite happy with myself, either.”

Jostling John slightly, he studied Jeanette for a moment. “Did you know the truth about the boy’s mother?” he finally asked.

“Yes, sir. I know that Lady Lyons is his mother.”

Stephen gave her a wry twist of his lips. “In Paris, did you know about Fancy?”

Jeanette shook her head. “No. Lady Lyons sought me out after the lady had left. When I met her, it was only her and John, and the babe was so hungry. She had tried dribbling milk into his mouth but he’d have none of it. I don’t think she’d slept in two days. She’d told me”—she gazed down at the floor—“that her . . . milk had dried up.” She lifted her eyes to Stephen. “I did not know she had not given birth to John until she told me a few nights ago.”

Stephen nodded. “Thank you for that.”

He turned—

“Sir?”

He glanced back, waited while Jeanette wrung her hands. “I know it is not my place . . . but the boy is hers. It does not matter from which womb he came.”

Stephen did little more than nod as he left the room. He wondered if Mercy had inspired such devotion and loyalty in Scutari.