Fitzwilliam knew a dismissal when he heard it. He rose when Dalgliesh did, took his extended hand, and shook it. “You can expect to hear from me in a few days.”
“I appreciate your help,” Alec said cordially. “We all do.”
The coffee remained untouched, but then this wasn’t a social occasion.
After leaving Dalgliesh’s study, Fitzwilliam sought out Fulton before returning to London. He was beckoned into Fulton’s office when he appeared, asked, “Whiskey or brandy?” waved to a chair, and a few moments later, handed a whiskey.
“I’ve never seen a man so inflexible in his resolve,” the barrister said. “So defiant of obstacles.”
“I told you.” Fulton raised his glass in salute and took a seat behind his desk. “The man’s without fear. Whether inborn or learned, he never backs down. Add to that the splendid Miss MacKenzie’s allure,” Fulton murmured with a man-to-man lecherous grin. “Why wouldn’t he be resolved?”
“I’ve seen many beautiful women in my business, but never a man so willfully intent—not to mention indifferent to cost. She must be good. Perhaps the instigator of this divorce as well?” After years of handling rich men’s divorces, he held a personal bias in that regard.
“Actually, no. It’s the earl’s idea. He’s in love.” Fulton made a wry face. “He’s going to present her with a fait accompli, a marriage license, and all his earthly possessions.”
“Which are considerable,” Fitzwilliam said over the rim of his glass before downing half the liquor.
“To put it mildly.”
“Has he proposed in some fashion at least, and if so, has she accepted?”
“I believe so. Not that Dalgliesh much cares once he wants something. He’d have her if she said no.”
The barrister’s brows rose into his sleek auburn hairline. “In this day and age?”
“And with a woman who’s as independent as he, according to his old nanny, who’s a commanding presence in her own right.”
The barrister relaxed in his chair, the subtext suddenly clarified. “That’s why he wants her, of course. Kudos to the lady for playing hard to get. A brilliant move on her part.”
“Not from what I hear. I hear she’s without subterfuge.”
Fitzwilliam offered his colleague an indulgent smile. “When you’ve been in my business as long as I have, you’d understand that no woman is without cunning when it comes to marriage.” The present countess particularly came to mind. “And with a man like Dalgliesh, who can buy and sell a good deal of this country if he wishes, there’s not a woman alive who wouldn’t scheme and plot to become his countess.”
“His new countess.”
Fitzwilliam lifted one brow. “Indeed. And he’s young yet. They may be more. He can afford it.”
“You may be right. Then again you may not be. He’s in deep and I’ve known him a long time. There’s never been a woman he couldn’t walk away from. That’s not the case with this one.”
“I won’t argue the point. But I hear rumors; I pay to hear rumors. People tell me things. His wife will fight this tooth and nail.” Insofar as she can, he reflected.
“He knows that. He knows it better than anyone. He just wants results. That’s why I suggested he talk to you.”
The barrister heaved a small sigh. “In that case, I’d better hie myself back to London and get my clerks working on this. Not that the current countess hasn’t paved the way nicely with her behavior.” The law allowed a husband to divorce his wife for adultery alone; a woman needed additional reasons to sue for divorce. “The countess’s sexual conduct will be her undoing.” He raised his glass, then drained it.
“Good, because the earl wants this divorce yesterday.”
“So I understand. Is there some—er—reason for haste?” the barrister delicately inquired, setting his glass aside.
“None that I know of, but I’m not privy to the details of Dalgliesh’s love life.” Recalling numerous episodes in numerous brothels around the world, Fulton amended, “Let’s just say, I’m no longer privy to the details of his love life. You could ask him, if you like.”
Fitzwilliam smiled faintly. “I don’t think so.”
Fulton shrugged. “He probably wouldn’t answer you even if you did. He’s a private person. Always has been.”
Until he needed a divorce.
Fitzwilliam was familiar with the dilemma, even sympathetic. But there came a time when some pretty female turned some peer’s head, he was called in to extricate the nobleman from his insupportable marriage, and lordly privacy was suddenly worth sacrificing.
CHAPTER 23
AS IT HAPPENED, the next morning, an incident occurred that even more seriously—and noisily—impinged on the earl’s privacy.
Walking to the armoire to select a gown, Zelda was passing by the windows overlooking the parkland when she caught sight of Alec striding toward the woods. She came to a stop. This wasn’t the first time she’d noticed him cross the lawn when he’d said he was going downstairs to the office. Twice before she’d seen him disappear into the forest.
He’d seemed more distracted than usual this morning, and now—another mysterious excursion. Her curiosity piqued, she selected a warm tweed skirt and jacket from her newly improved wardrobe and dressed. Since the household was still asleep at that hour, she used the main staircase, knowing there was little risk of meeting anyone so early in the morning. Only the hall porter came groggily awake as she crossed the entrance hall; she waved him back in his chair. “I’m going for a stroll,” she said. “I won’t be long.”
Standing outside the door, she buttoned her sable coat. The mid-November morning was cool, the lawn white with frost. But the sun had just risen, the pale azure sky clear and bright. She must hurry before Alec’s footprints melted away. Walking down the drive past the west wing, she turned and made her way toward the point in the woodland where she’d lost sight of Alec. His track was visible as she approached it and easily followed.
The forest path was well-worn between the Dower House and whatever lay beyond. Dappled sunlight penetrated the bare branches of the trees, glinted off the few gold, ochre, and burgundy leaves still left on the oak trees, while the pines in Capability Brown’s marshaled landscape scented the air. Zelda fought back a wave of desolation as the familiar fragrance spurred unwelcome memories of home.
Home meant leaving Munro Park and Alec.
Home meant privation and loss.
Home meant the end of the dream.
How easy it was to forget harsh reality when Alec was promising her the moon, when he was tender and loving and infinitely kind. When she was deep in love.
But she knew better; she had from the first. No matter how charming and passionate Alec might be, too many women had preceded her in his affections. None of them for long. On the other hand, no one actually died of unrequited love save in the pages of the penny novels. She’d survive, she bracingly maintained. And at the moment, her life was brimming with happiness. How foolish it would be to indulge in regret beforehand.
Her momentary distress silenced, she continued her course and soon arrived at a pretty green that held a small church, an ancient graveyard, and a parsonage surrounded by the chaste gardens of winter. The house and church were medieval in character, constructed of warm, honey-colored stone, the unadorned design the work of a local mason unacquainted with the ostentatious splendor of the gothic. The church was a private chapel, she suspected, for the Dalgliesh family and its retainers, while the sizable parsonage suggested that the earls of Munro provided generous livings to their clergy.
After following Alec’s tracks to the parsonage door, Zelda came to an abrupt standstill. Dare she barge into a parsonage uninvited? Was some plausible excuse required? Or should she more sensibly return to the Dower House?
If she chose the latter, however, the mystery wouldn’t be solved.
Nor her curiosity assuaged.
Her decision swiftly made, she approached the door, lif
ted the brass knocker, let it drop, and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
Impulsive and nervy she might be, but she wasn’t audacious enough to simply walk into a stranger’s home. Reluctant to leave, yet conscious of the civilities, she hesitated a moment more before surrendering to good manners and turning away.
The door suddenly opened.
Swinging back, she faced a young maidservant staring up at her, wide-eyed and uncertain.
“The vicar and missus . . . ain’t at home.” The girl’s voice was as hesitant as her gaze. “They’re—in the village.” She took a nervous breath. “It’s market day, ye see. Come back anither—”
“I believe Lord Dalgliesh is within,” Zelda interjected, feeling as though pagan magic was at play with the door opening so fortuitously. She smiled to calm the maid’s apprehension and indicated the footprints on the drive. “His lordship’s?” she innocently queried.
“Oh, aye,” the young maidservant said with sudden comprehension. “But he don’t live here,” she added with de facto finality and began shutting the door.
Zelda stuck out her gloved hand to arrest the sweep of the ancient studded door. “Might I see him?” Her tone was infinitely polite and cajoling.
“I don’t know, miss—what with the master—gone from home . . . an’ all,” the maid stammered. “I don’t rightly know—if’n I should . . . let you in.”
The young girl must be a lower servant unused to making decisions, or perhaps she’d been left with succinct orders to admit no one. “I’m sure his lordship wouldn’t mind.” Another friendly smile. “He and I are good friends.”
Not that Zelda didn’t understand what she was doing was shamelessly bold and pushy. Oh, dear. The unnerving thought gave her pause. What if she blundered in on some church business? What if someone other than the vicar and his wife was inside? How awkward would that be—how embarrassing? Would Dalgliesh introduce her as his newest paramour?
Not likely, or perish the thought—what if he did?
Zelda had just decided that perhaps she was being too brazen, that she’d be better served by leaving well enough alone when the maid shrugged and said, “If’n you say you’re friends, miss. This way. He be in the nursery.”
The blood drained from Zelda’s face at the word nursery, her heart beat wildly, and for a tentative moment, she felt faint. But the moment passed, the blood rushed back, her face flushed, and her temper exploded. Damn his miserable lying hide! He didn’t have children, he’d said, he’d never cared about having children, he’d said! Perjurer! Charlatan! Like bloody hell he doesn’t have children!
Her voice came out slightly breathy and high when she spoke. “If you could show me . . . the way . . . to the nursery, I’d be grateful.”
Following the servant up the stairs, then to the back of the house, Zelda had time to regain a modicum of her composure. She cautioned herself not to jump to conclusions; there might be a perfectly reasonable explanation. The children didn’t have to be his. Maybe Alec just liked the vicar’s children. Such sentiments came from her heart, of course. Her intellect was less forgiving. Then why the secrecy? She knew why. A man of Dalgliesh’s reputation was bound to have love children.
And so it appeared a moment later when she was ushered into a large, sun-filled, toy-filled, richly decorated room quite beyond a vicar’s income.
“What else don’t I know?” she coolly said, contemplating the scene before her.
Dalgliesh was seated on the floor, a little girl with dark ringlets in his lap, the book they were reading open in his hand.
“You don’t know much of anything,” he replied, his gaze and voice scrupulously bland. “Rose, will you take Julia to the kitchen and give her some of that warm gingerbread?” Setting the book down, he bent his head, gave the pretty child a kiss on her cheek, whispered something in her ear that made her giggle, and picking her up, came to his feet. He handed her to the maidservant who’d shown Zelda into the room, his smile in place until the door shut on the pair. Then he turned on Zelda, his smile wiped away, his eyes chill. “Who the hell asked you to follow me?”
“How many other children do you have tucked away?” Her gaze was equally frigid. The child’s resemblance was uncanny, the same color hair, eyes, the identical smile.
“I don’t have to answer that.” How dare she invade his privacy, interfere in what was none of her business.
“Yet you want more children! You want me to have your child!” Her outrage rang to the rafters.
“I didn’t hear you refusing.” His voice in contrast was softly mocking. “On the contrary, I believe you said—”
“You bloody bastard!” She bristled at his confident half smile. “It’s not enough that you’re an oversexed profligate, you have a harem, too! How many? How many, damn you! How many women and by-blows have you left in your wake? What’s the record for a filthy-rich libertine who fucks every woman he sees?” Her voice was shrill, piercing, earsplitting.
He was tired. He would have given anything not to be here. And he wasn’t the only one oversexed. “Could you please stop screaming?” he quietly said. “And there’s no record. I’m just doing what I have to do, what I’ve always done. Take care of people.”
Damn him—so smoothly perfidious, so calm and mollifying. “Pardon me if I don’t believe you.” She tried to speak with equal serenity, but her tone was still breathy with hysteria. “Tell me—about Julia—and the others? Where do you keep—them all? South Africa—I suppose ... where else?”
“There’s only Julia. And she’s not mine.” He shifted his stance. He wanted to say, Don’t be silly. Instead, he selfishly thought, Christ, why now? Why not in a week or so when everything wasn’t going to hell in Johannesburg, when he’d have some answers from Fitzwilliam, when his life wasn’t so goddamned complicated.
“I’m supposed to believe you”—she flung her arms wide, the pitch of her voice escalating again—“after seeing this? Does Julia’s mother live here? Am I intruding on your bloody love nest!”
He hated that screeching tone in a woman. Rose was going to wonder what the hell was going on with Zelda yelling the house down. He’d have to explain to John later. If Zelda didn’t matter so much to him—no . . . if he didn’t love her, he wouldn’t have to even think about appeasing her. He’d never appeased a woman before other than in cli-chéd ways that were notoriously false. And now he surely must, for any number of reasons that wouldn’t have mattered a month ago. “I’m so sorry,” he gently said. “Come, let’s go home. I’ll try to explain.” He took her arm.
“Don’t touch me!” She jerked her arm away.
He put his hands up, palms out, took a step back. “I won’t touch you. I won’t get within a yard of you.” His gaze and expression were warily deferential. “Just walk back to the house with me and listen. There’s an explanation. Please?” Jesus, loving someone could be bloody hard. There was something to be said for not giving a damn.
When Zelda finally nodded after what seemed a very long time, he exhaled, then cautiously proposed, “If you’ll give me a minute, I have to say good-bye to Julia. She’s only three and I promised her we’d finish the book today.”
“Oh Christ,” Zelda muttered. A pause. A sigh. Another more lenient sigh. “Go finish your book.”
Recognizing the hint of forbearance in that last sigh, Dalgliesh was encouraged. “I won’t be long. Would you like to come and listen to the story? It’s about a princess,” he added, smiling faintly. “And there’s warm gingerbread in the kitchen.”
“I don’t want to be charmed.” Her gaze held a sea of trouble.
His heart disengaged for a moment. He made a deduction, and it began beating again. “Then I won’t,” he said. “Wait for me.”
Sometime later as they retraced their journey through the woods and Alec finished his explanation, Zelda looked at him with derision. “Do you really expect me to believe that? Tell me again how you didn’t want to screw Violetta b
ut you did anyway.”
Swallowing a sigh, he spoke with utmost courtesy. “As I said, my mother had been on the verge of death for days. I hadn’t slept the entire time. When the doctor said the worst was over, that Mother would live, Creiggy talked me into lying down for an hour. She promised to wake me. I didn’t know who crawled into my bed or why or cared.”
“But you screwed whomever it was anyway.”
“I didn’t know what I was doing. I was dead to the world.”
“But your cock still worked as usual and Violetta took advantage of you. Pardon me if I find that incomprehensible,” Zelda said, crabbed and acerbic.
“Believe it or not, it’s true. When the doctors told us that Mother wasn’t going to die after all, Violetta panicked. She was already pregnant. She had to do something to remedy her situation.”
“And you were the something.”
“A very convenient something right next door to my father. From that point on, it didn’t matter to me whether she was in my bed or not. I knew I wouldn’t be able to return to Johannesburg. Mother would require care for the rest of her life. Not to mention Chris had been vital to Mother’s recovery. She’d come to love him when Violetta, presenting herself in friendship, had been visiting every day. Mother responded to Chris’s voice even in her coma. When Violetta informed me that she was pregnant a few weeks later, I briefly questioned her statement because I was always careful not to take such risks, but there was that time when I was more asleep than awake, so”—his voice took on the equivalent of a shrug—“since I was more or less confined to England, it didn’t seem a huge sacrifice to marry her. Mother adored Chris. I’d known Violetta before she’d married Joe Clarke. She’d always been friendly.”
Zelda gave him a waspish look. “Your kind of friendly.”
“Every man’s kind of friendly,” he brusquely said.
Her gaze was guarded now, examining. “So you did all this for your mother?”
He nodded. “Mother needed me. She also needed Chris, and a baby would bring her enormous happiness. And I knew I’d have to marry someday anyway. What I didn’t know was that I was being cheated.” He softly sighed. “My father gleefully informed me the night of my wedding that he was the father of Violetta’s child. I was unprepared, of course, shocked, stunned, dumbfounded. I’ll kill him, I thought. I probably did in the end. We came to blows. We often had in the past, but I wasn’t an adolescent anymore, and six additional years of drinking hadn’t improved his health. He collapsed while we were struggling over a shotgun he’d grabbed from his gun cabinet.
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