by Heather Boyd
“I wish I did not need to distress you more but the birth was very hard on her. More so than I realized.” Mrs. Hughes glanced down at her hands.
Martin sank onto a chair, horrified that Vivian had died giving birth to another’s offspring.
The housekeeper cleared her throat. “The child thrives. Lord Fallon has done all he can for my mistress but once he saw the babe, he washed his hands. The girl has none of his features. Now that I see you again, I am more certain than ever that she is your daughter.”
It took a moment for Martin to gather his struggling wits to realize the woman believed him to be the child’s father. He put his hands on his head and dug his fingers into his skull as shock swept over him. He’d always feared any child of his would be too large for a woman to bear easily, so in bed he played other sorts of games to avoid pregnancy in his partners. He’d always been careful with Vivian. Or so he’d thought until now.
Given the way she waited silently, Mrs. Hughes wanted an admission from him too. But that was impossible. He’d seen no hint of Vivian’s condition during their last discussion. He could not believe that in her anger, in the volley of spiteful words that had been flung at him during their last meeting, that she could have held that back. Had she believed, hoped, the child belonged to Fallon? “I want to see the babe.”
“Of course, my lord. Let me fetch her.”
While Mrs. Hughes was gone, Martin paced the darkened sitting room. Was it a trick, a scheme to foist a child onto him to raise as his own? He’d certainly heard of it happening before and it always caused a scandal for the men involved, and their families.
He tugged the drawn drapes open, determined not to be tricked into anything. Crying alerted him that the child was drawing close. He faced the doorway as Mrs. Hughes stepped into view, attempting to soothe the babe with soft, ineffectual words.
Wrapped snugly in a black shawl, the child’s red face was the only piece of her visible.
Mrs. Hughes stopped before him. “The child has no name.”
The woman held the bundle out to him and he immediately placed his hands behind his back. He stared at the child with no name and no mother, struggling to see a resemblance to his former mistress. In her distress and agitation, the child wriggled and a lock of dark hair peeked below the shawl. Fallon had been fair, if memory served.
Mrs. Hughes pressed the child against his chest and he had no choice but to capture her. A trickle of sweat ran from his temple. However much he tried not to show it, he was utterly terrified that he would crush her. “She’s heavier than I expected a newborn to be.”
“She was born large. The largest babe I’ve ever beheld.” Mrs. Hughes urged him backward when the child continued to cry. “Perhaps you should sit, my lord.”
Martin sank into the chair gratefully, babe held carefully to his chest. It was a little better to be sitting. Safer for the girl. If she squirmed out of his arms, she would not have far to fall into his lap. He adjusted his grip a little tighter, determined that would not happen.
“Perhaps this way might be easier.” Mrs. Hughes took the crying child back momentarily then placed her lengthways over his knees.
Martin squeezed his thighs tightly together, forming a solid platform for the wailing child to rest upon. He placed one hand on her midsection and, to his relief, she quieted a little. He exhaled. “Is that better?”
Her crying spluttered to hiccups.
He had no experience with children but thought that reaction boded well. “You are wise not to trust me. Not with my track record. A little thing like you would be so easily damaged.” She could almost fit inside his two hands too. He glanced at Mrs. Hughes briefly. “What will be done with her?”
“That is for you to say.” Mrs. Hughes perched on a chair opposite him. “My mistress had no family, as you must know. This little angel is all alone in the world.”
“A bleak picture you paint. We are all alone. Even in a crowded room it is possible to feel lonely.”
“It is not the same circumstances.” Mrs. Hughes sat forward a little. “She will likely go to an orphanage unless I can find a home for her. She’s a pretty child, isn’t she?”
He glanced at the child’s face. Now she was quiet and calm, her skin had changed from a mottled red to soft pink. Rounded cheeks spoke of a healthy child; squat nose; and a pair of murky dark-gray eyes that shifted to his own face when he spoke. He leaned closer, inhaling the scent of a newborn child and looking for traces of Vivian’s features in her appearance.
He nudged the dark shawl away from her face a little bit.
“You might safely unwrap her, my lord. The room is warm enough for the child not to become chilled.”
He did so carefully, noting the child was long rather than wide. Still big for a newborn babe. The housekeeper had dressed her in a fine white muslin smock, embroidered with flowers at the hem, and her tiny legs were curled upward beneath the gown. Her fists clenched and unclenched haphazardly, revealing the tiniest pale fingernails he’d ever seen. He studied them carefully in fascination.
When she squirmed, curling into a tighter ball and yawning, he was spellbound and used two hands to hold her still. There were no certain hints of Vivian in this creature, but was there any of himself? He inspected what he could see of the girl.
Her ears were tiny shells beside her head, perhaps similar to his own in shape but he could not honestly recall the shape of Vivian’s. Her eyes were not the color of his but they were framed by a pair of straight dark brows, rather than the curve of Vivian’s elegant ones. Of course the color of her hair lacked the vibrancy of Vivian’s. Where this child was dark, Vivian had been the color of a bright sunset. And the dramatic widow’s peak Vivian had always accentuated was also absent from the babe’s appearance.
The only reason to suspect the child was Vivian’s was Mrs. Hughes word. “She doesn’t look a bit like the late Mrs. Rose.”
“Not yet. Children change as they age, my lord. Do you not have portraits of yourself at a young age that seem strange when compared to your current face?”
He shifted in his chair as unwelcome remembrances of his childhood flooded him. She was correct. He’d hidden his childhood portraits the minute he’d come into his title. He’d been made to wear decidedly girlish curls as a boy, which was why he kept his dark hair cropped short now.
He carefully turned the child’s head to the side. There at the back, previously hidden by the shawl, the babe’s short hair was crimped with the hint of a wave. He set the child back to rights, disturbed by that observation.
Vivian’s hair had been straight and stubborn. She’d complained of it often enough upon waking in the morning that he remembered her ire all too well.
Which meant the child could be his. He’d been Vivian’s protector nine months ago but it depended on who else had shared her bed. He had believed her to be faithful until she’d revealed her preference for another man. The housekeeper surely would know what Vivian had done behind his back. “What has Lord Fallon to say?”
Mrs. Hughes glanced at the child. “Lord Fallon, of course, knew of the pregnancy early in their arrangement but the child does not resemble him in the slightest.”
He rested his hand again on the child’s middle and earned a half-hearted grumble as his reward. “Did Mrs. Rose have any other gentlemen callers?”
“There was only Lord Fallon, and he doted on her.” Mrs. Hughes swallowed hard. “I’m so sorry to be the bearer of such difficult news. Especially so long since parting ways.”
Even after nine months, he experienced pain at the mention of Lord Fallon replacing him. He’d thought he’d doted on Vivian too and he’d done his best to make her happy.
“I believe I can return the child to bed now.” Mrs. Hughes smiled softly. “You have the touch. She’s fallen asleep.” She took the babe from him before he could deny her, spoke softly to the girl when she whimpered, and slipped from the room.
Martin followed to see where the child was bei
ng taken. He might not be entirely sure of his fatherhood but he did feel the beginnings of obligation. The child was alone in the world, denied her mother’s love.
The door to the chamber beside Vivian’s old room stood open and when he stepped inside, more white lace and frills surrounded him than he’d ever seen here.
“My mistress was looking forward to the birth and I couldn’t bear to change anything to proper mourning, but I will if you insist.” Mrs. Hughes hummed softly as she tucked her charge into the wicker basket, clearly smitten over the lass, and began to rub her softly.
Martin glanced over the housekeeper carefully, considering his options and Mrs. Hughes. He judged her at least fifty, with her white hair and well-rounded figure any child would like to cuddle up to. Although Vivian’s employee, she had a value beyond price. She was here. She would do for the child.
“Leave everything as it is.” He gestured at the tiny shape the woman leaned over. “An orphanage isn’t necessary.”
Mrs. Hughes met his gaze, eyes boring into his. “Will you take responsibility for her upbringing?”
“Yes.” He sighed deeply. His life was about to get a great deal more complicated and that couldn’t be helped. An illegitimate child could be embarrassing for his family so he would have to make plans to remove her from London soon. He truly wished he had known of it before so he might have made better arrangements. “The child is to remain here, under your care for the time being.”
“Mine? Oh no.” Mrs. Hughes shook her head. “I am the housekeeper, not a nursemaid.”
“Appearances to the contrary. You have the touch too.” The babe had fallen fast asleep under Mrs. Hughes’s gentle hands. “And you seem more than capable to care for the child.”
She straightened and met his gaze squarely. “It is not as simple as that. As much as I wish to help you, it is out of the question. I had but a week of service left to my mistress at the time of her death and I have already delayed long enough. You don’t need me. She has a wet-nurse to appease her hunger, but the woman is owed wages already in order to keep her coming back.”
Martin dug into his pocket and considered what coin he had. A wet-nurse often had other responsibilities, didn’t they? A family of her own to feed. He’d pay well to keep the wet-nurse coming back to look after the child. He handed over a generous payment. “I will pay you double your previous wages.”
“Double? Sir, you misunderstand. It is not a question of money but of affection.” Mrs. Hughes skimmed her fingers over the little girl’s cheeks. “She’s a darling girl and I will miss her so much.”
Martin scowled. “Then don’t go.”
“I had forgotten how formidable you could be, but it changes nothing.” Mrs. Hughes straightened her shoulders. “I am sorry to let you down, my lord. I’m letting you both down, but a woman my age doesn’t get too many second chances. You see, I am to be married. My Reginald is a dear man and willing to wait until you’ve found my replacement. But you must be quick about it. I am leaving this place as soon as arrangements can be made.”
He scraped his fingers over his skull. This couldn’t be happening to him. First the mother of his child and now her housekeeper. He glanced down at the cloth-wrapped bundle sleeping in blissful ignorance while he discussed upending her world, and the beginnings of panic crept over him. He could not care for her himself. She had to remain a secret and safe from mishap. Perhaps forever. “If I were not as I am, I would not need you to stay.”
Mrs. Hughes sighed. “There are many good women who could easily take my place as housekeeper. Nothing has to change in the arrangements already made. The house is more than adequate; the staff is loyal and discreet. You must think of your reputation. Your cousin’s reputation is at stake as well.”
He glanced at her sharply. “What do you know of my cousin?”
Mrs. Hughes appeared abashed and glanced down swiftly. “Only that you have one living with you. My mistress took an interest and spoke of her often in respect to her prospects of making a match.”
He’d clearly unburdened himself once too often if Vivian’s servants were aware of his cousin’s dubious chances of making a good marriage. “My cousin’s prospects are the reason no one must ever learn of the child, do you understand?”
“I understand completely. Your secret is safe with me.” Mrs. Hughes stepped back. “I will speak to my Reginald and maybe he could be willing to wait a bit longer.”
Surely the additional funds of her doubled wages would sway him. “I would appreciate that. This situation has caught me unawares.”
“Of course. A man of your reputation must do the right thing, and carefully, to protect the innocent from harm. I always thought you a kind man. I know you will take good care of the little one.”
Martin tucked the blankets a little more snugly around the child’s tiny shoulders. He would never hurt the babe. Not intentionally. When he compared his hands to the child’s size, he had even more incentive to keep a distance. When he glanced up, Mrs. Hughes beamed at him. He jerked his hands back. He should not get too attached to the girl. Once his head ceased to spin from the shock, he’d send her away from London for his own piece of mind.
He groaned under his breath. Juggling one more demand could prove difficult. He didn’t want to think of how his friends would look at him should they learn he’d a bastard child living not one mile from his home. He’d be a laughingstock among the ton and he had no excuse for his carelessness. And as Mrs. Hughes had pointed out, there was Whitney. She had to be kept ignorant too, if that was at all possible. “I’ll visit the Godwin Employment Agency today and see about a replacement housekeeper.”
“That would be for the best.” She fussed with straightening the room then paused at the door. “Should you like me to interview the women they send?”
By rights, he should do that himself. After all, the woman he hired would be responsible for the child, but perhaps Mrs. Hughes would understand what her needs might be where he did not. If he was not present, no one might connect him with the child for some time as well. “I will make arrangements for all interviews to be conducted here.”
“Very good, my lord.” She slipped from the room.
Martin stayed to watch the child sleep for some minutes. A daughter? He couldn’t help but reach out to touch the soft hair on her tiny head even as his hand trembled. It was hard to believe the child could be his but Mrs. Hughes seemed sure, and he could admit to some similarities in appearance to his own.
Why hadn’t Vivian revealed the pregnancy to him? He would have married her and made sure the child had the protection of his name. For the well-being of his own children, he’d have done anything, suffered celibacy for the rest of his days if necessary, so they might have a name.
He touched the curve of her ear gently and she squirmed, her face scrunching up in a delightful picture of sleepy protest. What should he do with her later? Send her to the country for strangers to raise? Allow her to be adopted? He had some understanding of the difficulty finding homes for orphans could bring, through his association with Lord Carrington and his wife. It wasn’t easy to find kind families, good people willing to overlook the circumstances of an irregular birth, but it could be done.
But could he do that to his own flesh and blood and never think of her again?
He lingered one more moment without finding an answer before turning away, heading for the front hall and stepped out onto the street. He didn’t know the first thing about children but if he was to be responsible for one then he’d better learn, and quickly. The first step was finding a competent woman to replace Mrs. Hughes.
And then he’d decide on a name for the child.
Three
The walk from the Marshalsea to Lady Heathcote’s modest home on Conduit Street was a good three miles, and had given Iris ample time to think about her situation. She was in trouble, with few options before her. She didn’t know how to save herself or her father from being sent away. If anyone connected he
r to the recent robberies among the ton, she’d be ruined, imprisoned or transported, and might never see her father again. She sniffed but then lifted her chin, determined not to show her overwhelming emotions on the very street where she’d once lived as a rich man’s daughter, oblivious to the harsh realities of life.
Unfortunately, she sighted Mr. Charles Talbot ahead and a new chill swept over her. Would he never give her a moment’s peace? Would he ever allow her to end their arrangement? He was making himself rich off the misery of others and she feared there’d be no end. In the beginning, he’d suggested her help would be settlement for her father’s debts. In the months that had past, he’d made no further mention of how much longer she had to aid him.
Iris ducked behind a slow-moving carriage to avoid his notice, as she’d been doing every day for the past week on her way home from the Marshalsea, and followed behind it a short distance. She was starting to suspect Talbot followed her and that was extremely unsettling.
Since she knew the area well, as soon as the carriage drew near a particular corner, Iris made a break for it and sprinted the short lane to reach an adjacent street then pretended nothing was amiss.
As she’d been doing for the last year, and especially so since Talbot had threatened her father.
But she couldn’t lie to herself anymore. She was lost. Her future taken away, leaving her to the mercy of others. She would rather choose her life than have it thrust upon her. To live the life her father had raised her for.
She let herself into Esme’s home by the servant’s entrance and hurried up to her room, her chest aching with panic. Tonight was yet another ball. Another opportunity to commit a crime. She checked her appearance in the mirror and saw a windswept woman with blazing cheeks and none of the accomplice. Exactly as Talbot wanted. “How can I do this again and not hate myself for the rest of my life?”
“You are beautiful,” Lady Heathcote murmured a moment later as she slipped into the room with her maid trailing after. “But very late indeed.”