“Where is your abigail?” The voice came from somewhere behind her.
Mariah turned around and discovered Kate had followed them up the stairs and had plopped down on the bed. “My what?” She unbuttoned her other glove and placed it beside its mate, on top of the dressing table.
“Your lady’s maid,” Iris answered from the doorway. She entered the bedroom and went to sit beside Kate on the bed.
“I don’t have one.”
“What?” Wren was surprised. “Who has been dressing you? Who has been helping you dress?”
“At St. Agnes’s, where I lived before I went to live at Telamor, I generally dressed myself,” Mariah explained.
“How?” Kate blurted.
“It isn’t hard when all you have to wear are ugly black dresses that button down the front. When I arrived at Telamor, Lord Kil—I mean, Lord Ramsey, hired Madame Thierry, the dressmaker to create a wardrobe for me. Either she or one of her assistants helped me dress.”
“What about the journey?” Kate asked. She had the same chocolate-brown eyes as Kit, and though her hair was light brown, Mariah thought that it would one day be the same lush coffee color as Kit’s.
Mariah blushed.
“You traveled all the way from Ireland with Kit without an abigail? Alone.” Kate’s brown eyes widened at the thought of a juicy scandal. “How wonderful!”
Mariah reached up and untied the strings of her traveling cape.
“How irresponsible!” Wren exclaimed. “What was Kit thinking?”
“He was thinking that since lady’s maids were in short supply in Inismorn, that it might be possible to hire one once we reached London,” Mariah answered, unwilling to let anyone, even Kit’s mother, accuse him of not observing proprieties. “Ma’am,” she added, curtsying for good measure.
“When Kit wrote to us explaining that he had become your guardian, he said that you arrived at Telamor Castle with a chaperone. Why did she not accompany you to London?”
“Sister Mary Beatrix refused to leave Inismorn.” Mariah didn’t think it prudent to explain that Sister Mary Beatrix had refused to leave her room during the weeks they had been in residence except to go to seven o’clock mass. “And nothing Kit—I mean—Lord Kil—Ramsey said would persuade her otherwise. In the end Lord Everleigh decided that since Lord Ramsey was my guardian, it would be more prudent for me to travel alone with him than to travel in the company of Lord Everleigh, Mr. Mirrant, and Lord Ramsey without a chaperone in attendance.”
“Lord Everleigh is probably right,” Wren conceded. “But I’m afraid it’s going to be impossible to find an abigail to attend you at this late date. Iris’s lady’s maid can’t possibly take on the added responsibility …”
“Did Madame Thierry fashion that for you?” Iris asked.
Mariah glanced down at the traveling dress she wore. It was made of indigo kerseymere. The bodice was fitted at the waist, the skirt full and flared. Both the bodice and the skirt were trimmed with black braid. An indigo-colored reticule matched her kid gloves and her dyed half-boots. “Yes,” she answered. “Is there something wrong with it?”
Iris shook her head. “It’s wonderful and that shade of blue is divine.” Iris didn’t look a thing like Kit, but she was the spitting image of her mother, with dark blond hair and gray-green eyes.
“Mr. Mirrant chose it,” Mariah said.
“Dalton Mirrant?” Iris was surprised.
“Yes,” Mariah answered. “He helped Madame Thierry select the fashion plate and chose the fabric. He has a very good eye for color and, according to Madame Thierry, quite a flair for design. He seems to be able to look at a fashion plate and know exactly what clothes will suit. As a matter of fact, he chose several of the designs that Madame Thierry created for me.”
“I can’t believe it of Dalton,” Iris mused. “He has always dressed very well, but I’ve never heard him breathe a word about ladies’ fashions. He’s always talking about riding and hunting and the estate. I can’t believe he never said anything.”
“I think Mr. Mirrant was rather surprised by it and, perhaps, a bit embarrassed. I heard him tell Madame Thierry that he had never thought about it much, but he’d always hated to see women in colors that didn’t suit them.”
“You will point out the dresses that Mr. Mirrant selected for you, won’t you?” Iris asked. “I should hate to have a completely new wardrobe made for the season, only to learn that Dal—I mean, Mr. Mirrant thought it all wrong for me.”
“I’m sure he would never dream of finding fault with your wardrobe,” Wren said. “Dalton has far better manners than that.” She bit her bottom lip. “And even if he did find fault with your wardrobe, I know he’d be too much a gentleman to mention it.” She checked the time again. “Please excuse us, Mariah.” Wren motioned her daughters off Mariah’s bed. “We must get Iris downstairs. You make yourself comfortable. I’ll send my abigail to help you settle in. In fact, I’ll share my abigail with you for the season. It will give her something to do. She despairs of me because I always smell of turpentine and paints …”
Mariah laughed. “Madame Thierry says I always smell of baked bread and sugar frosting.”
Wren nodded her head. “It will make Nealy quite happy to attend to you for the season. She never has the opportunity to do anything for me except arrange my hair upon occasion because Drew—I mean, Lord Templeston—prefers to see to my dressing and undressing himself …”
“Mama!” both her daughters exclaimed.
Wren blushed bright red, then looked at her girls. “I know I shouldn’t say things like that in front of you. But it’s true. And you might as well hear it from me than from the servants. You’re young ladies and getting to the age where you need to understand some of what goes on between husband and wife. And your father and I have never made any secret of the fact that we love each other and enjoy each other’s company.”
Mariah smiled. Everything was going to be all right. Lady Templeston wasn’t the frivolous sort of lady at all. Mariah thought they might one day become close friends.
“Come, Kate. Iris. Let Mariah rest for a bit. Then we’ll bring Nealy and come back and help her dress for dinner. She can show us all of her new things, and we can decide if we’ve more shopping to do.”
* * *
Kit stood at the bottom of the staircase and watched as his mother led Mariah upstairs.
“She seems like a charming girl,” Drew said as he watched Kit watch Mariah Shaughnessy ascend the main staircase of Templeston Place.
If Drew had had any doubts about Kit’s sincere desire to marry Mariah, they were laid to rest in that moment. Kit looked at Mariah the way he still looked at Kathryn. The way he would always look at Kathryn. “Come into the study.” Drew opened the door and motioned Kit inside. “We’ll have a drink while the ladies are upstairs, and you can tell me all about your inheritance and your Miss Shaughnessy, and don’t omit any of the details, for your mother is sure to grill me on the subject later.”
Kit entered the room and was immediately surrounded by the familiar smells of sweet tobacco, lemon beeswax, and old leather. A hundred memories flashed through his mind. Memories of the times he had sneaked into the study when he was a child, just to be near his hero, of waking in his father’s arms as Drew carried him up the stairs to bed. Memories of standing before Drew’s massive oak desk and reciting lessons, of listening as Drew patiently explained whatever he happened to be working on. Memories of standing with bowed head and downcast eyes, staring at the Turkey carpet as Drew chastised him for boyish infractions against the rules.
“Have a seat.” Drew waved Kit into his customary chair, then walked over to the cellaret, removed a decanter and two glasses, and poured two fingers of whisky into each. He handed a glass to Kit, then lifted the other and raised it in a toast. “Here’s to you, Lord Kilgannon.”
Kit hesitated. It was the first time his father had ever offered him a drink of anything stronger than claret or port.
“Go ahead.” Drew smiled. “A man who has inherited an estate and a title and is contemplating marriage is certainly old enough to share a drink with his father.”
“Did you share a drink with your father when you proposed to Mama?”
Drew raised an eyebrow. “We did the first time,” he answered honestly. “He was gone by the time I proposed the second time. If I remember correctly, I probably shared a drink with you. Milk, I believe it was.”
Kit was puzzled. “I don’t remember.”
“There is no reason you should.” Drew’s brown eyes sparkled at the memory. “You were about four years of age at the time. But you’ve been to Ireland and spoken with Father Francis, you must have some idea of how you came to be the late earl of Kilgannon’s only male relative,” Drew said softly.
Kit nodded.
“We expected you to ask questions when Martin presented you with the documents,” Drew continued. “Your mother and I held our breaths, wondering what you would want to know and how we would answer you, since there was still a great deal we didn’t know ourselves, but you’ve never asked.” He drained the whisky from his glass and poured himself another. “So now I’m asking you.”
“I know that George Ramsey was my father,” Kit told him. “Just as he was your father. You told me that yourself when I was little. And I remembered it even though I never wanted to admit it.” He looked at Drew. “I know that when he died, you married Mama, and managed somehow to legally adopt me as your son and heir.” He paused as if debating how much he should reveal. “I heard the rumors about you and Mama when I was growing up. I heard them from the boys at school and at university.”
Drew frowned at the thought of schoolboys tormenting Kit. “I brought a few things from Swanslea Park to help explain.” He turned and unhooked the latch on a Sir Joshua Reynolds’s landscape, and swung it open on its hinges to reveal the door of the safe concealed behind it.
Drew spun the dial to a series of numbers, opened the door, and removed a sheepskin packet of documents and a black velvet jewelry pouch. He handed the packet to Kit. “Read these and then I’ll do my best to answer your questions.”
Kit took out the first letter and opened it. A chill went through him as he read the first line:
My dearest son,
If you’re reading this letter, then I’ve met my Maker a bit sooner than I’d planned. If everything is as it was meant to be, either Martin or I would have already destroyed it, but if you’re reading it, that is not the case.
I cannot rest easy in my grave until you know that I never meant to fail you. You counted on me, and my momentary thoughtlessness drastically altered your life’s path in a manner neither of us could have foreseen. I hope, one day, that you’ll forgive me. I bear a heavy guilt for my misplaced trust.
Because I love you, son, and I have always been so very proud of you—as a boy and as the man you’ve grown up to be. Your mother and I always knew that you were our shining accomplishment and our greatest joy. You were the light of her life, and you’ve been the light of mine.
I have entrusted to your care my second shining accomplishment and the joy of my old age, my son, Christopher George Ramsey. Kit. He needs you, Drew. He needs a father to love and to look up to. Be that father. He cannot help the circumstances of his birth, nor should they matter. But in a country like ours, the order and circumstance of one’s birth is everything. I claim him as my son because he is my son. He cannot claim legitimacy; but he can lay claim to something more important, blood. He is your half brother, but I would ask that you raise him as your son, for I do not want him to suffer for the actions (not the sins) of his parents.
I did not sin in loving his mother, nor did she sin in loving me. My sin was in putting a solemn promise to one love ahead of the needs of another. There are those who will view Kit as an accident or a mistake. He was never an accident or a mistake. I wanted him—loved him—just as much as I wanted and loved you. Accept him, with my blessings, and give him the family he deserves.
For you see, Drew, my fondest wish for you was that you would meet a young lady and have what your mother and I shared. I thought you had found it with Wren, but something terrible happened to prevent her from marrying you.
Don’t blame her. She did what she did to protect you. She has never confided it to me. I guessed the truth. I didn’t want to believe it, but I know it was true.
It is not my place to divulge her secret. She must be the one to do that. I can only say that no matter what you believe of me at this moment, know that I loved you and that I tried to atone for my mistake by watching out for the one you loved.
You should also know that all of the ladies with whom I have been intimately acquainted have my locket. The locket that accompanied this letter is the one I gave to Kit’s mother. All of the ladies with whom I’ve shared a bed and pillow—including Kit’s mother—have something else in common—a trait you cannot fail to notice should they decide to present themselves to you.
Trust in your heart, my son. Follow it. Let it lead you to Wren’s door. Don’t grieve too much for me, for I am with your mother now, and we are both looking out for you and your family.
My love to you and to Kit and to Wren.
Your loving and proudest of fathers, George.
Kit refolded the letter and handed it to Drew.
“The letter was meant for my eyes alone. For your protection, I should have burned it years ago, but I saved it because it was from my father—our father—and I thought that you should be able to read it to see how much he loved you. How much he loved us both. And I kept it as a remembrance of how I came to be your father instead of simply your older half brother,” Drew said softly.
“How did you manage to make me your heir?” Kit asked. “Even he says I’m a bastard.”
“No, you’re not,” Drew denied. “You were our father’s natural child. Technically, he could not lay claim to you, but you were not illegitimate in the eyes of the law. Although he did not reveal your mother’s name or the circumstances of your birth, Martin assured me that your Irish inheritance was quite legal because your mother was a peeress in her own right and that while you were Father’s natural son, you had been born within the bonds of marriage. Otherwise, I could not have secured the letters patent from the king allowing you to become my legal heir.”
“That’s possible?”
Drew smiled. “It’s unusual. But with a great deal of money and the right motivation, it’s possible. Titles have always been bought, sold, and awarded. And our late sovereign was always in need of cash.”
“What if you and Mama had had a son?”
“We did,” Drew answered. “You. And anyone searching for proof to that fact will find it.”
“But, Papa—”
“We all had our reasons for doing what we did,” Drew said. “But our father’s reasons were probably the purest reasons of them all. He was trying to make amends. Trying to set things right. And he knew that I would never refute you or refuse him the chance to try to make things right.”
Kit looked at the man who had been the only father he had ever known. “There were always rumors about my paternity. Rumors as to whether I was your son or your father’s. What I didn’t understand was that there were questions about my maternity as well.” He took a deep breath. “Why didn’t you and Mama tell me about Lady Alanna before I went to Ireland?”
Drew sighed. “We didn’t know her identity until we learned you had inherited the old earl’s title. I knew some things—that she was a peeress in her own right and that she was married when you were born—but I didn’t have all of the facts. Apparently, Martin and the priest, Father Francis, were the only two people alive who knew the true circumstances of your birth.”
“And Ford,” Kit added.
“Ford?”
“The late earl’s butler. He was privy to a great many family secrets, and he was the one who summoned the priest after the late earl died.”
“Well, ex
cept for those three, everyone else took your secret to the grave. Your mama told me that Father appeared at her door one evening with you in his arms. He told Kathryn that you were in need of a mother, and since she was in need of a son, he could think of no one better suited to be your mama. Because your mother and I had no idea who your other mother was, we decided to make certain no one would ever believe you were anything except our son. And since Father’s will excluded you from inheriting Swanslea Park because it was a legacy from my mother, I had Martin change my will and arrange the amendment to the letters patent to make certain you did inherit it—as all sons and heirs should do.”
“All these years, you and Mama have endured the rumors. All the things they’ve said about your liaison with her …”
Drew laughed. A bitter-sounding laugh that told Kit a great deal about the variety of vicious rumors Drew had heard repeated and embellished over the years. “There have been many things said about my liaison with Kathryn over the years. Most of them false, but we allowed the rumors to circulate—even circulated a few ourselves about an elopement to Gretna Green because we knew the truth and the rumors were less painful and damaging.”
“Even for me?” Kit asked.
“Especially for you.” Drew inhaled, then slowly expelled the breath. “We had that”—he nodded toward the jewel pouch that held the locket that George had given to Kit’s mother—“but we didn’t know to whom it had once, belonged. We felt it was better to have everyone believe you were the product of our union than to increase speculation.” Drew handed the second document to Kit.
Kit read it. “Codicil to the Last Will and Testament of George Ramsey, fifteenth Marquess of Templeston. My fondest wish is that I shall die a very old man beloved of my family and surrounded by children and grandchildren, but because one cannot always choose the time of one’s Departure from the Living, I charge my legitimate son and heir, Andrew Ramsey, twenty-eighth earl of Ramsey, Viscount Birmingham, and Baron Selby on this the 3rd day of August in the Year of Our Lord 1818 with the support and responsibility for my beloved mistresses and any living children born of their bodies in the nine months immediately following my death.