“Well?” her father bellowed, standing behind her as though he could no longer stomach the sight of her face. She jumped, but Ainsley’s steady gaze never left her or faltered. She suspected he’d have been as courageous on the battlefield as his brother. Stephen Lyons had arrived in the Crimea as a captain, but his daring exploits during battle had seen him rise with surprising swiftness to the rank of major. “Your boy got my girl with babe. You’d damned well better do right by her.”
The aforementioned babe was presently having his cheek stroked by Ainsley’s mother. The duchess looked up at her son. “He very much reminds me of Stephen at this age.”
“All babies look the same, Mother.”
“Not to a mother.”
The duchess’s formidable gaze came to bear on the new mother, and Mercy fought not to wither beneath it. She couldn’t imagine possessing the confidence that these people had. She’d been forced to shore up her own courage for this encounter. She’d known it wouldn’t be pleasant, but she also knew her only hope for happiness resided here. So she would stand her ground until the final bastion had fallen.
“Or to a grandmother, I suppose,” the duchess added.
Mercy’s original plan had been to simply leave the child here, within his relatives’ safekeeping, but in the end, she’d not been able to give him up. It was astonishing, how much she’d come to love the babe in the three months since his birth. She would do anything at all to protect him, to remain with him. Sell what remained of her soul to the devil if need be.
“What did you name him?” the duchess asked.
“John.”
“A strong name.”
She nodded. These were good people. She shouldn’t have brought her father into the matter. She should have come here first, only she hadn’t known where to begin to find this family, and she couldn’t very well live on the streets while she’d made inquiries. After all she’d seen and suffered during her months serving as a nurse, she’d thought her father would be as grateful to have her home as she was to have arrived. She’d known him well enough, though, to suspect he’d not look upon a new life as something to be cherished, regardless of how it had come about. Her father had not watched as hundreds of men died. He was landed gentry, and by arriving on his doorstep with a babe in her arms, she’d brought shame to him and his household.
But she didn’t regret what she’d done. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.
“Your father mentioned that you met Stephen during the time he served in the Crimea,” the duchess said, but her voice also held a question. The East was far away, not a place to which a gentle lady should travel.
“Yes, Your Grace. I was serving as a nurse in Scutari.” She’d discovered that few people truly understood the geography of the area. Although the duchess may have been an exception. In a corner of the room stood a globe, the portion of the world that had caused so much turmoil and heartache clearly in view. Mercy wondered if the duchess had pressed her hand there in an attempt to feel closer to her son, to somehow bridge the endless miles that separated them. “Many of the soldiers were brought there to be tended.”
“Admirable. Then you were one of Miss Nightingale’s ladies?”
Miss Nightingale. To the nurses, the doctors, and the patients, she had simply been Miss N. “Yes, ma’am.”
“The newspapers paint a rather gruesome portrait of the war. I do not know how anyone could remain there with the deprivations, the cold, and illness. They say more men die of disease than battle.”
Mercy nodded, forced a tremulous smile. “John is the only good thing to come out of the war as far as I’m concerned.”
The duchess’s brown eyes softened. Stephen had not inherited his eyes from his mother. His were a rich, dark blue. She remembered the concern she’d seen reflected in them just before he’d taken her into his arms. So tenderly. After what she’d endured at the hands of three ruffians, she’d thought she’d be unable to suffer the touch of a man, but he had proved her wrong. How she longed for those powerful arms at this moment. But she would never again know their strength, would never again feel the firm muscles beneath her fingers. He’d been killed in September. Because of the wonder of the telegraph, the names of the fallen were known quickly and reported in the newspapers. She was surprised the duchess wasn’t wearing mourning clothes, but instead wore a dress of deep purple.
“Well?” her father bellowed again. “I want to know what you’re going to do for my girl.”
“I suppose you’re looking for some sort of monetary restitution,” Ainsley said.
“That would be a start. But she’s ruined. No decent man will have her now. She went to do good works and he took advantage.”
“Father—”
“Shut up, girl. The last thing I expected was for you to come home with some bastard.”
“Don’t call John that.” She would fight to the death to protect John. How could her father not see beyond the child’s illegitimacy to what he meant to Mercy? In a world devoid of joy, he was the only bright spot. “Please, Your Grace, I want only to stay with John. I could serve as his nurse, his nanny. I would require very little.”
“That will not do at all,” her father said. “The shame that has been brought to my household … I demand this be made right. You, sir, Your Grace, you should step in where your brother didn’t.”
Ainsley’s mouth twitched, and he looked as though he might burst into laughter. It was the first sign he’d given that he might not be as blasted serious as she’d assumed. “Are you suggesting I marry your daughter, sir?”
“I am indeed.”
“Father, no!”
“She needs a husband,” he continued as though she hadn’t objected. “I’m washing my hands of her.”
Madness was surrounding her. She didn’t know how to stop it. “Your Grace, this is not why I brought John to you. You are his family. I expect nothing.”
“Miss Dawson, do you swear that the child to whom you gave birth is my brother’s son?” Ainsley asked, a kindness in his voice that had been lacking before, as though he was beginning to understand that regardless of the unconscionable position in which she found herself, she placed the child first and that her father only added to the difficulties of her situation. She was grateful that the print of his hand was no longer visible on her face. He’d slapped her for her foolishness, then slapped her for her sins.
“I swear to you, Your Grace, by all that is holy, that John is Stephen’s son.”
“I do not doubt it,” the duchess said succinctly, her opinion obviously carrying a great deal of weight with the duke.
Ainsley nodded slowly, and then in long strides, he crossed the room and opened the door. “Find Major Lyons and inform him that I need to have a word.”
Mercy was on her feet before Ainsley had finished shutting the door. Dizziness assailed her. Her heart pounded with such force that she was certain they all could hear it. Her throat knotted up and it was all she could do to force out the words. “He’s here? He can’t be. He’s dead.”
Ainsley seemed quite surprised by her outburst. As was she. She wasn’t prone to histrionics, but this turn of events was not at all expected. Relief danced with fear. This changed everything. Everything. Her legs weakened, but she forced herself to remain standing. Better to face the devil on her feet.
“Yes, the initial reports were that he’d died,” Ainsley said, studying her. Did he have to continually examine every blasted inch of her? What the devil was he searching for, what did he hope to find? Evidence of her deception? “Considering what I’ve since learned of the carnage that was Sevastopol, I’m not surprised mistakes were made. He was gravely wounded and not expected to survive. But those who doubted his will don’t know my brother. He is as stubborn as the day is long. He arrived home only a month ago. He’s not quite up to snuff, still recovering.”
Gladness at the news almost replaced every ounce of her common sense. Once Major Lyons strode through that door, everything would
change. He would laugh at her claims, if he even remembered her. Chaos reigned on the battlefields and in the hospitals. Like thieves in the night, soldiers, doctors, nurses had stolen moments of happiness wherever, whenever, they could. Hoarded the memories away for the exhausting, dreary days when there was nothing except the blight of suffering.
Her time with Major Lyons had been brief, all too brief. But her feelings for him had still managed to blossom into an emotion she didn’t understand but that frightened her with its intensity.
She jerked her gaze to John, held securely in the duchess’s arms. John. Her son. Her joy. She wished she’d never handed him over. She should dart across to where he gurgled, snatch him up, and dash from the room. Only he belonged here. She couldn’t whisk him away from where he belonged. He was her one opportunity for redemption, but the thought of losing him was like a knife twisting through her heart. She’d never expected he would become her salvation.
Good Lord, everything would come to light now. Everything. When Major Lyons saw her—
What if his first words revolved around her shame and suffering? But he’d promised, promised to never tell a soul. While he held her—
The door opened, the click echoing through the room like a rifle report. Imminent disaster loomed, but still she hungrily took in every beloved facet of him. Only he was a far cry from the man she’d come to admire, the man with whom she’d become ridiculously infatuated.
Shock reverberated through the very core of her being. He limped in, using a walking stick to steady his stride, which was not nearly as long or as confident as it had once been. He was not wearing the scarlet uniform that had made him such a dashing figure. Instead, he was dressed in a white shirt and cravat. Black waistcoat and jacket. Black trousers. As though he were in mourning.
Perhaps he was. How many of his comrades had he watched fall? How many had he held while they died on the field?
He was so thin that he barely resembled the robust young man who had exhibited such enviable self-assurance when he’d been discharged from the hospital that first month after she’d arrived with Miss Nightingale. Then he still spoke of routing out the enemy, sending them to perdition. He urged those not yet well enough to be released to recover quickly, to get the job done so they could all go home. They were not yet defeated. She overheard him delivering rousing words to so many that he strengthened her own resolve, made her determined to see them all recovered.
But he no longer looked to be a man who believed the declarations he’d once articulated with such conviction.
A ragged, unsightly red scar trailed from just below his temple to his chin, yet it did not diminish his rugged handsomeness. But his eyes—his beautiful blue eyes—had changed the most. They held such an incredible bleakness when he looked at her that she almost wept. His wounds went much deeper than his flesh; they had penetrated his soul.
The only thing about him that remained unchanged was the shade of his hair: a golden brown with streaks of blond woven through it. She’d often wondered how it might look with the sunlight bouncing off it. But she’d met him in winter amidst gray skies. Little sun chased back the dreariness of the hospital.
She wanted to race across the room, take him in her arms, and confess everything before he had a chance to denounce her for the fraud that she was. She should be trying to determine how best to save face, but all she could do was wonder about him. What had transpired during the months since she’d last seen him? Had he even noticed that she’d left Scutari? If he’d had occasion to visit the hospital, had he asked after her? He had been so terribly important to her, but he’d never made any declarations of affection. It wasn’t his way, she’d been told, but the knowledge had not stopped her from dreaming that he saw in her something special, something he saw in no other woman.
“Stephen,” Ainsley began, a gentleness, a caution in his voice, a tone that one might use when confronting a wild and unpredictable beast, “surely you remember Miss Mercy Dawson. She was a nurse at a military hospital in Scutari, tending to the soldiers who fought in the Crimea.”
She wondered why he’d felt the need to categorize her, to label her as though so many Mercy Dawsons filled his brother’s life that he would be unable to identify which one she was, precisely. She knew of his reputation with the ladies, knew that he sought pleasure with wild abandon, but surely, he was gentleman enough to recall every woman with whom he’d experienced carnal knowledge.
Tension rippled through the room, as if they were all connected by the wires on a pianoforte, each of them waiting for a chord to be plucked.
Major Lyons studied her for a heartbeat, and then another, but she saw no recognition in his deep blue eyes. None at all. She was but one of many nurses who had garnered his attention. The mortification of this moment, of being relegated to nothingness, to being completely unmemorable in spite of all they’d shared … it was almost more than she could bear. She didn’t know how she would survive it, but for John’s sake she would.
A dilemma reared its ugly head. Should she fight for John’s right to be here, to convince them that Major Lyons was his father, or should she take her son and be done with them, find a way to survive as best she could? She knew her father would not return her to his residence. He was done with her. He was here now only because he thought to gain from the situation, if not a pocketful of coins then a powerful son-in-law. She wondered what his impressions were, but she dared not look back at him. It took little to earn his wrath these days.
“Of course, I remember her.”
She blinked in surprise. Relief and dread beat within her breast. Conflicting desires, conflicting troubles. Everything had seemed much simpler when she thought he was dead. Now the truth picked at the lock, and she didn’t know if its release would serve her good or ill.
Major Lyons bowed slightly. “Miss Dawson.”
“Major. I’m so grateful you’re not dead.” In spite of the troubles his resurrection might cause her, the words were heartfelt. Grief had nearly done her in when she’d seen his name on the list of casualties. She owed him more than she could ever express, more than she could ever repay.
“No more so than I am, I assure you.”
The rough timbre of his voice sent a quiver of longing through her. What a silly chit you are, Mercy. He speaks that way to every lady. You are not so special after all. But there had been times when she’d thought, hoped, dared to dream that he gave her attention because he considered her distinctive, because he could distinguish her from the other nurses. After only one telling, he remembered her name. She learned later that she’d given too much significance to that small triumph. He knew every nurse by name. He could even differentiate the twin nuns—Mary and Margaret—from each other when no one else could.
“And her father, Mr. Daws—”
“You ruined my girl,” her father bellowed, interrupting Ainsley before the introductions were properly finished.
Mortification swamped her. Oh, what a tangled web we weave…
Major Lyons’s eyes widened slightly at that, and his gaze swung back to her. His brow furrowed, and she could see him concentrating, trying to remember what had passed between them. How could he forget? Had he not seen her clearly in the darkness? Had she only imagined that he’d known who she was? She didn’t know if it would be better if he did recognize her as the lady he’d rescued that horrid night. Perhaps there was a mercy in his confusion. She should simply confess everything now, save herself further embarrassment.
But where to begin? How much to reveal? How much to keep hidden? How much would he deduce by whatever she told him? She had sworn an oath. No matter the price, she intended to keep it until she drew her last breath.
“Stephen, darling, do come here,” the duchess said, ushering him over to her side.
He walked slowly, as though even in this great room that was surely familiar to him he was lost, searching for his bearings. She’d seen far too many men with the same haunted quality, the same emptiness
of soul in their expression. As though they’d left their essence out on the battlefield and only their bodies had returned. The price of war went far beyond the stores of munitions, food, uniforms, and medical supplies.
“This is John,” the duchess said softly when he reached her. “Miss Dawson claims he is your son. I can see a resemblance.”
“I don’t. For one thing I’m considerably taller.”
The duchess released a small laugh and tears welled in her eyes, as though she’d caught a glimpse of the teasing young man her son had once been. Reaching out, she squeezed his hand. “Is it possible, do you think? That he’s yours?”
He moved around to acquire a better look at John. With his large hand, he cradled the boy’s head, the pale wispy curls settling softly against his long, slender fingers. Mercy’s heart lurched, swelling with joy and breaking at the same time. How often she had dreamed of him holding his son, but none of her fanciful imaginings had prepared her for the moment of reality, of seeing him touching this precious child. He would recognize himself in the boy. Surely, he would. He would claim John as his, even if he would not offer Mercy the same consideration. For John, she could hold no greater joy than that he be accepted by his father. For herself, she knew it held the potential to have John ripped from her. A bastard child was the responsibility of his mother, but this powerful family could circumvent laws. With the proper amount of blunt slipped into her father’s palm, Mercy would be relegated to a pauper, with the one thing she treasured beyond her reach.
“Considering my well-earned reputation with the ladies, of course it’s possible,” he murmured. He lifted his eyes to hers, and she felt the full force of their impact as he studied her again. What did he see when he looked at her? Did he see her as she was the night he’d come to her rescue? Or did he see her as she was now? Determined to save the child when she’d been unable to save so many?
“You must do right by the girl,” his mother said softly. “If indeed, you have no doubt that she has given birth to your son.”
Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman Page 2