Hyacinth cleared her throat and began to read in Italian. “Si avvicina il giorno in cui nascerà il mio primo nipote. Prego che sia un maschio…”
She translated in her head as she continued to read aloud in Italian:
The day draws near in which will be born my first grandchild. I pray that it will be a boy. I would love a little girl—I would probably be allowed to see her and love her more, but it will be better for us all if we have a boy. I am afraid to think how quickly Anne will be forced to endure the attentions of my son if she has a girl.
I should love better my own son, but instead I worry about his wife.
Hyacinth paused, eyeing Lady Danbury for signs that she understood any of the Italian. This was her daughter she was reading about, after all. Hyacinth wondered if the countess had any idea how sad the marriage had been. But Lady D had, remarkably, started to snore.
Hyacinth blinked in surprise—and suspicion. She had never dreamed that Lady Danbury might fall asleep that quickly. She held silent for a few moments, waiting for the countess’s eyes to pop open with a loud demand for her to continue.
After a minute, however, Hyacinth was confident that Lady D really had fallen asleep. So she continued reading to herself, laboriously translating each sentence in her head. The next entry was dated a few months later; Isabella expressed her relief that Anne had delivered a boy, who had been christened George. The baron was beside himself with pride, and had even given his wife the gift of a gold bracelet.
Hyacinth flipped a few pages ahead, trying to see how long it would be until Isabella reached 1797, the year of Gareth’s birth. One, two, three…She counted the pages, passing quickly through the years. Seven, eight, nine…Ah, 1796. Gareth had been born in March, so if Isabella had written about his conception, it would be here, not 1797.
Ten pages away, that was all.
And it occurred to her—
Why not skip ahead? There was no law requiring her to read the diary in perfect, chronological order. She could just peek ahead to 1796 and 1797 and see if there was anything relating to Gareth and his parentage. If not, she’d go right back to where she’d left off and start reading anew.
And wasn’t it Lady Danbury who’d said that patience most certainly was not a virtue?
Hyacinth glanced ruefully down at 1793, then, holding the five leaves of paper as one, shifted to 1796.
Back…forth…back…
Forth.
She turned to 1796, and planted her left hand down so that she wouldn’t turn back again.
Definitely forth.
“24 June 1796,” she read to herself. “I arrived at Clair House for a summer visit, only to be informed that my son had already left for London.”
Hyacinth quickly subtracted months in her head. Gareth was born in March of 1797. Three months took her back to December 1796, and another six to—
June.
And Gareth’s father was out of town.
Barely able to breathe, Hyacinth read on:
Anne seems contented that he is gone, and little George is such a treasure. Is it so terrible to admit that I am more happy when Richard isn’t here? It is such a joy to have all the persons I love so close…
Hyacinth scowled as she finished the entry. There was nothing out of the ordinary there. Nothing about a mysterious stranger, or an improper friend.
She glanced up at Lady Danbury, whose head was now tilted awkwardly back. Her mouth was hanging a bit open, too.
Hyacinth turned resolutely back to the diary, turning to the next entry, dated three months later.
She gasped.
Anne is carrying a child. And we all know it cannot be Richard’s. He has been away for two months. Two months. I am afraid for her. He is furious. But she will not reveal the truth.
“Reveal it,” Hyacinth ground out. “Reveal it.”
“Enh?”
Hyacinth slammed the book shut and looked up. Lady Danbury was stirring in her seat.
“Why did you stop reading?” Lady D asked groggily.
“I didn’t,” Hyacinth lied, her fingers holding the diary so tightly it was a wonder she didn’t burn holes through the binding. “You fell asleep.”
“Did I?” Lady Danbury murmured. “I must be getting old.”
Hyacinth smiled tightly.
“Very well,” Lady D said with a wave of her hand. She fidgeted a bit, moving first to the left, then to the right, then back to the left again. “I’m awake now. Let’s get back to Miss Butterworth.”
Hyacinth was aghast. “Now?”
“As opposed to when?”
Hyacinth had no good answer for that. “Very well,” she said, with as much patience as she could muster. She forced herself to set the diary down beside her, and she picked up Miss Butterworth and the Mad Baron in its stead.
“Ahem.” She cleared her throat, turning to the first page of chapter Eighteen. “Ahem.”
“Throat bothering you?” Lady Danbury asked. “I still have some tea in the pot.”
“It’s nothing,” Hyacinth said. She exhaled, looked down, and read, with decidedly less animation than was usual, “The baron was in possession of a secret. Priscilla was quite certain of that. The only question was—would the truth ever be revealed?”
“Indeed,” Hyacinth muttered.
“Enh?”
“I think something important is about to happen,” Hyacinth said with a sigh.
“Something important is always about to happen, my dear girl,” Lady Danbury said. “And if not, you’d do well to act as if it were. You’ll enjoy life better that way.”
For Lady Danbury, the comment was uncharacteristically philosophical. Hyacinth paused, considering her words.
“I have no patience with this current fashion for ennui,” Lady Danbury continued, reaching for her cane and thumping it against the floor. “Ha. When did it become a crime to show an interest in things?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Just read the book,” Lady D said. “I think we’re getting to the good part. Finally.”
Hyacinth nodded. The problem was, she was getting to the good part of the other book. She took a breath, trying to return her attention to Miss Butterworth, but the words swam before her eyes. Finally, she looked up at Lady Danbury and said, “I’m sorry, but would you mind terribly if I cut our visit short? I’m not feeling quite the thing.”
Lady Danbury stared at her as if she’d just announced that she was carrying Napoleon’s love child.
“I would be happy to make it up to you tomorrow,” Hyacinth quickly added.
Lady D blinked. “But it’s Tuesday.”
“I realize that. I—” Hyacinth sighed. “You are a creature of habit, aren’t you?”
“The hallmark of civilization is routine.”
“Yes, I understand, but—”
“But the sign of a truly advanced mind,” Lady D cut in, “is the ability to adapt to changing circumstances.”
Hyacinth’s mouth fell open. Never in her wildest dreams would she have imagined Lady Danbury uttering that.
“Go on, dear child,” Lady D said, shooing her toward the door. “Do whatever it is that has you so intrigued.”
For a moment Hyacinth could do nothing but stare at her. And then, suffused with a feeling that was as lovely as it was warm, she gathered her things, rose to her feet, and crossed the room to Lady Danbury’s side.
“You’re going to be my grandmother,” she said, leaning down and giving her a kiss on the cheek. She’d never assumed such familiarity before, but somehow it felt right.
“You silly child,” Lady Danbury said, brushing at her eyes as Hyacinth walked to the door. “In my heart, I’ve been your grandmother for years. I’ve just been waiting for you to make it official.”
Chapter 20
Later that night. Quite a bit later, actually. Hyacinth’s attempts at translation had to be postponed for a lengthy family dinner, followed by an interminable game of charades. Finally, at half el
even, she found the information she was seeking.
Excitement proved stronger than caution…
Another ten minutes and Gareth would not have been there to hear the knock. He had pulled on his jumper, a rough, woolen thing that his grandmother would have called dreadfully uncouth but which had the advantage of being black as night. He was just sitting on his sofa to don his most quietly soled boots when he heard it.
A knock. Soft but adamant.
A glance at the clock told him it was almost midnight. Phelps had long since gone to bed, so Gareth went to the door himself, positioning himself near the heavy wood with a, “Yes?”
“It is I,” came the insistent reply.
What? No, it couldn’t be…
He yanked the door open.
“What are you doing here?” he hissed, pulling Hyacinth into the room. She went flying by him, stumbling into a chair as he let go to peer out into the hall. “Didn’t you bring someone with you?”
She shook her head. “No time to—”
“Are you mad?” he whispered furiously. “Have you gone stark, raving insane?” He’d thought he’d been angry with her last time she’d done this, running through London on her own after dark. But at least then she’d had some sort of an excuse, having been surprised by his father. This time—This time—
He could barely control himself. “I’m going to have to lock you up,” he said, more to himself than to her. “That is it. That is the only solution. I am going to have to hold you down and—”
“If you’ll just lis—”
“Get in here,” he bit off, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her into his bedroom. It was the farthest from Phelps’s small quarters off the drawing room. The valet usually slept like the dead, but with Gareth’s luck, this would be the night he decided to awaken for a midnight snack.
“Gareth,” Hyacinth whispered, scurrying behind him, “I have to tell you—”
He turned on her with furious eyes. “I don’t want to hear anything from you that doesn’t start with ‘I’m a damned fool.’ ”
She crossed her arms. “Well, I’m certainly not going to say that.”
He flexed and bent his fingers, the carefully controlled movement the only thing that was keeping him from lunging at her. The world was turning a dangerous shade of red, and all he could think of was the image of her racing across Mayfair, by herself, only to be attacked, mauled—
“I’m going to kill you,” he ground out.
Hell, if anyone was going to attack or maul her, it might as well be him.
But she was just shaking her head, not listening to anything he was saying. “Gareth, I have to—”
“No,” he said forcefully. “Not a word. Don’t say a word. Just sit there—” He blinked, realizing that she was standing, then pointed at the bed. “Sit there,” he said, “quietly until I figure out what the hell to do with you.”
She sat, and for once she didn’t look as if she was going to open her mouth to speak. In fact, she looked somewhat smug.
Which made him instantly suspicious. He had no idea how she had figured out that he had chosen that night to return to Clair House for one last search for the jewels. He must have let something slip, alluded to the trip during one of their recent conversations. He would have liked to think that he was more careful than that, but Hyacinth was fiendishly clever, and if anyone could have deduced his intentions, it would be her.
It was a damn fool endeavor in his opinion; he didn’t have a clue where the diamonds might be save for Hyacinth’s theory about the baroness’s bedchamber. But he had promised her he would go, and he must have had a more finely tuned sense of honor than he had thought, because here he was, heading out to Clair House for the third time that month.
He glared at her.
She smiled serenely.
Sending him right over the edge. That was it. That was absolutely—
“All right,” he said, his voice so low it was almost shaking. “We are going to lay out some rules, right here and right now.”
Her spine stiffened. “I beg your pardon.”
“When we are married, you will not exit the house without my permission—”
“Ever?” she cut in.
“Until you have proven yourself to be a responsible adult,” he finished, barely recognizing himself in his own words. But if this was what it took to keep the bloody little fool safe from herself, then so be it.
She let out an impatient breath. “When did you grow so pompous?”
“When I fell in love with you!” he practically roared. Or he would have, if they hadn’t been in the middle of a building of apartments, all inhabited by single men who stayed up late and liked to gossip.
“You…You…You what?”
Her mouth fell open into a fetching little oval, but Gareth was too far gone to appreciate the effect. “I love you, you idiot woman,” he said, his arms jerking and flailing like a madman’s. It was astonishing, what she had reduced him to. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d lost his temper like this, the last time someone had made him so angry that he could barely speak.
Except for her, of course.
He ground his teeth together. “You are the most maddening, frustrating—”
“But—”
“And you never know when to stop talking, but God help me, I love you, anyway,—
“But, Gareth—”
“And if I have to tie you to the damned bed just to keep you safe from yourself, as God is my witness, that is what I’ll do.”
“But Gareth—”
“Not a word. Not a single bloody word,” he said, wagging his finger toward her in an extremely impolite manner. Finally, his hand seemed to freeze, his index finger stuck into a point, and after a few jerky motions, he managed to still himself and drag his hands to his hips.
She was staring at him, her blue eyes large and filled with wonder. Gareth couldn’t tear his gaze away as she slowly rose to her feet and closed the distance between them.
“You love me?” she whispered.
“It will be the death of me, I’m sure, but yes.” He sighed wearily, exhausted simply by the prospect of it all. “I can’t seem to help myself.”
“Oh.” Her lips quivered, then wobbled, and then somehow she was smiling. “Good.”
“Good?” he echoed. “That’s all you have to say?”
She stepped forward, touched his cheek. “I love you, too. With all my heart, with everything I am, and everything—”
He’d never know what she’d been about to say. It was lost beneath his kiss.
“Gareth,” she gasped, during the bare moment when he paused for breath.
“Not now,” he said, his mouth taking hers again. He couldn’t stop. He’d told her, and now he had to show her.
He loved her. It was as simple as that.
“But Gareth—”
“Shhh…” He held her head in his hands, and he kissed her and kissed her…until he made the mistake of freeing her mouth by moving to her throat.
“Gareth, I have to tell you—”
“Not now,” he murmured. He had other things in mind.
“But it’s very important, and—”
He dragged himself away. “Good God, woman,” he grunted. “What is it?”
“You have to listen to me,” she said, and he felt somewhat vindicated that her breathing was every bit as labored as his. “I know it was mad to come here so late.”
“By yourself,” he saw fit to add.
“By myself,” she granted him, her lips twisting peevishly. “But I swear to you, I wouldn’t have done something this foolish if I hadn’t needed to speak with you right away.”
His mouth tilted wryly. “A note wouldn’t have done?”
She shook her head. “Gareth,” she said, and her face was so serious it took his breath away, “I know who your father is.”
It was as if the floor were slipping away, and yet at the same time, he could not tear his eyes off of hers. H
e clutched her shoulders, his fingers surely digging too hard into her skin, but he couldn’t move. For years to come, if anyone had asked him about that moment, he would have said that she was the only thing holding him upright.
“Who is it?” he asked, almost dreading her reply. His entire adult life he’d wanted this answer, and now that it was here, he could feel nothing but terror.
“It was your father’s brother,” Hyacinth whispered.
It was as if something had slammed into his chest. “Uncle Edward?”
“Yes,” Hyacinth said, her eyes searching his face with a mix of love and concern. “It was in your grandmother’s diary. She didn’t know at first. No one did. They only knew it couldn’t be your fath—er, the baron. He was in London all spring and summer. And your mother…wasn’t.”
“How did she find out?” he whispered. “And was she certain?”
“Isabella figured it out after you were born,” Hyacinth said softly. “She said you looked too much like a St. Clair to be a bastard, and Edward had been in residence at Clair House. When your father was gone.”
Gareth shook his head, desperately trying to comprehend this. “Did he know?”
“Your father? Or your uncle?”
“My—” He turned, a strange, humorless sound emerging from his throat. “I don’t know what to call him. Either of them.”
“Your father—Lord St. Clair,” she corrected. “He didn’t know. Or at least, Isabella didn’t think he did. He didn’t know that Edward had been at Clair Hall that summer. He was just out of Oxford, and—well, I’m not exactly certain what transpired, but it sounded like he was supposed to go to Scotland with friends. But then he didn’t, and so he went to Clair Hall instead. Your grandmother said—” Hyacinth stopped, and her face took on a wide-eyed expression. “Your grandmother,” she murmured. “She really was your grandmother.”
He felt her hand on his shoulder, imploring him to turn, but somehow he couldn’t look at her just then. It was too much. It was all too much.
“Gareth, Isabella was your grandmother. She really was.”