“Yes, that is what it would mean.”
The hurt was unexpected. She looked up then. “It’s the children. I couldn’t leave the children in danger.”
“It appears they are still in danger.”
He was right and she felt flattened by his words. She tried to straighten her shoulders, but it was difficult. She said very quietly, “Is this quarterly allowance enough for me to afford a small cottage near Mountvale, since I must be your responsibility and must stay near you? I will take the children and leave. Your life can become again what it was.”
He gave her a mean look. “Just what do you mean by that? ‘Your life can become again what it was.” ’ He mimicked the condemnation in her voice, the sarcasm.
Her chin went up. She hadn’t really meant that, even though it was true. He was looking at her as if he’d like to throw her out the library window. They were large windows—she’d remarked upon them earlier. He could do it.
“You are an unmarried man,” she said, trying to be conciliatory. “You have the reputation of a gentleman who lives life for his own pleasure, for his own gratification, and at his whim, for—”
“That is quite enough.” He plowed his fingers through his already disordered hair. He had very nice hair, she thought, even though it was standing on end. “Listen, it was my idea that you come and live here. This cottage notion of yours is ridiculous. The thief would have you at his mercy just like he did at Mulberry House. At least here at Mountvale you are somewhat more secure, the children as well. Now, all of this is nonsense. Why did you come in here? What is this miraculous information you have to impart?”
She accepted his dismissal and said, “When I was with George in Oxford some two years ago, some of his friends came into the inn where we were lunching. He introduced them to me.”
It was out of his mouth before he could stop it. “How did they treat you?”
“It’s strange that you ask.” Good God, her innocence was frightening. At least he knew for certain that she had no idea of her real status.
She thought about it a moment, then continued. “They treated me well enough, I suppose, but they seemed to me to have too many high spirits, a lot of backslapping—George’s back—and jests I didn’t understand. After they left, George seemed a bit embarrassed. His face was red. He wanted to take me home, and he did. He never took me to Oxford again.”
“What were the friends’ names?”
“I remember only one name for certain and only because it struck me as odd. Theodore Micah. The other man’s name—and this is just a wild guess—was, I think, Lambert. I don’t recall his last name or whether that is his last name or not.”
“Were they as young as George?”
“No, they were older, perhaps six or seven years older. When I asked George about them, he said they were tutors. They didn’t look or act like tutors. They didn’t look like they belonged at Oxford. They looked—loud, if you will, their clothes too flamboyant. That’s why I thought I should tell you about them. I have wondered, you see, if they had anything to do with breaking into Mulberry House. They weren’t students. They weren’t gentlemen.”
Rohan didn’t want to know any of this, he really didn’t. He wanted everything to remain the same in his memory. He wanted to think about George without feeling he’d been betrayed. Who the devil had these men been? They’d certainly known the lay of the land, curse George.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice as cold as his heart had been when he was told of George’s death. “It’s unlikely that they had anything to do with the break-ins at Mulberry House or here. They were probably just a bit of low company. Most young men consort with low company at least once. But I will think about it. It’s late. Marianne will be bouncing on you at six o’clock. Go to bed.”
But he didn’t want her framed by that light again. He turned around and walked to the sideboard. He didn’t pick up the brandy decanter, though a man of his reputation should probably swizzle down brandy like it was eau-de-vie.
“Good night, my lord.”
He said nothing. He didn’t turn to look at her. He couldn’t. It would have been too painful.
He strode to the stable just after dawn. It was blessedly quiet, the birds still battened down in their nests. The air was chill, but there was only a slight breeze. He didn’t pay much attention to the gardens—or to anything else, for that matter.
Ah, the blessed silence. He saw his best mouser, Galahad, the one Tom Harker had been holding and petting, marching along the side of the drive, his tail high. He looked extremely well fed. Even the cat was quiet. Yes, silence. Until he neared the stable door. Then he heard Jamie singing in the sweetest voice he’d heard from him yet.
“There was a pert lass from Madras
Who had a remarkable ass—
Not rounded and pink,
As you probably think,
It was gray, had long ears, and ate grass.”
Then, as if on cue, he heard Gulliver neigh in pleasure. Then another horse followed with a low whinny that went on and on, and Susannah’s mare, Hera, joined in with a lilting snort.
He went into the dimly lit stable to see Jamie brushing Gulliver while three other stable lads had paused in their duties and were eyeing him with near reverence. Then they all yelled out their approval, begging for another one, but Rohan saw Jamie shake his head. “Sorry, lads, but I can’t spoil me big sweethearts ’ere, ’twould get them all atwitter, more than one tune a day.”
Then the lads noticed the baron standing in the open doorway. There was general consternation, then absolute silence.
Rohan said easily, “Jamie, we do have an ass. His name is Puck and he roams the north pasture. Do occasionally sing him that limerick.”
“The last ass I sung it to, milord, turned around to show me this face what sunk a thousand boats.”
Gulliver neighed loudly. Did the damned horse even understand Jamie’s jests? “That was quite good,” Rohan said. “Doom, saddle Gulliver for me. Quickly, the day is too fine to waste.”
Doom was a thin, slack-jawed boy of fourteen who had never smiled, as far as anyone knew, in his entire life. No horse had ever even tried to kick him or bite him. All the staff believed it was because the horses felt sorry for him. He’d been called Doom since he was a nit of five.
Jamie walked over to Rohan while he waited.
“This Doom boy, milord, I’ll wager ye I’ll git a grin outta ’im afore the end of the week. By Friday, aye, no longer than that.”
“A pound,” Rohan said. They shook hands.
“I’ve already got ’im looking at me somethin’ fierce whenever I spout me tunes. By Friday, milord. It’s strange though, ’e’s not beat by ’is pa nor anything like that. ’E’s jest long in the face, like.”
Rohan rode until noon. He was sweaty, hot, and feeling exhilarated when he arrived back at Mountvale House. He came to a dumbfounded halt at the sight of a large carriage pulled by four brilliant white horses standing in front of the deep-set steps of the house. There were three outriders, all wearing billowing black cloaks. The coachman was wearing pale silver and black livery. The wide front doors of Mountvale were thrown open wide. There was a flurry of bright color. There was a pumping up of lungs, he could feel it.
“My dearest! I’m home!”
8
CHARLOTTE DULCINA CARRINGTON, LADY MOUNTVALE, accepted a crystal glass of very cold champagne from her son. “ . . . Well, dearest, you see, I was in Paris when I got this feeling. Now, Rohan, don’t look at me like I’ve got turnip seeds in my brain. It was indeed a feeling, a bona fide feeling, a very strange feeling. I saw this girl—a woman really, but very young—and she looked absolutely terrified. And there you were, standing beside her, looking utterly helpless. What was a poor mother to do? I realized I was needed. Naturally I did not hesitate to come to you.” She squared her beautiful white shoulders, which in turn thrust out her lovely bosom, and announced in a heroine’s voice, “I have come here to arran
ge things, my son. Whatever is wrong, I will fix it.”
“Thank you, Mother,” Rohan said. He clicked his glass against hers and forced himself to take a sip. He hated champagne. Nasty stuff. Actually, he drank little if anything, but no one could know that. Actually no one would believe it, particularly about a man of his debauched reputation.
She looked glorious, as usual, in a charming gown of moss green, cut low, naturally, but not low in a vulgar way. His mother was never vulgar.
“You look fit, Mother.”
“Yes, dearest, I know. It is nice of you to notice, but then, naturally you would, being of an excessively amorous nature just like your dear papa. Now, who is this young lady who is terrified?”
There were fast footsteps and a loud panting breath nearing the open doorway. “Is that you, Toby? Come in and meet Lady Mountvale, my mother.”
Toby took two steps into the room, then stopped and stared. Standing before him was surely the most exquisite creature he had ever imagined. Her hair was a rich blond, thick, piled and plaited atop her head, but parts of it on her shoulders, and there was even some of it falling in lazy curls down her neck, and surely those were diamond pins in her hair that sparkled and gleamed. Her eyes were just the blue of the sky in the middle of the summer when it was hot and there was no rain. Her nose was perfect, narrow and straight, just like Rohan’s. Her lips were a light red color, like she’d just eaten strawberries. He managed to tear his eyes away from the Vision. He stared at the baron, shaking his head even as he said, “Are you jesting, Rohan?”
“About what?”
Toby stole another look at the Goddess. “She can’t be your mother. She’s young and beautiful, but she does have the look of you. But her eyes are blue, not green. Yes, that’s it. She must be your sister. Is she your older sister or your younger sister?”
“I don’t have a sister, Toby. Stop staring at her. You are only eight years old. She is my mother, I promise you.”
Lady Mountvale, who had been regarding the boy with some bemusement, nodded now, determining him to be blessed with a discerning eye backed with very high intelligence. She said with a charming smile, “My boy, it is obvious that you are already well on the path to a future that would render a hedonist proud. I am amazed and gratified.
“Who is this handsome boy, dearest? You haven’t pulled a bastard out of your hat and just slipped him in? You would have sired him when you were but fifteen or sixteen. Well done, Rohan. Well done. Your beloved father would have been so very pleased. A pity he never knew. Why didn’t you tell him of this delightful boy? It would have gladdened his final days.”
Toby was startled out of his worship. He puffed up like a little cock. “I am not a bastard, my lady. I am Toby Hawlworth. Even though Rohan thinks my father is a bastard, I am legal, truly.”
“His father is a bastard, dearest? I didn’t see him in my dream. This is all very odd.”
“He’s a bastard in character” Rohan said, “not in the question of his antecedents.”
“Did the father send you this lovely boy so you could tutor him in the ways of the world?”
“No, actually Toby is the brother of that terrified young lady you saw in your vision. Toby, go fetch Susannah. If Marianne is awake, and not in a snit, then have Susannah bring her as well. Ah, tell your sister that she’s in for a treat.”
“Yes, sir,” Toby said, cast one final look at the incredibly beautiful woman who couldn’t be Rohan’s mother, and backed out of the drawing room.
“Comb your hair, Susannah.”
“What is wrong with my hair, Toby? I just combed it this morning. What is the matter with you?”
“You don’t have her hair, Susannah. Please, you must do something or else you will feel like a scullery maid.”
Susannah, her hands on her hips, looked straight at her brother. “You come in here and tell me to hurry. Then you tell me to comb my hair. What is going on? Are there visitors?”
“There is a visitor. Rohan said it was his mother, but he was jesting. She can’t be.”
“Whyever not?”
“She’s beyond beautiful, Susannah. Please comb your hair. Do you have any shiny pins to fasten in your hair?”
“No, I don’t.” Nevertheless, she went to the dressing table and began to straighten her hair. She had only brushed it back and tied it with a bow at the nape of her neck. She smiled at Toby in the mirror, then pulled several tendrils to cluster around her ears. “There, is that better?”
He eyed her. “A bit. What about your gown, Susannah? Don’t you have anything that would make you look, maybe, er, whiter in the flesh, and perhaps more, er, soft and—”
He didn’t know the words, bless his eight-year-old heart. But she now realized that there must be a beautiful woman downstairs with Rohan. But surely not his mother. His mother was a grown man’s mother and not a young girl. Wasn’t his mother on the Continent, hadn’t he told her that? Was it a neighbor? A mistress? Even a man who was as debauched as he was reputed to be still wouldn’t bring a mistress to his house, would he? Surely Toby was wrong. Surely the woman wasn’t Rohan’s mother.
“You want me to be more appetizing, perhaps?”
“I suppose,” Toby said with a frown. “But even after I found out what ‘appetizing’ meant, I still always thought of food. I still do.”
She grinned at him and ruffled his hair. “Here,” she said, pinching her cheeks, “is that just a little bit better?”
“Her mouth looks like she’s been eating strawberries.”
Oh, dear.
She had never worn cosmetics. No mother wore cosmetics, at least no mother she’d ever seen. Who was the woman?
“Rohan said you were also to bring Marianne, if she’s not in a temper.”
“All right. Let’s fetch her. Toby, could this woman possibly be his mother?”
He shook his head vigorously. “No, that’s impossible. Ro-han was jesting with me. She’s far too young, Susannah. You’ll see. She looks like his sister, but didn’t his sister die a long time ago?”
“I believe so.”
Could it be his mother, that famous beauty that her husband had adored and Society still adored, who supposedly had more lovers than most ladies had gowns?
Ten minutes later, the three of them stood in the drawing room doorway, Marianne between Susannah and Toby. Since Susannah wasn’t eight years old, she didn’t stand and stare at the lady. But she well understood why Toby had. The lady was beautiful. No wonder Rohan was so handsome. George as well. She wondered briefly about Tibolt the vicar. If he looked like his mother and his brothers, the young ladies in his flock must be vying with each other to attach him.
Susannah gave a tug to her old and well-worn pale blue wool gown, not that it helped.
“Ah, here you are. Do come in and meet my mother, Lady Mountvale. Mother, is this the young lady you saw in your vision? The one who was terrified?”
“Yes,” Lady Mountvale said without hesitation. “This is she. How odd, son, that you would have looked helpless.”
Susannah blinked at Rohan’s mother, then at him. “I don’t understand. What is this?”
“We will speak of it later,” Rohan said.
“And who is this little sweetheart?” Charlotte said suddenly, staring down at Marianne.
“That,” Rohan said with great relish, utter wickedness in his green eyes, “is your granddaughter, Mother. She is George’s daughter. This is Susannah Carrington, George’s widow. Toby is her brother.”
To Rohan’s surprise, his mother went down on her knees in front of Marianne. She made no move to take the little girl into her arms. She just looked into Marianne’s face. Marianne stared back.
“She is the image of George,” Charlotte said. “She is the image of you and me as well. Ah, but she’s got your dear father’s eyes.” She rose, turned to face Rohan, and burst into tears.
“Mother!”
He held her against him, patting her slender back. “Now, Mother, sh
e isn’t that old, just a little girl. She’s very young, really. No one would ever believe that you could be a grandmother.”
Toby said, “Please, ma’am, Rohan’s right. No one would ever believe you were Marianne’s grandmother. You look like her mother, except I’ve never seen a mother as beautiful as you are.” Toby looked suddenly inspired. “I think you look like her older sister, ma’am. Just barely her older sister. Why, Susannah looks like an older mother than you do.”
Lady Mountvale raised her head. She even cried beautifully, Rohan thought. Tears sparkled like diamonds on her thick lashes. What was this? She was laughing through her tears. “Oh, dearest, this is the most wonderful thing. Don’t you see? This means that George wasn’t entirely an aesthete. He did have some hot blood pumping in his veins. Your father and I had lost all hope, for he never paid a bit of attention to any of the young ladies we brought to meet him.
“But George actually begat a child. How I marvel at that! He even brought himself to the sticking point. He married this lovely girl. Ah, it is glorious. And Rohan, don’t you agree that Marianne is the image of him? I am so happy I believe I will have Fitz bring more champagne. Does Toby yet drink champagne?”
“The girl is presentable,” Lady Mountvale said to Rohan, when the two of them were seated companionably in the library late that same evening. “Indeed, if properly dressed, she would be quite taking. I will see to it tomorrow. Ah, must you drink that nasty tea, dearest? What would everyone say were they to see you?”
He’d forgotten. He tended to forget when he was out of London, but he said quickly, “It’s only a temporary aberration, Mother.”