by D. M. Quincy
“I am. And of late, he is in possession of enough coin to visit me regularly.”
“I see.” A wave of disgust washed over him. “You regularly service both father and son?”
“Yes—not together of course. At least not after that first time.”
He felt ill. “The first time?”
“Vessey brought his son here for his first initiation into carnal delights. He desired that I make a man of the boy.”
Atlas was aghast. That bastard had brought Phoebe’s son to a prostitute. “How old was the boy when this occurred?”
“I believe he was fourteen. Such a lovely boy. And he has grown into a most considerate lover.”
Atlas grimaced at this violation of Nicholas’s privacy. “You continue to see Vessey’s son?”
“He began visiting again recently. He apparently came into a great deal of money.”
“Did Nicholas tell you where the money came from?”
Her forehead wrinkled. “Nicholas who?”
“Vessey’s son.” At the confused expression on her face, he added, “Perhaps you know him as Beaumont—Viscount Beaumont.”
“Oh no.” Her eyes crinkled. “I am not referring to the heir. Lord Vessey brought his oldest son to me.”
“The heir, Beaumont, is his oldest son. His only son.”
“No, he has an older boy, by two years. His name is Francis. He is another of Vessey’s by-blows.”
Atlas’s mouth fell open. “Are you certain?”
“I am more than certain,” she said crisply. “After all, I have bedded Francis on a number of occasions. Often enough to hear him sing his father’s praises. I am not surprised that you have not heard of him. Vessey kept the young man’s existence a secret until quite recently.”
“Why would Vessey keep this Francis a secret? After all, he has two young daughters with Mrs. Pike that everyone seems to know about.”
She shrugged. “You will have to ask his lordship.”
Atlas digested this new information. “Do you happen to know who Francis’s mother is?”
Edith looked at him as if he were a simpleton. “Why, it was Mrs. Pike, of course.”
CHAPTER 10
Atlas directed the hackney driver to drop him several blocks from his Bond Street quarters so that he might complete the remainder the journey on foot.
He needed to settle his mind and arrange his thoughts into some semblance of order. They were both a jumbled mess after Edith Hayes’s shocking revelation.
Vessey had another son. A young man older than Nicholas. Had his sister known about her husband’s bastard? It was not uncommon for married aristocrats to keep a chère-amie, but the ways of the ton would have been alien to his innocent sister. At times, being among the aristocracy was as stupefying as trying to decipher one of Thea’s infernal mathematical calculations.
He crossed Brook Street, attempting to sidestep the worst of the mire. Gulping in a lungful of air did little to ease the tightness in his chest. Thinking of his late sister was always painful. Still. After all of these years. As he turned onto New Bond Street, a voice called out from behind.
“Mr. Catesby!”
Atlas turned to find Samuel Brown in his dark clergy clothing rushing toward him with an umbrella hoisted above his head. That’s when Atlas realized his own hair was damp. He’d been so consumed with his thoughts that he’d taken no notice of the light rain.
“Good day to you, sir,” the clergyman said as he drew near.
Atlas tipped his hat. “Mr. Brown.”
“I was just on my way to your apartments. Your manservant asked that I call. Dare I hope you have found proof of Vessey’s guilt?”
“Not as of yet.” He belatedly opened his umbrella to shield himself from the elements. “I am hoping you will clarify a few matters for me.”
“Of course.” The younger man fell in step beside Atlas, who imagined they made an interesting sight—two men of approximate height, in dark clothing, walking side by side with matching black umbrellas over their heads. “What is it you would like to know?”
“Mrs. Pike’s sister confirms your story.”
The clergyman lifted his brows. “She does?”
“You seem surprised.”
“I thought our betrothal was our own private secret. I was not aware that Wendela had shared our happy news with anyone.”
“Except Vessey.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You said you believed Vessey knew. That he had Mrs. Pike killed because she told him she was leaving him for you.”
“Exactly right. And I hope you will soon prove that to be the case.”
“You mentioned that you had been presented with a living that would take you away from Town.”
“Indeed. In East Anglia. Wendela was going to accompany me there after we wed.”
This was the part of Brown’s story that puzzled Atlas the most. It diverged significantly from what others had told him of Wendy’s plans for her future. “I have it on good authority that Mrs. Pike intended to take up a singing career.”
Brown stiffened. “Where did you hear that horrendous lie?”
“From the manager at Covent Garden. He said Mrs. Pike was extraordinarily talented and that he was prepared to pay her handsomely to perform at his venue.”
Brown halted and faced Atlas, his expression partially obscured by the rain dripping from the edge of his umbrella. “Simon Cooke is a liar. He wanted Wendela for himself.”
Atlas wondered if that was true. Or whether Brown assumed all men found Wendy to be as enchanting as Brown himself had. “It sounds as if there are plenty of men who felt the same.”
“Despite her association with Vessey, Wendela was a respectable woman,” Brown said stiffly. “Taking to the stage is not a respectable vocation for a woman. She would never have countenanced it.”
“Are you certain about that?”
“Absolutely.” He firmed his mouth. “I would stake my very life on it.”
“I confess there is something else that has been puzzling me. Mrs. Pike was known to be a devoted mother. Why would she leave her children?”
“The two young girls are away at school, so Wendela saw little of them.”
Atlas knew that much was true given that Jamie had looked into the matter. “What of the oldest? The boy called Francis.”
Brown’s eyes widened. “Ah, so you know about the young man.”
“Is he a secret?”
“For most of his life, yes, he has been.”
“Why? Vessey has not been discreet about the young daughters he had by Mrs. Pike.”
“Vessey initially viewed Francis’s birth as a mistake, an embarrassment to his name. At the time, Vessey expected his arrangement with Wendela to end after a year or so, once he tired of her.”
“Which”—heat flared in the back of Atlas’s neck—“he apparently never did.”
“Precisely. And then, several years after his wife died, once it became clear to Vessey that he would never remarry, he gave in to Wendela’s desire to have more children.”
“That certainly explains why the daughters are so young despite the fact that their parents had conducted a liaison for many years before they were born.”
Brown nodded. “Up until then, Francis had been mostly hidden away at private boarding schools, perfectly respectable establishments, you understand, but certainly not up to the standard of Eton or Harrow. Vessey did not care to risk the ton finding out about his by-blow.”
“Did he allow Francis to come home to visit?”
“Vessey took a house near Francis’s school, which is where he and Wendela would spend time with the boy on school holidays.”
“And now?”
“After the daughters were born, Wendela convinced Vessey to allow Francis to come home to Stonebrook on holidays. For the most part, Vessey has remained discreet about Francis’s existence. Although he did eventually move the boy to Eton. However, the boy was directed to be circumspec
t about who his father was. And just recently Vessey allowed the boy to come to London and move about in society.”
“How recently?”
“Within the last year or so.”
“What is Francis Pike like? Are you acquainted with him?”
“Oh yes, I met him at Stonebrook. A most amiable young man, even if he is overly concerned with his consequence. He can be a bit prideful, but who among us is perfect?”
“What do you know of Francis Pike’s relationship with his mother?”
“Francis was very protective of Wendela and her reputation. And it is a mutual admiration society between Francis and Vessey. According to Wendela, Vessey used to say it was a shame that Francis was not his heir because the young man is clever enough and strong enough to do what needs to be done.”
Atlas bristled at this affront to his nephew. “What of Nicholas, his actual heir?”
“Vessey’s fond of the boy, of course, but says Beaumont is soft, a quality Vessey used to say came from the mother’s side of the family.”
Atlas hoped that much was true, that Nicholas did indeed take after his mother and not his whoreson of a father. “Do you have any idea where I might find Francis Pike?”
“At the moment? I cannot say. However, on Monday evenings you are very likely to find young Francis at The Rising Sun in Knightsbridge.”
“And what sort of establishment is that?”
“A tavern. But more importantly, it is where lottery members meet.”
“Francis Pike belongs to the Lottery Club?”
“Wendela often lamented about her eldest son’s fondness for gaming. Francis has a taste for the finer things in life, but unfortunately for him, Vessey is as tightfisted as they come. Wendela said Francis was determined to gain a sizable lottery prize in order to live in the high style to which he would very much like to become accustomed.”
Atlas thanked the clergyman for taking the time to come to see him. “I suppose I am for The Rising Sun come Monday.”
* * *
Atlas entered the tea garden the following afternoon, scanning the arbors and flowered walkways for any sign of Lilliana.
By some miracle, the sun had appeared that morning, allowing Atlas to walk to Somerville House and then to the tea garden in search of Lilliana and the boys. He proceeded through the spacious gardens until he reached the bowling green, where he found Lilliana seated under the shade of a fruit tree.
“Mr. Catesby!” Peter, the older of the two boys, came running over from the bowling green the moment he spotted Atlas. “Look who is here, Mama!”
“Hello, Atlas.” Lilliana greeted him from her seat at the table. She was a welcome sight in her lemon-colored dress with billowing sleeves and a matching hat topped by a feathery flourish. “This is a surprise.”
“I do hope I am not intruding.” He bowed to her. “I called at Somerville House and Hastings informed me that I would find you here.”
“Will you come and bowl with us?” Peter asked. “Our rink is just over there.” He was dark-haired and slimly built, like his mother, while seven-year-old Robin possessed his late father’s lighter coloring and sturdy body.
Robin ran up behind his brother and slipped his small hand into Atlas’s. The boys wore matching gray outfits, jackets and trousers designed in a military style. Their clothing was slightly askew from their play, and they smelled of exertion. “Do you bowl on the green as well as you bowl hoops?” Robin asked. Atlas had taught the boys how to bowl hoops when they’d first met.
“Yes, do tell,” Lilliana said. “Do you play at bowls, Mr. Catesby?”
“One cannot grow up in a household with three older brothers without becoming at least somewhat proficient in sport.”
Robin tugged on Atlas’s hand. “Come and play with us.”
“Perhaps for just a few minutes.” Atlas found it difficult to deny Lilliana’s boys.
“Just until the tea arrives,” Lilliana instructed her children. “After that, you must play on your own while Mr. Catesby and I have our visit.”
The boys were already dragging him away before their mother finished speaking. Atlas and the boys took their positions on their rink to begin their game. Around them were several other parties bowling on the green, each playing on its own divided portion.
Atlas and the children took turns launching a series of heavy balls toward a smaller ball called the jack. They played for about twenty minutes, with Atlas stopping each boy at intervals to help correct his form.
Lilliana watched from the shade, applauding enthusiastically when either of the boys threw well. Atlas always marveled at the marked change in Lilliana whenever she was in the presence of her children. Her natural reserve fell away, and she laughed more easily, her deep maternal affection for her sons apparent in every look she gave them.
She signaled to Atlas once the refreshments arrived, and he left the boys playing on the green to rejoin their mother in the shade of the fruit tree.
“You ordered lemonade,” he noted gratefully when he took his seat.
“I thought you might be in need of fortification.”
Flushed from his exertions, he drank and took a moment to appreciate the rare beautiful day and the pleasure of being in Lilliana’s company. It was one of those singular moments in life, brief and unanticipated, that is unexpectedly perfect.
“How goes the investigation?” she asked.
He told her what he’d learned from Wendy’s sister.
“That suggests the clergyman is telling the truth about Mrs. Pike’s intention to leave Lord Vessey.”
“So it appears.”
“Which gives Vessey a motive,” she noted. “The jealousy and humiliation of being jilted in favor of a penniless, untitled nobody might very well drive a gentleman such as Lord Vessey to murder.”
He reached for a small mince pie. “It is certainly one of many avenues to explore—I scarcely know where to begin.”
“I gather you’ve spoken with your friend, Mrs. Jennings.”
“I did.” He did not miss the acidity in her tone at the mention of Juliet. “She says she and Mrs. Pike fought over a man, a Russian diplomat who left the country and returned home months ago.”
“Do you believe her?”
“I plan to check her story.” He bit into the pie, appreciating the mix of flavors—meat, fruit, sugar, cloves, and other spices, with an added dash of brandy. “The man’s name is Mr. Aleksey Witte.”
“I have become acquainted with some Russian diplomats here in London,” Lilliana said. “But I do not recall meeting a Mr. Witte. Shall I inquire into it?”
“That would be most helpful. In the meantime, I shall explore some other possibilities that have recently opened up.”
“Such as?”
“I intend to speak with Vessey’s oldest son that he had by Mrs. Pike.”
“I thought all of Mrs. Pike’s children quite young and away at school.”
“Not the eldest, who happens to be two years older than Nicholas. Vessey apparently kept the boy a secret from society, but now Francis Pike is grown and has come to London.”
“Oh. I see.” She studied his expression. “That must have come as a shock.”
“It rather was. The existence of young Francis confirms that the ties between Vessey and Mrs. Pike both before and during his marriage to my sister were even stronger than I previously thought.”
“They shared a child. There are few bonds more consequential than that.” Something tender touched her fine eyes. “This must be painful for you.”
“It certainly revives certain memories that I would prefer not to revisit. But it also provides me with an opportunity to right a wrong that was done twenty years ago.”
“I understand your desire to bring Lord Vessey to justice, but what if he is not guilty?”
“Given what Mrs. Pike’s sister said, it is beginning to appear rather likely that Vessey is the guilty party. But I will continue to pursue all possibilities. “
“What other possibilities are there?”
Atlas took another bite of mince pie, chewing slowly to give himself time to formulate a sufficiently discreet answer. “Mrs. Pike was friendly with the companion of another peer here in town, a Mrs. Walker. This woman’s protector appealed to Vessey to settle an annuity on Mrs. Pike.”
“That was rather decent of him.” She spoke over the rim of her teacup. “Who is this lord?”
He hesitated before deciding to be completely truthful with her. He knew she would expect nothing less. Besides, the baser part of him took pleasure in bringing Lilliana’s former admirer down a notch or two in her esteem. “Lord Roxbury.”
Her eyes rounded. “Are you jesting?”
“I am not.”
She appeared to ponder the revelation. “Well,” she said after a moment, “that certainly confirms what I have always believed about Roxbury’s character.”
“Is that why you broke with him?” It surprised Atlas to hear she might have suspected Roxbury of less than honorable behavior. “You detected he was not as respectable as he appeared?”
“Quite the contrary.” She looked at Atlas as if he’d spoken to her in Turkish. “I have always believed Roxbury to be a good man. The sole reason I rejected his offer of marriage is because I did not feel the sort of warmth for him that a woman should have for her husband.”
“A good man?” Perhaps Lilliana expected a husband to keep a mistress. Maybe her own father had. “Are you referring to Roxbury?”
“Naturally.”
He wrinkled his nose. “The man kept a … special companion … while he pursued you to be his wife.”
“Yes, but more importantly, Roxbury spoke to Lord Vessey on Mrs. Pike’s behalf even though he had nothing to gain from it. He came to the assistance of a helpless woman of questionable reputation. He acted with honor.”
Atlas swallowed the last of his pie, which gave him an excuse to say nothing.
She gave him a wondering look. “My goodness. It is almost as if you are jealous.” He registered her delight at the realization.
“Nonsense,” he lied, busying himself with selecting a small, round egg custard artfully garnished with lemon zest.
“No?” She sat back in her chair, a satisfied smile wreathing her face. “Then you will not mind if I invite Roxbury to join me at the theater this evening.”