A Lady Out of Time

  Chapter 7

  Edward swore. This was a disaster. He’d been blackmailed. The entire situation was beyond incredible. After all, he was a duke. He was the law for hundreds of people. At his country seat, they came to him with problems, expected him to enact justice. Even in London or with the King, he was not someone to be trifled with.

  Apparently, no one told her how important I am, he thought and grimaced at himself. He wasn’t a total prig. But this was ridiculous; who the hell did she think she was? A very rich woman considering how much money I just gave her.

  He went home and packed, trying to decide whom he should speak to first, his mother or his governess. There was the possibility his governess wouldn’t know…but his mother might not tell him even if it were true.

  Yet another woman who is uninspired by my grandness. And then his mother would put on a spectacle complete with fainting, weeping, wailing, and as much misery as she thought was dignified, before succumbing to what would undoubtedly be days of hysterics.

  That was something to be avoided at all costs. His governess it was.

  Within the hour, he was on his way, taking only a groomsman and his fastest horse. He could be there by nightfall if he were fast.

  And he was. He loved riding—the communion between man and beast as they traversed the lands together. But this ride brought him no pleasure. The morning replayed itself over and over in his head, the questions piling up as his horse ate up the miles. Was it true? And if the real duke were dead, who the hell was he? One of his father’s by-blows? A stray, unwanted servant’s child?

  And why on earth had he given her the money? Now there was a question. She had given him no proof, nothing but a story and a claim that she had evidence. Couldn’t he have demanded she wait until the following day? Couldn’t he have called in his butler and servants, and tied her to a chair while he set off to get the evidence from wherever she was keeping it?

  But it had all happened so quickly. Hadn’t it?

  Looking at things in hindsight, it was always easier to see a perfectly logical course of action, he knew that. But surely he could have done something.

  His reputation was impeccable. No mistresses or actresses bandied his name about; his private life was just that, exquisitely closed to the outside world. He took the responsibilities of his rank and family name seriously, and she had come and called it all into question.

  Why had he given her the money? It wasn’t just for his ego and his reputation. Yes, of course, five thousand pounds was a lot of money, but it wouldn’t bankrupt him. It wouldn’t make the slightest dent in his fortune, especially not when his house was joined with Katherine’s.

  If what she said was true, and the world found out, not only would he be ruined, but his family would be too. What if Katherine found out he wasn’t even a bastard, but potentially a commoner? She sure as hell wouldn’t marry him. The fraudulent duke whose family paid the price.

  In the scheme of things, it didn’t matter that he’d given some money to a blackmailer. So long as it kept her quiet. Yes, because quiet is the perfect word to describe her. Provoking. That was a better word to describe her. Or menace.

  Helen Foster. Good God. From her clothing and her boldness, to her immodesty and outrageous demands…he couldn’t have imagined a more repellently vulgar woman if he tried.

  So repellent you couldn’t look away. So repellent you touched her person and ogled her like a savage. He had never in his life reached out and touched a woman like that. The desire to see her up close, to hold her still for just a moment and make sure she was real, that she was actually there turning his entire life upside down and not just a figment of his imagination. He’d come close to shaking her, to kissing her, to doing some unknown thing to a filthy, amoral woman in his carriage.

  She was, absolutely, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And he despised himself for thinking it still, even after she’d taken his money and threatened him. She’d lifted her dress casually, unwrapped the rags from her silken legs, wiggled her pretty toes…pretty feet! Really?...and he’d lost his mind.

  And then his estate was before him, and he didn’t have to think about her anymore nor his reactions to her. He could focus on finding out the truth and put all thoughts of Miss Foster far from his mind. After all, he’d never see her again. He loosened his tight grip on the reins.

  He arrived at tea-time, throwing the house into turmoil. He found his governess in her private parlor in the East Wing. There were no more children to take care of, and his mother had long wanted him to pension her off, but he had refused. Lucy had no one besides him and his sisters, and had been more of a mother to them than the Duchess ever had; why wouldn’t he let her stay in the home she’d lived in for the last three decades?

  The parlor door was open and he walked in, blinking at the new yellow wall coverings. They were very bright. It was like looking into the sun. He went over to her and kissed her hand, settling across from her and looking longingly around the room for the tea tray.

  “Edward, I did not know you were coming. Will you be staying long?” Lucy asked, her voice sounding frail.

  “No, my dear, I will not. I’m needed in London; it is simply that something rather…astonishing happened this morning, and I was hoping you could give me some answers.”

  Her white eyebrows crinkled together, and she pulled her shawl tighter around herself. It was warm in the room, but was she cold? He stood up and went to the fire, adding a log and arranging it properly. “You haven’t taught your footman how to build a fire,” he said.

  She chuckled. “If they ran around with as much destructive energy as you had when you were a boy, then perhaps I would have taught them.”

  He dusted his hands and came back towards her, smiling gently. “Imagine my surprise when I went to boarding school and realized that none of the other boys spent their days carrying firewood from one room to another.”

  “You were a very good helper when you weren’t being a devil,” she murmured as he sat back down.

  He had no response to that. The fire popped, and he took that as a sign of a job well done. He cleared his throat, uncertain where to start. “A woman came to visit me this morning, and she claimed that I am not the real duke. That I am…no one, I suppose. She claimed that I was switched at birth and that the real duke was stillborn. Does any of this sound familiar?” he asked, and tried to smile, needing her to understand that he wouldn’t blame her for perpetuating a lie.

  Lucy looked away from him, her gnarled hands twisting in her lap. “Ridiculous! Never has there been a boy more suited to the title. Generous and caring, intelligent and fair—”

  “That is not an answer,” he said. Edward couldn’t help but cut her off; he wasn’t looking for a list of his good qualities. And then he sat back, realizing that perhaps what she said was an answer, after all. “More suited,” he repeated. “Caring? Generous? Now you have me confused with someone else.” He paused while he worked through her statement. “Surely it must be true if you’re trying to soften the blow by attributing those imaginary and saintly qualities to me.” He leaned forward, squeezing her cold hand gently. Holding on to the one person who’d known him and cared for him when he wasn’t perfect. “If it is true, I would like to hear it from you,” he said, softly. “It was not your place to tell me. I know that. But I’m asking you now. You must tell me….”

  Her eyes grew misty. She shook her head. “There was another child. You were no more than two weeks apart. A maid…and everyone knew that she carried your father’s child. She had a son, and the babe was healthy. I’ve never seen such a plump and robust baby. It was quite a surprise when the child passed. It happened fast. In the middle of the night.”

  “The same night I, or the real duke, was born?”

  She nodded sharply, staring vaguely into the distance.

  So it was true. “Presumably the maid had a name?” His voice was cold. My mother. My mother the maid.

&n
bsp; “Susan. Susan Landry.”

  “And she was from?” He was amazed at how calm he sounded. How in control and unruffled. His world was unraveling, and yet he still appeared calm.

  The governess looked at him with pity. “That I do not know. She was pretty and your father took a liking to her.” She leaned forward, her voice steely. “And it won’t do you any favors to be asking about her. The woman is not your mother in any way that counts. You are the duke. That is the end of it.”

  Then she looked at him intently. “So this woman came to you and what? Threatened to expose the family’s dirty secret?”

  He nodded.

  “What did you do?”

  He wanted to look away, like a guilty child who’d raided the kitchen for sweets. “I paid her. Then came straight here to find out if it were true,” he said.

  Her eyes widened. “You paid her? She must have damning evidence indeed.”

  “She said there was a journal, kept by Mrs. Helmsley, when she was father’s mistress and mother’s companion.”

  “Is it any wonder your mother is delicate. Forced to have her husband’s mistress as company. That doxy!” she exploded. “Now there was a woman who got above her station! For the last decade, she’s wormed her way into men’s hearts and pocketbooks. She’s with the prime minister now if you can believe it.” She stopped, her expression changing to one of confusion. “The prime minister’s mistress is blackmailing you?”

  “No. But she had a diary apparently. Which my blackmailer somehow got a hold of. Helmsley would happily sacrifice me and my family to keep Palmerston from finding out her sordid past.”

  “Oh, Edward,” she squeezed his hand hard.

  He didn’t want her to worry about this. “It wasn’t very much money in the end. I decided to pay her and have done with it.”

  “And a woman, too! Was she a common sort? Could you smell alcohol on her breath?” his governess asked, a cunning expression crossing her face. She read a lot of gothic novels and fancied herself knowledgeable about the lower classes.

  “No, no alcohol.”

  Had Miss Foster felt guilty? There was something about the way she had taken the money, the way she spoke, veering from apologetic to aggressive within the blink of an eye that made him think she was conflicted. That what she did—blackmailing him—was out of necessity rather than preference.

  Lucy interrupted his thoughts. “What will you do when she comes back, Edward? Blackmailers always come back. You have to get the diary.”

  Edward stood and paced to the windows, looking out at the cloudy sky. It was going to rain. Wonderful. He’d have to head back in the mud tomorrow. “If a blackmailer could seem…repentant, she did.”

  His governess snorted. “Your father had a love of low-class women. Made the duchess crazy. Don’t go following in his footsteps, you hear me? The woman will return. She’s dangerous.”

  “He was also a gambler and violent as hell.” He chuckled grimly, unwilling to show his face for fear it would betray him. “You will think this fanciful, Lucy…but for just a moment, when she told me I was not the true duke, I felt such joy to think that man wasn’t my father. That I might not…be like him.” He wished he could call the words back. They exposed him, made him weak.

  “You are nothing like him.”

  He turned around, staring her in the eyes. “But the foundation is there. He is my father. It is simply my mother who is not related to me by blood. Is it any wonder her constitution is so fragile?”

  Lucy waved at him dismissively. “Do not make excuses for her. There are two options in life: To give in or to fight. Your mother has spent her entire life giving in. Your father did too. Giving in, being weak, that is easy. But that is not you.”

  She leaned forward, as though urging him to believe her. “You are a good man. You are not your father. And this information changes nothing. Now, I want you to promise me that if this tart returns you won’t give her any more money but will do the right thing.”

  His voice was bland. “By which, you mean I should get her hung outside of Newgate Prison?”

  “Well, of course.”

  Everything he knew about himself was a lie. The Duchess was not his mother. Was his birth mother even alive? Should he make an effort to find her? Make sure she was provided for? He felt a desperate need to escape and be alone. He needed time to think through the momentous events of the day. If he sat here for a moment longer he would go mad.

  Lucy watched him, expectantly.

  He stood next to the chair, desperate to leave. If ever there were a time to be rude, to get up and walk out, this was it. Lucy wouldn’t judge him for excusing himself. For fleeing. He sat down on the edge of the seat. The need to stay and focus making him feel ill. He needed air, to go outside. There was the faintest sound of ringing in his ears. If people found out he was illegitimate, the title and estate would pass to someone else. His mother would be kicked out, his sisters penniless and unable to make decent marriages. It was impossible to sit here and pretend that everything was fine and exactly the same as it had been this morning. He simply couldn’t do it. Edward forced a smile and settled back in the chair—a parody of comfort. “Now tell me, Lucy. How are your roses?”