by Jaycee Clark
“What the devil do you mean?” her grandfather demanded, pacing to the windows.
She tried to smile and knew she failed miserably. “The two were much alike, my lord, and had rather low views of women.”
Her shoulder still throbbed and exhaustion was pulling. Absently, she rolled it, wincing at the tight constant ache.
“What did you mean? Can no one just speak one’s mind anymore?” her grandfather barked.
There was no way she could answer his question. She wasn’t ready for that yet. Not yet.
Emily rubbed her forehead.
“You’re pale, dear, are you feeling all right?”
She thought about lying, but decided she’d told enough deep dark secrets for one evening. Smiling slightly, she looked at her grandmother and said, “’Tis the truth, this has been a long day. I was ill after a carriage accident on the way here, or I’d have been in London weeks ago.”
“Carriage accident?” her grandfather and uncle asked at the same time. “What carriage accident?”
Not more explanations. She decided on a shortened version. “We were held up. But I’m all right now.”
“Well, you don’t look just the thing, dear.” Her grandmother stood and walked over to her in a swish of skirts, wiping her eyes again and clearing her throat. “Rayne, be a dear and have tea sent up to Emily’s room. Come along. I think you need some rest. It’s been a long day for all of us. We can talk more later.”
Emily looked around the room and felt a twinge of guilt for hiding, but she really wasn’t feeling well.
At the door, her grandfather’s voice stopped her. “Emily.”
She turned. “Yes, my lord?”
He shook his head. “Stop ‘my lording’ me. I’m your grandfather. My grandchildren call me Grandpapa.”
She smiled. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
Later that evening as she drifted off to sleep, she wondered again where her mother was and what she felt about being here with family.
Home. Her grandmother had welcomed her home.
She didn’t really know anything about home, but at least she felt safe. Safe. The word reminded her of someone else, brought a face to mind, and a smile to her lips.
You’re safe here.
Perhaps she would see Ravensworth again.
Chapter Five
Ravensworth tended to endear people with thoughts of either respect and awe, or dislike and fear. All knew he stood at the edge of society, but all knew he was entirely too wealthy and powerful to ignore or slight. Those perceptions got him where he was financially and socially more than his title, in and of itself, ever could.
None of that was of consequence in his present situation. Now he wondered what the hell to do.
He stared across the carriage space to the small occupant. For the last two days he’d been with his daughter. The idea that she might not be his had fluttered more than once through his mind, but the more he studied her, the more he saw. The child had either his or her mother’s dark locks, her mother’s black eyes and complexion, but the features, the shapes were his. And she had a small discoloration in the inside of her right arm, no bigger than a fingernail. The mark was one that his sister had as well.
Joy was a Claymere.
Children were, in a large part, a very large part, a complete anomaly to him. He had no nieces or nephews and only a younger sister. He’d never been around children.
It was nearing dusk and he knew they’d be home within half an hour.
Thank God.
His daughter hadn’t stopped jabbering since he’d met her. Were all two-year-olds this loud? She’d cried several times for her mother, but he’d tried to distract her. He had no, absolutely no, idea how to deal with her, let alone the issue of her ‘mum’.
“Horty, horty, horty,” she chanted yet again in a singsong voice as she played with the lace on her dress.
At least she liked horses. Maybe he’d get her a pony. Was that appropriate? He needed to inform his mother and sister of his offspring. They could undoubtedly shed some light on the issue. Or maybe even Mrs. Smith knew. Mrs. Smith had been on his mind several times in the last couple of days. Perhaps she could help him with his current dilemma. His daughter would need a nanny. Mayhap, Mrs. Smith would be interested. He heaved a heavy sigh that captured his daughter’s bouncing attention.
Big, round, dark eyes looked at him, framed by long black lashes. Then a smile dimpled her cherub cheeks. Black hair curled gently around her face. The child was beautiful, that was easy to see. He still had no idea what to make of her.
“Horty?” she asked. “I wanna tee horty.”
“Tomorrow, little one.” At least he’d learned to decipher some of her language.
She clamored off the seat and climbed up his legs. He wasn’t used to this. She sat on her knees on his lap. And commenced to tell him some sort of fascinating story. He understood very little. Something about horses and babbits. Babbits?
“Rabbits?” he asked.
She giggled and nodded, her fat little hands slapping the sides of his face. “Babbits, babbits…”
And there she went into another monologue of childhood babble. He watched her face, the way her eyes lit up and her nose scrunched.
She stopped and sighed, a small frown appearing. “Mum? I wand Mum. Mum.”
Jason sighed, tightening his hold on her ever so gently, lest he hurt her. “Your mother is a very special person.”
“Mum?” Her lip trembled.
Please don’t let her cry.
“I wand Mum. Mum. Mum!” she started crying. Big tears gathered and trailed down her reddening face. “MUM!”
He pulled her close and rocked her. Did one rock crying children? Seemed the thing to do.
“Shhh, Poppet. Shhhh. T’will be all right. T’will be all right. Papa is here. I’m here.”
She cried and cried wetting his cheek, cravat, neck, coat, and finally, when he wasn’t certain if he could take anymore, she quieted. A hiccough jerked her small frame. He pulled her back, reaching into his pocket for his linen kerchief. Slowly he wiped her tear stained cheeks.
“We’ll make a go of this, won’t we, Poppet? Though, I have to be honest. I have no idea what little angels such as you prefer, or even do for that matter. This will be an interesting adventure to say the very least.”
Her eyes held all the innocence of the world. She reached up and touched his nose, his cheek. It was something she had done before, though he didn’t understand it. At first, it had taken him aback. Now… Well, now, he’d let her do whatever kept her quiet.
A small warm hand came up and rested against his scarred cheek. “Petty. Petty. ‘‘Tiss.” She leaned up and kissed his cheek.
Something, in that moment, in that action, locked in place within him and he knew there was no way he was going to foster his daughter off on someone else to raise. Others might let another raise their bastard offspring, but he was not. But he didn’t want to just claim her as his ward either. For if later the truth was discovered, there would be more damage than not.
Damn whatever came. Joy was his. She was a Claymere and he meant to see that she got everything she deserved. Scandals could fly to the wind. And society could write this off as just one more Claymere eccentricity.
Smiling at her, he kissed her cheek in turn and brushed her hair back from her face.
“You think me pretty do you? Well, I can live with that.”
She hiccoughed again and laid her head on his shoulder, her chubby arm wrapping around his neck. Her soft curls tickled his cheek and he couldn’t resist rubbing against them, breathing deeply the scent of innocence.
Abruptly, she leaned back. “Hungee. Bite?”
Again?
“You’ve eaten both apples, all the cheese and bread.” How could one so very small eat so much? “We’ll be home in a bit. Then you may have whatever you want.”
“Home?” Her big eyes widened and a smile brightened her fac
e. “I wanda go home. Mum? Home?”
Jason sighed and waited as she began to chatter again, squirming on his lap.
It seemed the last few miles were an eternity, but finally, he saw the glitter of lit windows through the crouching darkness.
Thank God. About bloody time.
The carriage pulled to a stop and he’d barely alighted before Joy hurled herself at him. He managed to catch her.
“Mum? Mum! Mum!” She looked around, her face scrunched. “Home?” she asked him then shook her head and pointed to the carriage.
No simple-minded child was she. She came from home in that thing and apparently wanted to go back the same way.
“Mum! Mum! Mum!”
God’s bones. His hearing would never be the same. “Come, Joy.” He started forward and tightened his grip on her when she twisted and squirmed hard against him.
“MUM!”
The door opened and for the second time in a month, his stalwart butler stood speechless. Only a slight widening of his gray eyes and one lengthened blink gave him away. As Jason stepped over the threshold, his daughter crying and screaming in his ear, Grims, his mask firmly in place, only said, “That is a child, my lord.”
Jason stumbled, and gasped, pulling Joy back a bit from him. “By Jove, you’re right. Did you hear that, poppet? You’re a child! I had begun to wonder. Grims here is very smart you see,” he whispered, keeping his voice calm, glad that he’d momentarily stopped the crying jag. “Why, I dare say he can find you a place to sleep in no time. And perhaps even a doll to play with.”
Grims said something to a waiting footman and then turned back to him. Jason simply asked, still keeping his voice calm lest the child start in another round of crying, “And perhaps we can have a bath, and then something to eat?” She nodded. “Good.” His gaze lifted to Grims. “Where is Mrs. Smith?”
A woman, a woman would surely know what to do with his daughter. Bathing and bed time. Though his daughter fascinated him, the last two nights had taught him he was ill-equipped for such domesticities.
“Gone, my lord.”
“Gone?” He hadn’t meant to shout.
Joy immediately let loose a loud, ear-splitting wail. “Mum! Mum!”
“What do you mean gone?”
Grims cleared his throat. “As in, she is no longer in residence here.”
“I know what the bloody hell it means.”
“Your pardon, my lord.”
Joy’s cries were slicing a headache deep into his brain.
“I will talk to you later,” he bit out to his butler and took the stairs two at a time.
The nursery would have toys, and toys would hopefully keep Joy happy, or at least distracted.
Mrs. Smith gone? Gone? What the blazes was he to do now?
* * * * *
Lord Ravensworth,
I regret the inability to bid you a proper farewell, but felt it prudent to make my departure.
Oh, he just bet she did. While he could do very little in halting the situation.
I want to thank you for all you’ve done for me. There is really no way to repay you saving my life. I can however attempt to make some compensation for your kindness, generosity, and hospitality. I’ve left some coins in hopes that they begin to repay you for at least the use of your sister’s mourning wardrobe. However, since you were not here, I wasn’t certain of the exact price. I took the black crepe gown and another black silk gown. Mrs. Meddows would know of which I took as I showed her, along with the other necessities. I also took the black cloak and a veiled bonnet as my own cloak was ruined, or so Mrs. Meddows told me.
Perhaps I will see you in London? Once I’ve found my family and am settled, I will send word to you. Then you must let me know what I owe you for the garments and anything else you feel needs compensation.
Jason glared at the words and the open bundle of coins on his desk. He’d never felt as insulted as he did at that moment. His kindness, generosity, and hospitality? She was paying for these?
He took a deep calming breath and finished the letter.
Again, I apologize for my abrupt departure, as I’m sure it must seem to you. But my family is my own, and though I appreciate your offer to help me locate them, I felt I’d imposed enough. My time at your beautiful estate is one that I shall always cherish.
I shall not forget I’m in your debt.
Emily
Emily.
Not Mrs. Smith.
In his debt? The thought made him smile. Oh, that she was. The nonsense about the hurried departure and his hospitality, gowns and whatnot, he waved it all aside. It was the ending that seemed the most important of all.
Cherished her time with him, had she? Well, most of his acquaintances coveted an invite to this estate. But it was his private retreat, and he didn’t care for parties here at Ravenscrest Abbey. Few had been here, at least since he’d become Marquess of Ravensworth.
London?
The enormity of it again set heavy in his stomach. What if her relatives were elsewhere? Or what if—for whatever reason—they did not take her in? What if she’d met with trouble again?
Jason had the feeling that where Mrs. Emily Smith was concerned, trouble often followed.
He stood abruptly and paced to his window. She should have stayed. He would have seen her safely to her relatives and if some problem arose, he would have circumvented it. Besides the fact, the woman had just been shot. Shot for the love of God, not more than two weeks before. What did she think she was about, traveling alone to London? Was the woman an idiot?
An image of her, sitting prim and proper, her wrapper belted tightly, flashed in his mind. The way the fire and candlelight had danced in her burnished hair, her dark brown eyes soulful, full of secrets. The way she would tilt her head ever so slightly to the…
Bloody hell. Emily—Mrs. Smith seemed to be intruding on his thoughts all too often lately. She played on his mind, more than he cared to admit.
Perhaps it was because he was looking for a wife. Never mind he’d sworn off widows for all good reason. And who was to say she was a proper sort of wife in any case?
Darkness stretched over his lawns, the moon not yet out, and nothing below offered him answers.
The proper sort of wife would be… He honestly had no idea.
What type of wife did he want?
An honest one, that was a must. After Widow Duprie betrayed him, resulting in a friend’s death, he required honesty and loyalty above all others. He’d like her to be passably attractive, not breathtaking so that he must protect her from other men. That would be a damn nuisance. But pretty would be nice. The image of Emily smiling danced through his mind.
He shook his head. Wants and needs were often at odds.
He had a responsibility now and whether or not he had wanted a wife this soon, he now needed one. And there was also the addition of how the woman dealt with children.
Joy.
He’d already sent a missive to his man of affairs in London. The importance of quickly legitimizing his daughter was utmost in his mind. Had to be. Family came first.
Thank God, she was a girl. If Joy had been a boy, the story would unfortunately be different. Well, probably different. He didn’t know. Bastards inheriting vast peerage estates were frowned upon, regardless of legal papers claiming otherwise. A daughter would, undoubtedly, raise eyebrows and cause tongues to sharpen. Marriage in the not too distant future and a settled family would make many overlook his daughter’s parentage, swept away by the time Joy would make her appearance in society years from now. And he was wealthy and powerful enough to pull it off.
Marriage.
A good solid respectable marriage. There would be enough of a scandal with Joy, no need to add more to it by marrying an unsuitable wife, or a dishonest one.
Perhaps in a week or so, once Joy was used to him, he’d take her to London. The child needed a proper wardrobe in any case, and whatever else children tended to acquire.
It w
ouldn’t hurt to go about in society and see what sort would suit as the proper sort of marchioness. No need to offer for anyone right off. He could simply dance with a woman, talk with her, perhaps a walk in the park.
Suitable. Why did that feel so bloody boring? He’d had enough excitement in his life to last multiple lifetimes. Suitable was proper.
He frowned, the idea held little appeal to him, but life was full of responsibilities that one did not always cherish.
Jason unbuttoned his shirt, shrugging out of it. His gaze landed on the letter with strong bold handwriting.
Mrs. Emily Smith.
Emmaline. Emily.
It hardly mattered. He’d just have to get the woman out of his mind. Wherever she was. The shirt balled within his fist. He needed a wife, not some entanglement with a mysterious widow. Little twit. How dare she just up and leave without a by-your-leave.
And why was she so very secretive? Emily had answered some of his questions, and others acted as if he’d never asked anything at all. For some odd reason, he wanted to know more about her. He still wondered who Mary was. Mrs. Smith wore mystery like other women wore diamonds. Diamonds he could purchase easily enough. With time, he’d find out all he needed to know about secrets.
Including exactly where his wayward patient resided in London.
And here he’d offered her a safe haven and would have offered her a job as Joy’s nanny. Little twit.
Sighing, he sat on his bed. He’d bathed earlier and had merely pulled on a pair of breeches and a shirt. Rubbing his face, he thought of what the morrow would entail.
He stood, about to undress completely when a faint rustle against his door stopped him.
He listened.
Yes, there it was again, a slight scratch. Jason strode to the door and jerked it open. A blur darted past his knees. Joy stood in his room, looking one way and then the other, her thumb firmly in her mouth.