Something wasn’t right. Will knew it even before he spoke another word.
Barbara was the daughter of the Earl of Greenley, the granddaughter of another earl on her mother’s side. What awful circumstance had her living in a ramshackle cottage? Looking as if she were a common servant?
And already married!
The questions could wait, though, for at the moment, he merely wanted to hold her. To hold her meant she would be real and not just a figment of his travel-weary imagination. He stepped up and wrapped his arms around her slight shoulders. “Barbara,” he breathed, the palms of his hands sliding over a body too lean and too thin. He could feel the sharp bones of her shoulder blades beneath the thin fabric of her gown.
“Bellingham?” she whispered, her words nearly lost in the wool of his topcoat. Although she didn’t fight his hold on her, she remained rigidly upright.
“Aye,” he answered, finally giving up his hold on her to study her more closely. “God, I’ve missed you,” he said with a shake of his head.
Barbara raised her eyes to his, the dark circles beneath them giving her a haunted look. Her high cheekbones, at one time making her appear every bit the aristocrat’s daughter she was, now only accentuated her sunken cheeks. Lush lips weren’t the berry color he remembered, but their shape hadn’t changed. Nor had her eyes.
Striking, piercing eyes of silver gray, although they lacked the sparkle they had at one time displayed.
And the mischief.
“Why have you come?” she asked, her head angling to one side.
Will blinked. “I... I’m home. I finished my service to the Navy, and I’ve returned to England,” he answered quickly, careful not to display the dismay at hearing her question. This wasn’t exactly the welcome he expected, but then, he had imagined worse.
Far worse. She could have been dead.
The gray eyes regarded him, nearly lifeless, before they turned to look at something behind her.
Pushing the door so it opened wider, Will was about to step into the house when he was forced to pause.
A dueling pistol was aimed in his direction.
A dueling pistol in the rather steady hand of a very young boy. “One more step, sir, and I shall shoot you,” came the warning.
Well, this is definitely unexpected.
Will stood on the threshold, his attention flitting back and forth between Barbara and the boy.
Her steely gaze still on Will, Barbara turned her head to the side. “Put down the gun, Donald,” she said, her voice as calm as if she were telling him to sit down and eat his supper.
The gun remained level, its stock held up by the boy’s other hand. “He hasn’t introduced himself, mum. And it’s not right proper for him to be pawing you like that,” the tow-headed blonde boy replied in defiance.
Mum?
A quick perusal of the boy showed his clothes were in worse shape than Barbara’s, the breeches missing their knees and the socks displaying small holes. His arms weren’t as thin as his mother’s though, suggesting he probably ate better than she did.
“Nevertheless,” Barbara replied in a tired voice, “You don’t want to be shooting your father.”
Chapter 18
A Father and Son Discuss Love
Meanwhile, back in Devonville House
Stephen regarded the door to his father’s study for several seconds before deciding to knock. His closed fist was just about to make contact when he heard Lord Devonville’s baritone voice call out, “Come!”
Momentarily stunned, Stephen finally reached down and turned the knob. He ducked his head around the door.
“You needn’t skulk, son,” William said, his manner rather serious. “I’m not going to bite.”
Blinking, Stephen stepped all the way into the study. Not having spent his life living under the same roof with his father, Stephen found himself wondering just where he stood in the household. And with his father. Although nothing had been done or said to make him feel unwelcome, he couldn’t help but think his status as a bastard made it awkward for the staff—and his father.
“I beg your pardon. I didn’t wish to interrupt—”
“Nonsense,” William responded, tossing his quill onto his blotter. “Anything to save me from having to finish this blasted letter,” the marquess added as he waved to the chair in front of the desk. “I take it you’re missing your brother, aye?”
Stephen nodded. “A bit, I suppose. I was hoping I would have more time with him. To learn the ropes around here, so to speak.” Knowing those on a ship certainly did him no good in polite society.
The marquess pulled the bottle of scotch from the credenza behind his desk and poured them both a finger’s worth. “London, do you mean? Or here at the house?” He passed a crystal tumbler to Stephen and lifted his own in salute.
Stephen followed suit but didn’t take a drink just then. “A little of both, I suppose. I can’t help but think you weren’t expecting me—I only came because Will insisted I do so—and that I’m imposing—”
“Nonsense,” the marquess repeated, his brows furrowing. “In fact, I’m rather glad you’re here. Especially since my eldest has decided to depart for Oxfordshire. By now, I expect he’s either found his prey or has given up and is spending some time at Gisborn’s place.”
Leaning forward a bit, Stephen regarded his father for a moment. “Do you... do you believe he will find her?” Will had never mentioned if his father supported his search for Lady Barbara or if the marquess thought it a wild goose chase.
“Truth be told, I don’t know what—or whom—he’ll find. I only wish he’d made mention of her before he reported for duty. Then I could have at least made overtures with her father. Paid a call, or had my wife do so—she was still alive back then,” he added with a troubled expression.
“If you had known... and it turned out Lady Barbara found herself... with child...?” He paused when he noticed William’s expression of surprise.
“Is that what this is about?” William interrupted, straightening in his chair.
Stephen shook his head. “Well, I don’t know for sure, but according to what my mum used to say, a lady of the ton doesn’t go missing from London unless she’s sent away. Or runs away. Usually because she’s done something.”
“Or had something done to her,” the marquess said sotto voce. He sighed, remembering his conversation with William. “Your brother admitted to having ruined her the night before his departure. At her request, supposedly, but I didn’t raise him to run away at the first sign of trouble. I certainly didn’t.”
Frowning, Stephen found he was holding his breath. “Excuse me?” he whispered hoarsely.
William angled his head and leaned over the desk, his voice low as he said, “When I got a child on your mother. You, as it turns out.” He sighed again. “I loved your mother. More than I did my own wife back then. She was my salvation from duty, you see. I knew I was about to inherit. I knew everything that would be expected of me for the rest of my life. Just because my father had made it all very clear to me didn’t mean I had to look forward to it. I was determined to have a life of my own choosing, if only for a few nights a week. Although I didn’t intend to father a bastard, I remember feeling rather... honored that Marie would deign to have my babe. She told me she hadn’t given birth to any others. Had things been different...” He allowed the sentence to trail off, his head shaking slightly.
Stephen stared at his father, his brows furrowed. “You mean, if she hadn’t been a courtesan and if you weren’t about to inherit a marquessate, and you weren’t already married, you might have married her instead?” his whispered in disbelief, realizing too late that he had said a few too many ‘if ’s.
Allowing a wan smile, William finished off his scotch and set the tumbler down on the desk. “First off, I do not think your mother would have given me any consideration if I wasn’t about to inherit a marquessate. She was particular in that regard.” When he noticed one of Stephen’s eye
brows arch up much like one of his own might do at the very same unexpected comment, he added, “Your mother was a celebrated woman. She had been born at Versailles and raised at the palace, trained by your grandmother to follow in her footsteps. By coming to England when she did, she barely avoided the Revolution and managed to keep her head. A rather calculated move on her part, I came to find out.”
“What are you talking about?” Stephen interrupted.
“Your mother is a smart woman. Just because she lived at court and was insulated from what was happening in the countryside, she knew the peasants were getting restless. She knew it was time she take her leave of France when she did. So she packed her things, begged her mother to join her on a trip over the Channel—something your grandmother refused to do, I might add—and left a few weeks before the hoards descended. She even had a signed contract with an earl before she set foot on these shores.”
“What?” Stephen asked in surprise, straightening in his chair. His mother had never mentioned anything about having to escape France, or of having had a contract with an earl.
“I paid him off to walk away. I was at the dock when he went to meet her for the first time, you see, and so help me God, I was in love with your mother before she managed to make her first curtsy.”
Attempting to suppress a grin at hearing how his mother had affected his father, Stephen lifted his tumbler and finished off his scotch. “She tells the same tale about meeting you,” he remarked finally.
William nodded, wondering just then if Marie St. Clair would have returned to London had he sent for her after his wife’s death. Had too much time passed, though? Or would they have been able to recapture the magic that had been their time together for the first few years after he had inherited?
Probably not, he decided. By then, Marie had been married and widowed and was apparently enjoying life in the Kent countryside, away from prying eyes and gossipers and apparently retired from her days as a courtesan.
“I wish to settle an allowance on you,” William announced suddenly. “Not too much, for I don’t want you tempted to lose it all at the faro tables—”
“I’m not much of a gambler these days,” Stephen interrupted with a shake of his head.
“But enough so that you can afford a townhouse, a horse or two, and a wife,” his father continued, ignoring his son’s claim.
Stephen frowned. “In that order?” he wondered.
William straightened and then frowned himself. “Well, I should think that once you’ve decided to take a wife, you’ll need a house in which to live, then a horse to ride whilst you’re making your way about London—and you’ll need one or two to pull a carriage so that you can go courting—and then the wife, so... yes, I suppose in that order. Anything over that, and you’ll have to earn it yourself.”
Allowing a broad smile, Stephen felt a wave of relief settle over him. With the most expensive items covered by his father, he would be able to support a wife on a clerk’s earnings in fine style. “Very good, sir. Thank you.”
The marquess gave him a nod. “Don’t thank me yet. I may have gotten you into a bit of a scrape,” he warned.
Stephen squirmed a bit. “Oh?”
His father bobbed his head back and forth, as if he was trying to determine how best to give his son some bad news. “Chamberlain could use you in the Foreign Office. I told him you might be interested. I don’t know if the pay is any good, but—”
“I’ll take it,” Stephen replied quickly. At his father’s look of surprise, he added, “Well, now that Will has gone, I find myself with too much time on my hands. About time I found a position and reported to work.”
William Slater regarded his son with a sense of pride. Although he hadn’t had as much influence on raising the boy as he would have liked, he realized Marie had done an admiral job on her own. Perhaps her husband had helped, as well. “I’ll make the introductions. Perhaps at the theatre tomorrow night. You will join the marchioness and me in our box, I hope?”
Stephen nodded, realizing he had another form of London entertainment at which to meet potential wives for his brother. He was beginning to think Will would be ready to marry when his search for Lady Barbara proved fruitless. Then he could start a search for his own wife.
My own wife?
He gave a slight shake of his head. Now where the hell had thought come from?
Chapter 19
A Secret Revealed
Meanwhile, in Oxfordshire
Barbara’s words had Will doing a double-take.
Father?
He had half a mind to look behind him, thinking perhaps another man stood there in the doorway. Barbara was wearing a wedding band, after all. But a split-second later, he realized her comment was made about him.
About me.
William straightened to his full six-foot, one-inch height and regarded the boy for several seconds. Slight of build—or perhaps the urchin seemed small because he looked as if he could use a good meal or two—he was blonde and had eyes that could have been blue or gray. It was hard to tell in the dim light inside the cottage.
Frowning at both the circumstances and the words Barbara had just spoken, Will turned his attention back to her. She appeared weary and frail, and William wondered if the dark circles were due to lack of sleep or lack of food—or both.
Cooking odors suddenly assaulted his nostrils. His attention went to the stove, where steam escaped from beneath a lid over a pot.
Barbara’s gaze followed his, and she was suddenly in motion, hurrying to lift the lid before the liquid inside bubbled over. Somehow, she captured some of her skirts into her hand before she did so; otherwise, William was sure she would have burned herself.
“Donald. Put down that gun and wash up for supper,” Barbara ordered, her voice making it sound as if she had given him the order earlier. Ladling the boiling broth into wooden bowls, she glanced over her shoulder to find her visitor still regarding her with furrowed brows. “You’re welcome to stay for supper. We don’t have much, but...”
Will shook his head. “Pardon the interruption, my lady,” he said finally. “Is your...” He nearly choked when he finally got the word out. “Husband here? I wish to have a word with him.”
Barbara placed the bowls of soup on the table and angled her head. “I’ve no husband, but you’ll be keeping that to yourself,” she stated firmly.
The sense of relief that settled over Will was palpable. Still, if she wasn’t married, why did she wear a ring? “I have provisions aplenty. I’ll be but a moment,” he said as he gave a bow and took his leave of the cottage, squeezing his eyes shut when the late afternoon sun hit his face.
Jesus, what the hell has happened to Barbara? She was an earl’s daughter, but from her appearance, she was apparently living no better than the poorest tenant farmer. Worse, even.
He glanced around, wondering if anyone lived nearby. Given the woodlands and a slight hillock off to the east, he realized this cottage was all by itself. Even the bell tower and spire of Saints Peter and Paul wasn’t visible from where he stood.
He took another look at the shabby cottage and shook his head. What the hell had happened? The place was barely habitable.
Thunderbolt nudged him as he removed the saddlebags from him. About to dig for another apple, Will thought better of it and instead offered the horse a handful of grain from another saddlebag. “Someone needs these apples more than you do,” he murmured as he loosened the reins and led Thunderbolt to an area that offered some greenery on which he could snack.
When he had first arrived, Will thought a stableboy would appear from behind the cottage and see to the horse, but from the looks of everything—and the boy named Donald—Will wondered if the boy had ever handled a horse. There wasn’t even a lean-to or a barn on the property in which to shelter one, although from where he stood he could see a pile of old lumber that might have at one time been a loafing shed.
Helping himself to a rusty bucket, he found the water
pump and filled it, wincing when he realized he had some rinsing to do before the water was clear enough for the horse to drink.
Once he was satisfied Thunderbolt could be left where he was, Will threw the saddlebags over his shoulders and made his way back to the front door of the cottage. He didn’t bother knocking, but rather opened the barely-there door and made his way inside.
From where she sat at a makeshift settle, Barbara seemed surprised to see him. “I didn’t expect you to return,” she said, reaching out a hand so it rested on Donald’s shoulder. Apparently the boy had made to get up from the table at the sound of the door opening, probably so he could get the gun and level it at their intruder.
Not sure how to respond to her comment, Will lowered the saddlebags onto a low table in front of a settee, the only piece of furniture in the place that looked decent. Opening one of the bags, he pulled out the cloth-wrapped meat pies he had purchased at The Five Bells along with a wedge of cheese and the apples he had brought for the horse.
Donald’s eyes widened at the sight of the food as Will placed it on the settle in front of him. “Is that for us?” the boy asked, obviously incredulous.
“Donald!” Barbara admonished the boy. “You do not speak until you’re spoken to,” she hissed.
“It is,” Will acknowledged with a nod, rather surprised to be addressed by the youth, although Barbara’s words suggested she had been trying to teach him proper manners. He pulled a knife from his boot, wiped it on the only kitchen linen he could find, and cut the apples in half. Then he went to work on the cheese, slicing it into smaller wedges. Taking the only other chair at the settle, he lifted his eyes to meet Barbara’s. He was sure he saw tears, but she blinked twice as he gave her a nod and they were gone. “How long have you lived here?” he asked as he pushed the fruit toward his hosts.
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