Jane tipped up her chin. “That’s why Nancy would never, ever have cuckolded George. She knew just how dangerous an angry, unpredictable man can be when he’s crossed. She wouldn’t have risked having the same thing happen to her.”
Dom’s head reeled. Her father had been such a monster? And she’d lived with the man until she was eight. Good God. Had he ever hurt Jane?
“Why did you never tell me this?” Dom asked.
“I only learned of it after you and I parted ways. It’s not as if my uncle and aunt were going to admit such a thing to a mere child. But once George began courting Nancy, my uncle grew concerned. He begged me to keep her from making the same mistake Mama had. That’s when he told me the truth about his sister’s death, about what Papa did to her.”
First she’d been saddled with what she’d thought was Dom’s betrayal. Then she’d learned the truth about her parents. And he hadn’t been there to help, to ease her way.
A tendril of guilt crept around his heart. He tried futilely to ignore it.
“I wasn’t entirely surprised to hear it,” Jane went on coldly. “What little I did remember from my childhood was of Papa bullying Mama.”
“And you?” Dom asked hoarsely. “Did he ever—”
“No.” She released a shaky breath. “It was Mama he always . . . pushed around. I was shielded from most of their arguing by my nurse, but the few times I dined with them were very upsetting. He spoke so harshly to her, it made me cringe. Only years later did I come to understand that not all men treated their wives that way. Uncle Horace certainly didn’t.”
“But still . . . good heavens, Jane,” Lisette said, grabbing her hand. “That sounds dreadful.”
After a quick squeeze of Lisette’s hand, Jane released it. “And in the end, telling Nancy the truth about it didn’t stop her from marrying George. She craved the chance to be a viscountess, and she thought him gravely misunderstood.”
She slanted a glance at Dom. “Uncle Horace could always see George for what he was. He knew about George burning the codicil, because I’d told him. He understood how heinous that was. But Nancy didn’t see it. And to her, George and my papa were nothing alike, anyway.”
“But she learned otherwise later?” Max asked, his eyes full of sympathy.
“I’m honestly not sure,” Jane admitted. “I’ll grant you that George was prone to fits of temper, but I don’t think he ever struck Nancy. Certainly he never did in my presence, and she never complained of mistreatment. Mostly he just . . . berated her. I suppose that can be just as bad.”
A troubled frown creased her forehead as she gazed out the window. “It seemed so to me, whenever Papa spoke cruelly to Mama. My uncle told me that Papa dictated every aspect of Mama’s life—what she should eat, where she should go, to whom she could speak.” Her voice turned brittle. “She never did anything without his criticizing it or wanting to control it.”
“Oh, God,” Dom said as something occurred to him. “That’s why the terms of your father’s will were so strict. The bloody arse wanted to control your future from beyond the grave.”
She bobbed her head. “Papa intended to run my life as he’d run Mama’s,” she said bitterly. “Of course, I didn’t realize that until later. I just thought Papa had been overly protective, and Uncle Horace was being equally so.”
Steadying her shoulders, she lifted her gaze to Dom. “So you see, Nancy wouldn’t have been foolish enough to take Samuel as a lover during her marriage. She might have ignored her father’s warnings as a girl intent on marrying a lord, but not after she’d experienced life with George.”
“On the other hand, that might have made her yearn for some happiness,” Max pointed out. When Jane scowled at him, he added, “I’m just saying that a woman, when pressed to the wall, sometimes reacts perversely.”
Jane bristled. “Perhaps, but no one has found any proof that she did.”
Dom conceded that with a nod. “Neither have we found any proof that she did not. And there’s still the possibility that she became intimately involved with Barlow after George died.” His voice softened. “You can’t ignore that, Jane.”
“No, but I don’t know when she would have done so. I came to Rathmoor Park only a short while after George’s death.” She flashed Dom a pleading glance. “And even if Nancy did have an affair afterward, it wasn’t because she wanted to steal your inheritance for her child. She wouldn’t do that.”
When Dom snorted, Max flicked a look at him. “But I gather that Barlow might.”
Jane sighed. “It’s possible he would attempt it. Though he would never convince Nancy to go along with it.”
“So you know Barlow well, then?” Max asked. “I mean, you must. You’re engaged to his brother.”
That made Jane bristle. “Neither Edwin nor I have seen Samuel in years,” she said frostily.
Lisette patted Jane’s knee. “Max isn’t accusing you of anything criminal.”
“I should hope not,” Jane said. “I realize that Nancy is my cousin and Samuel is my fiancé’s brother, but I assure you I had nothing to do with it.”
The defensiveness in her voice cut through Dom’s anger at this situation with Nancy. He hadn’t meant to treat her as if she were somehow guilty of something. But between the way he’d tormented her about not telling him of the pregnancy and the way he’d taken advantage of her in the inn room, she probably didn’t know what to think.
“No one blames you,” Dom said. “You’ve done nothing wrong, and I, for one, would never think that you had.”
An uncomfortable silence fell on the group that was all the more awkward because they knew they had a full day’s journey ahead of them.
After a short while, Max flashed Jane a smile. “So, Jane, why don’t you tell us how you met your fiancé? I’ve chatted with Blakeborough a time or two at my club. He seems a decent chap, if a little surly.”
“Max!” Lisette protested, with a furtive glance at Dom. “That’s hardly an appropriate subject under the circumstances.”
“No, I’d like to hear it,” Dom said, keeping his eyes trained on Jane’s face. “Blakeborough and Jane were already friends when I first met her, so I never knew what brought them together.”
And perhaps she would finally reveal the truth about what she felt for Blakeborough.
She avoided his gaze. “Actually, I can’t recall exactly when we met, because I would have been very young. We grew up together in Preston, before . . . I went to live with my aunt and uncle. His parents occasionally came to dinners at our house.”
A faint smile touched her lips that made Dom’s heart stop. “I’m told that Edwin once pushed me into a puddle to make me stop following him everywhere. I don’t remember it, though. I was only four.” Her eyes twinkled. “He claims not to remember it either, but given that he was seven, I find that highly suspicious.”
“How old were you when your parents . . .” Lisette trailed off with a pained look.
“I was eight.” Jane smoothed her skirts, a nervous habit he’d noticed early on in their courtship. “And I didn’t see Edwin again until my come-out, when he asked me for advice regarding his little sister.”
“I forgot that Blakeborough has a sister,” Dom said. “Her name’s Yvette, right?”
Jane nodded. “She’s quite a bit younger than he and Samuel.”
“And quite a handful, too, from what the gossips say,” Max added.
“Oh, yes,” Jane admitted ruefully. “There are days when Edwin despairs of ever finding her a husband.”
Lisette chuckled. “That sounds familiar. Dom and Tristan had begun to despair of ever finding me a husband.” She shot Max a coy glance. “So I found one for myself.”
“And you managed to hold on to him until you got him to the altar, which seems to be the most difficult part,” Jane said with a quick glance at Dom.
&nbs
p; “No,” Dom said, “the most difficult part is being sure that he’s the right man for you. Sometimes it takes a while to figure that out. Some women even know a man for years before they accept his proposal of marriage.” He couldn’t keep from smiling smugly at her. “I wonder why that is.”
A sudden glint in her eyes told him he’d made his point. “Probably because when some women find their hearts trampled on by some men, it takes them years to recover enough to accept another man’s proposal.”
He cringed. It hadn’t taken her years to recover, had it? That hadn’t been his intention.
“But,” she went on, “once they do, they realize they had a jewel under their noses all the time. For example, my Edwin can be surly if you don’t know him, but beneath that cold and bitter exterior is a very accomplished and intelligent gentleman who can have quite a soft heart.”
My Edwin. Damn her for that.
For the next hour, Jane proceeded to sing Blakeborough’s praises. To hear her tell it, Blakeborough could win at whist in his sleep, do complicated mathematical equations in his head, and ride a mile-long racecourse in five seconds flat. He even gave generously—and anonymously—to several charities, a fact that she’d only discovered when a friend running one of those charities had revealed it.
But just as Dom was ready to hunt the man down and beat him to a bloody pulp just for being a paragon, it occurred to him that she still hadn’t mentioned Blakeborough and “love” in the same breath.
Only then did he relax. Let her go on and on about Blakeborough’s brilliance if it made her feel better. As long as she didn’t mention loving the blasted fellow, Dom was content.
And he would tell her so as soon as he could get her alone again.
10
SEVERAL HOURS LATER, as the group sat down to dinner at the duke’s estate in Newark, Jane was relieved to find the seating somewhat informal. The table was too massive for anything else, unless they all wanted to shout to each other during the meal.
Still, everyone had dressed formally, including Jane, who’d taken great care with her attire. Not because she was dining with Dom, oh no. It was because of the duke and duchess. She’d figured they would expect it. That was the only reason. Truly.
Unfortunately, although Jane’s maid had assured her that she looked like a queen, she still felt like a queen’s mount ridden to exhaustion. For the last two hours in the carriage, she’d slept, no longer able to keep her eyes open, and she was still groggy.
Stealing a glance at Dom, who sat across the table from her next to his sister, she stifled a groan. He looked like a king—self-assured and positively regal. It was the first time she’d seen him in evening dress since Lady Zoe’s ball, and she’d forgotten how very well he wore it.
He tended to be a sober dresser, leaning more toward practicality than fashion. As he had at the ball, he wore a plain tailcoat and trousers of black superfine, the requisite white shirt, and a simply tied white cravat. But tonight his waistcoat was a gorgeous figured green silk that made his eyes glow like jade in the candlelight. He looked like a viscount in his full glory, not a second son auditioning for the part.
Sweet Lord, she hoped he did become viscount. Nancy could bear a daughter—that would make her perfectly happy. But Dom deserved the title and the estate after everything he’d been through.
Even if he did persist in thinking ill of Nancy. Though perhaps he didn’t think quite so ill of her now.
Jane had never revealed the truth about Mama’s death to anyone. It was her family’s most scandalous secret. But she’d had to make them see, make Dom see. She’d had to make them understand.
The profound shock of Uncle Horace’s tale, the horror of such a dark family secret, had rocked Jane’s vision of her past. Coming on top of what she’d initially seen as Dom’s betrayal, it had sent her into reclusiveness for quite a while. In time it had faded into a dull memory, a disturbing part of her youth.
Until Dom had come back into her life and stirred it all up again.
As he was doing now, his eyes seeking hers as he sipped his wine. “You look beautiful this evening.”
She fought the urge to preen. “Thank you.” She could hardly compare to Lisette in her duchess finery, but she was glad she’d had her gown of ruby silk with her and her favorite garnet necklace. “You look very well yourself.”
“Except for his hair,” Lisette said. “Jane, do persuade him to let it grow. He keeps it so unfashionably short that I keep expecting him to whip out a powdered barrister’s wig and plop it on his head.”
“As soon as I can hire a valet who can cut hair to my liking, I’ll be happy to let it grow out to its former wild and unmanageable length,” Dom quipped. “In the meantime, this is easier.”
Lisette eyed him warily. “Please tell me you don’t cut it yourself.”
“All right. I won’t tell you.”
“Dom!” his sister cried. “You don’t really—”
“He’s teasing you, dearling,” Max drawled. “Can’t you tell?”
Lisette caught Dom winking at Jane, and she rolled her eyes, then dipped her spoon into her bowl of turtle soup. “You’re becoming as bad as Tristan, I swear.”
“I doubt there’s any chance of that.” Dom cast Jane a sly look. “Tristan was ‘born in a merry hour.’ ”
Jane didn’t miss a beat. “No, sure, my lord, his mother cried, but then there was a star danced, and under that was he born.”
“Much Ado about Nothing?” Max asked.
“Slightly paraphrased,” Jane answered.
“Well, clearly Dom has been spending too much time around Shaw.” Lisette buttered her roll. “Though I don’t know why Jane is quoting Shakespeare.”
Because it had been their favorite play. It was still her favorite.
Jane shared a knowing smile with Dom, but when his gaze heated and drifted to her bosom, it reminded her exactly what they’d been doing earlier.
Feeling the color rise in her cheeks, she forced her gaze from his. “So,” she said brightly, scrambling for a less dangerous topic, “who is Shaw?”
The duke laughed. “You haven’t met Skrimshaw? He used to be Dom’s butler . . . of sorts. ‘Shaw’ is his stage name; he spends most of his evenings performing in the theater.”
“And his afternoons and his Saturdays and every other Wednesday,” Dom grumbled.
“Good thing he’s not your butler anymore,” Lisette said lightly. “Now he’s Victor’s problem.” Lisette looked at Jane. “Victor and his wife have taken over Manton’s Investigations for Dom.”
“Assuming I don’t have to return to it before the year is out,” Dom said coolly.
When Nancy’s child is born.
They all thought it, which cast a decided pall over the company.
A few moments of silence passed while they ate, but Jane didn’t mind. She was famished, having eaten very little in the past two days, so she was happy to concentrate on her soup.
Then Lisette cleared her throat. “Speaking of theatrical performers, did I tell you, Dom, that I ran into one of Maman’s cousins in London two weeks ago?”
Dom laid his spoon down. “I thought they were all still in France. What was this particular cousin doing here?”
“You won’t believe this.” Lisette leaned forward, clearly delighted at the chance to share a choice bit of gossip. “She was brought to England by Sadler’s Wells Theatre. She’s a successful opera singer, of all things!”
“I’m not surprised. It runs in your family.” Dom shifted his gaze to Jane. “Mrs. Bonnaud, Lisette’s mother, was said to have captivated many an audience with her voice before our father whisked her away from Toulon.”
Lisette sighed. “I miss Maman’s singing.”
“So do I,” Dom said softly.
“Do you remember when she used to direct us in performances of
little opéras comiques?”
Dom chuckled. “As if I could forget it. I was the one humming the accompaniment, remember?”
“That’s right!” Lisette said. “I haven’t thought about that in years. And you were such a good sport about it, too.”
“I would have enjoyed it more if I’d known any French arias. But since all I could hum were the bits of Mozart I’d heard played at the manor house, we ended up with a very limited repertoire.”
“Until later,” Lisette said. “You did add The Marriage of Figaro. We were all grateful for that, especially Maman, who made much of it.”
“Your ‘maman’ made much of any piece of music derived from something French,” Dom said amiably. “And The Marriage of Figaro was taken from a French play.”
“Maman was nothing if not proud of her national origins. Otherwise Tristan wouldn’t have tried so hard to play that French bagpipe-type oddity she had brought to England with her.”
“The bousine.” Dom shook his head. “That horrible thing sounded like a mare in heat.”
“More like a mare in the final throes of death,” Lisette said. “Thank heaven Tristan tripped and dropped it off that cliff at Flamborough Head, or he would probably still be playing it.”
Dom winced. “Actually, he didn’t exactly . . . er . . . drop it. He got mad at me when I criticized his playing, and he threw the thing at me. He missed.”
A look that was equal parts delight and horror came over Lisette’s face. “You and Tristan destroyed Maman’s favorite instrument? Why, she cried for days over that!”
“I know. We felt terrible. Well, I only felt terrible because it made your mother cry, not because of the loss of the damned thing.” Dom leaned back as the servant replaced his bowl with an empty plate. “And I’m not even sure Tristan felt all that terrible. He seemed relieved that he no longer had to attempt to master it.”
“He couldn’t master it because he has a tin ear. Always did.” Lisette smiled. “Maman used to say that you inherited more of her musical inclination than any of her natural children.”
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