Every man hath a good angel and a bad angel
attending on him in particular, all his life long.
Robert Burton, 1577—1640
Drew hadn’t realized he was shouting until the high-pitched and irate little voice demanded that he stop. He turned toward the door in time to watch a towheaded little hellion race across the studio and launch himself at his legs.
“Mama?” Drew looked from Kathryn to the boy and felt a daggerlike pang in the region of his heart.
“You’re a mother? You’ve had a child?”
Wren recoiled from the accusatory expression in his eyes.
“Don’t you yell at my mama!”
“What the devil? Ouch! He bit me!” Drew shifted his weight from one leg to the other and roared his outrage at Kathryn. “Don’t just stand there! If you’re his mother, exercise some control over him!”
“That’s enough, Kit. Let go.” Wren reached down and gently pried the little boy from around Drew’s legs. She lifted the child into her arms, anchored him on her hip, and looked him squarely in the eye. “What did I tell you about biting?”
“That only bad little boys do it.”
“And are you a bad little boy?”
Kit shook his head. “No.”
“Then, no more biting.” Wren pinned him with her look. “Do you understand?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He punctuated his reply with a solemn nod.
“Show me what a good brave boy you are and tell Drew you’re sorry for biting him.”
“No.”
“Kit…” She spoke his name in a firm motherly tone that left no doubt about her displeasure.
“I’m not sorry.” Kit reached up and touched Wren’s damp cheeks before pointing a finger at Drew. “He was bad. He hurt my mama.”
“No, sweetheart,” Wren said softly. “He’s not a bad man and he didn’t hurt me. He made me sad. That’s all.”
“Master Kit!” A rather plump young woman, who looked to be a few years older than Kathryn, leaned against the doorframe huffing and puffing as she struggled to catch her breath. She looked up and saw Wren and began apologizing. “Oh, madam, I’m so sorry. The young master and I were traversing the garden when we heard the shouting.” She pressed a hand against the bodice of her plain brown dress. “I tried to catch him, but he slipped through the hedge and came running to your rescue. I apologize for allowing him to escape my supervision, but I was unable to squeeze through the hedge. I had to go the long way around…”
“It’s all right, Ally.” Wren turned to the governess. “I’ve got him and no harm’s been done.”
“It’s all right? No harm’s been done?” Drew echoed. “What about the teeth marks on my leg? That little scamp bit me.”
“Miss Allerton, may I make Lord Andrew Ramsey, sixteenth marquess of Templeston, known to you? Lord Templeston, meet Miss Harriet Allerton, younger daughter of Viscount Rushfield, and Kit’s esteemed governess.” Wren successfully diverted Drew’s attention away from Kit by making the necessary introductions.
Politeness demanded that Drew acknowledge them. “Miss Allerton.” He took her hand in his, smiled slowly, and bowed. “A pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise, sir.” Miss Allerton was careful to keep her face impassive and her voice devoid of emotion in a manner fitting to her current station in life.
“I apologize for being the cause of your young charge’s escape.” Drew spoke to Miss Allerton, but his apology was meant for Kathryn. “I didn’t realize I was shouting.”
Wren met his steady gaze. “Apology accepted.”
She turned to the governess and dismissed her. “Thank you, Ally. I’ll return Kit to the nursery in time for his luncheon.” She waited until Miss Allerton left the room before turning her attention back to Kit.
“It’s your turn,” she told him. “Apologize to your brother for biting him.”
“Brother?” They reacted in unison. Drew sucked in a sharp breath as Kit looked up at him and repeated the unfamiliar word, trying it on for size.
“That’s right.” Wren focused her attention on Drew. “Lord Andrew Ramsey, sixteenth marquess of Templeston, meet your brother, Master Christopher George Ramsey.” She ruffled Kit’s baby-soft curls.
“Affectionately known to one and all as Kit.”
Drew would have liked nothing more than to dispute Kathryn’s claim and deny the relationship, but there was no denying the obvious fact that he and young Kit shared a blood bond. Looking at the little boy was like looking in a mirror and seeing himself at that age. Kit was definitely a Ramsey and that meant that George had to be the boy’s father. He was the only man in the world who could be—except Drew himself.
And Drew knew without a doubt that he hadn’t fathered Kathryn Markinson’s son. Unless…
The momentary thought gave him pause. He shook his head. He’d known a few women intimately since his return from Europe and was fairly certain that none of them had made him a father without his knowledge. The courtesans among his acquaintance tended to be quite avaricious and Drew didn’t think that any of them would have missed the opportunity to present him with a bastard bill. Or to present his father with his bastard and demand payment in return.
As far as Drew was concerned, the only issue in question regarding Kit’s parentage was the identity of his mother. Drew stared at Kathryn, daring her to confirm his suspicions. “Then he’s…”
She met his challenge by lifting her chin and looking him squarely in the eye. “Your heir.”
“God’s nightshirt, Kathryn! This isn’t the time for word games. You know very well what I’m asking. I’m not a fool. Nor am I blind. I can bloody well see the family resemblance. And I’m perfectly willing to accept that he’s the new heir presumptive to the title, as well as my ward. I don’t doubt that we’re related.” Drew leaned closer. “I do, however, harbor some doubt as to whether he’s my half-brother or my son.”
“He’s your brother,” Wren told him. “George was his father.”
“How can you be certain?” Drew demanded.
“I am Kit’s mother.” Drew stared at the child and felt a physical pain in the place where his heart had once been. He should have been mine. Kit continued to scowl at him from the safety of his mother’s arms. Drew was tempted to scowl back at him, but he looked to Kathryn instead, silently begging her to take back her words, to convince him that it was a lie. Because while he’d been doing his bit to defeat Napoleon, Kathryn had married Bertrand Stafford. And in the months following the victory at Waterloo, while he kept vigil over his closest friend, desperately trying to nurse his boyhood companion back to health, Kathryn had buried her elderly husband and become the mistress at Swanslea. And sometime since the time of Drew’s return to England with Julian St. Jacque, Kathryn had given birth to Christopher George Ramsey.
He continued to look at her and Wren recognized the doubt in his eyes.
“You’re perfectly willing to believe I was George’s mistress,” Wren said. “Why don’t you believe that Kit is my son?”
Because up until the time I saw Kit and heard him call you his mother, I thought I might have been mistaken about you. Because I wanted you to convince me that you weren’t one of my father’s mistresses. Because even though I know it’s true and even though I know you gave yourself to him, I can’t bear the thought of you lying naked in my father’s arms. Because you should have lain naked in my arms. Because I should have been Kit’s father. Drew touched the left side of his face. The mark of her hand had disappeared, but the memory of it resonated loudly. “Perhaps because you reacted so strongly to my suggestion that you were my father’s mistress.”
“I reacted to your deliberate cruelty and crudity,” Wren informed him. “I reacted to your vulgar turn of phrase. I’ve never had any difficulty accepting the idea that George wanted another child or that he wanted me to be that child’s mother.” She studied Drew’s face, waiting for him to erupt in anger once again, but his emotional outburst had ended as abruptly as i
t had begun.
This time the expression on his handsome face gave nothing away. He appeared to be calm and collected, the epitome of a jaded English lord, mightily bored by the topic of conversation. Wren wondered how long it had taken him to perfect that look, how many hours he had stood before his mirror and practiced it. She envied him that look despite the fact that her heart ached because he’d turned it on her.
“Then I don’t suppose you had any difficulty taking a fifty-four-year-old man as your lover.” His attack was swift and sudden and all the more painful because he uttered the harsh indictment without so much as a flicker of emotion.
“Why should I?” Wren retaliated in kind, struggling to conceal her true feelings as successfully as he concealed his. “I had no difficulty accepting a husband who was much older than that. Besides, George retained his youthful figure, extraordinary vigor, and incredible good looks. He was gentle and patient and—”
“Wealthy and titled?” Drew suggested.
And an older version of you. Wren caught herself before she blurted out the words. “Kind,” she quickly amended. “I was going to say that he was gentle and patient and kind.”
Drew snorted in disbelief. His father had had many attributes, but patience and gentleness hadn’t been among them. “Are we talking about the same man?” he asked. “Because I never thought of my father as any of those things.”
“Perhaps that’s because you knew him differently,” Wren said. “You knew him as your parent, as a judge, and as a peer of the realm. I knew him—”
“In the biblical sense.”
Wren responded to the sneer in his voice. “Tell me, Drew, what bothers you more? The fact that your father gave me a home and a son? Or the fact that he gave me a home and a son after I jilted you?”
Drew shrugged his shoulders. “The fact that he gave you a home at Swanslea.”
“I thought—” Wren stopped and shook her head. “I thought—” She looked up at him and blinked away the tears that threatened to fall. “But I was obviously wrong,” she said. “You’re nothing like your father.”
Drew shrugged his shoulders once again. “I wouldn’t say that,” he replied. “I may not share his other qualities, but I am wealthy and titled.”
“I’m sorry you’ve become so cynical, Drew.”
“Then I’m sure you won’t object to removing yourself from my property as soon as possible.”
Wren set Kit on the ground and took him by the hand. “Not at all,” she said. “If you’ll be kind enough to arrange for someone to help, I can have Kit’s and Miss Allerton’s belongings packed and moved into the cottage by morning.” She had no idea how she was going to fit Kit and Miss Allerton into the cottage—especially since a great deal of the space was taken up with her work and her menagerie, but Wren was determined not to let those details prevent her from moving Kit and Miss Allerton off Drew’s property and onto her own.
“I’ll arrange for someone to assist with your packing and provide transportation for you first thing in the morning,” Drew told her. “But my ward and heir presumptive will remain at Swanslea Park with me.”
Wren recoiled as if he’d struck her. His words sent a shaft of cold fear straight through to her heart. “You can’t separate me from my son.”
“I assure you that it’s well within my power,” he told her.
“The fact that you’d even entertain such an idea is despicable.”
“You may think I’m despicable,” Drew agreed. “But the fact that I’m the marquess of Templeston also makes me your son’s legal guardian. You’d do well to keep that in mind, Kathryn.”
“The fact that you’re his older brother makes you my son’s legal guardian,” Wren corrected him. “But according to the terms of your father’s will, becoming Kit’s legal guardian doesn’t give you the right to evict me from Swanslea or anyplace else or to remove him from my care, unless you’ve become tired of being the marquess and fancy being disinherited.”
Drew couldn’t believe his ears. “What do you know about my father’s will?”
“More than you, apparently. I know George made special provisions for Kit and me. George not only told me about them, he read them to me as he recorded them and he made certain I understood them.” Wren met his gaze. “There’s a copy of his will in the safe in George’s study. I’m sure you know the combination. The provisions in it are quite clear and quite legal. And you’d do well to keep that in mind as you read it, Andrew.” She leaned down to whisper something in Kit’s ear, then led him past Drew and into the cottage’s kitchen.
Chapter Six
It is indeed a desirable thing to be well-descended,
but the glory belongs to our ancestors.
Plutarch, a.d. 46—120
Once a Mistress Page 9