Nicholas: Lord of Secrets ll-2

by Grace Burrowes

  “Well, that will have to stop,” Leah said sternly.

  A cold trickle of dread seeped down Nick’s spine. Surely Leah wasn’t going to deny him time with his daughter? “What do you mean?”

  Leah pushed off his chest to regard him in the moonlight. “You love that child with your whole soul, Nicholas Haddonfield, and it breaks your heart to have to part from her, never knowing when you can steal another little visit, never seeing her day to day as all parents can see their children. You missed her first two years, and it simply won’t do for you to miss any more. She’s clever enough to try to extract promises from you regarding your next visit, and she wants to be with you more as well.”

  Nick buried his face against her neck, his throat constricting. “She’s difficult, she has a temper, she’s loud, and she can be clumsy when she’s happy—also when she isn’t.”

  “I have a temper when my courses are near,” Leah said. “I hate needlepoint, and I will hoard chocolates if left to my own devices. She is your daughter, and of all people, Nicholas, of all women, I cannot stand by and watch another young lady fret that her papa doesn’t love her, doesn’t want to be with her, isn’t proud of her. I will argue with you on this and not give up.”

  “She knows I love her,” Nick said roughly. “She has to know that.”

  “Of course she does, but it’s the sort of thing that can be doubted even while one knows it.” Leah folded herself back against him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and tucked in close. “She’s your daughter. She should live with her papa.”

  And now what Nick felt was beyond words, beyond even the concepts of hope, joy, and gratitude. It made him humble and invincible, determined and at peace. It gave him the strength to cry and the courage to accept the miracle he held in his arms.

  Sitting on the stone bench in the moonlight, his backside going numb, his wife in his arms, Nicholas Haddonfield knew he was absolutely and unshakably, unequivocally and eternally loved.

  * * *

  “I believe you have something that belongs to my wife.” Nick allowed himself to glower at his father-in-law, though he relished those two little words: my wife.

  “Why would I retain any evidence of the blight she embodied under my own roof?” Wilton replied mildly.

  Nick braced himself on his fists and leaned over Wilton’s ornate desk. “Because at some point,” he replied in equally unimpressed tones, “you considered it might gain you leverage, with someone, somewhere, to be able to prove her marriage to Frommer was legal, and to conceal such evidence in the meanwhile.”

  “How do you reach such an absurd conclusion?” Wilton rose and turned his back on Nick, his posture suggesting he was absorbed in the study of the gardens behind the Wilton town house.

  “Hellerington was forthcoming,” Nick said. And Nick had been inclined to believe the man, even when he claimed to have had nothing to do with an attempted abduction from the park. “Seems while taking the waters in Bath, your old friend got some charming little trollop pregnant. He no longer pants after Leah, which, under the circumstances, is most wise of him, albeit inconvenient for you.”

  “Hellerington’s doings are no concern of mine.”

  “Not now,” Nick said, “but you saved those marriage lines in case you needed to convince Hellerington you could not keep your promise to him, that you had no authority to promise your widowed daughter’s hand to anyone.”

  “Widowed…” Wilton did turn then, and though he hid it well, Nick saw the fear behind the calculation in the older man’s eyes.

  “Widowed,” Nick said. “Widowed, entitled to both her portion and her inheritance from her mother, which—alas—we will find mysteriously plundered by none other than my father-in-law.”

  “You are making wild accusations against a peer of the realm,” Wilton spat, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “Peer being the operative word,” Nick retorted, “when I now enjoy that status myself. Did you really think Hellerington would keep his mouth shut forever? You promised him a wife if he kept the details of the duel to himself, reneged on your promise, and now he neither needs nor wants the only wife you could have procured for him.”

  “He doesn’t know the details of any duel,” Wilton shot back, his voice rising.

  “One can hardly call it a duel when a young man trips before the count is done and his pistol discharges while he yet faces away from his opponent, and that opponent turns, sees the young man on the ground, and shoots him in the back. I agree with you, it doesn’t qualify as a duel, but it bears an exact resemblance to murder.”

  “You don’t know that’s what happened,” Wilton hissed. “You can’t know that.”

  “First hand? Perhaps not, but I have Lord Hellerington’s sworn affidavit, and that will do to get things started.”

  “You would not dare,” Wilton retorted, desperation ruining his attempt at indignation.

  “I might not, but Frommer’s brother heard the same tale from young Frommer on that unfortunate man’s deathbed. Because the marquis was himself not an eyewitness, he did not feel he could come forth with the tale, his inattentiveness at the scene reflecting further dishonor on the proceedings, and on himself. In short, Wilton, you got lucky. But deathbed confessions are admissible hearsay in a court of law.”

  Nick let that sink in and felt a petty gratification as he watched the color leach from Wilton’s face. A silence spread through the room, full of satisfaction on Nick’s part, no doubt full of dread on Wilton’s.

  “What will you do, Bellefonte?”

  “Don’t know.” Nick’s tone was jaunty to the point of nastiness. “I know what you’re going to do, though.”

  Wilton nodded shakily, waiting.

  “You’re going to retire to Wilton Acres,” Nick said, “where you will attend your estate in such a manner as to ensure a reasonable profit. You will sell the town house you purchased for that viperous little mistress of yours, and you will lease out this property, should your sons not be interested in its use. With those proceeds and the profits off Wilton, you will repay your children what you’ve stolen from them, with reasonable interest. You will not circulate in Society at any level, Wilton. Not for at least five years.”

  He was banishing his father-in-law, as Leah had been banished, but Wilton at least had the grace to ask one question. “Emily?”

  “She will enjoy my grandmother’s hospitality,” Nick said, “and that of her sister’s household, under my protection, and that of her brothers. They are aware of your situation, by the way, and agree that short of causing the scandal you deserve and they do not, this is the best course.”

  Wilton sat heavily in one of the delicate, expensive chairs, staring at Nick mutely.

  “I suggest you start packing,” Nick said softly, tapping his hat onto his head and pulling on his gloves.

  Wilton addressed the carpet before Nick could move to the door. “It was an accident—with Frommer. I wanted to scare him off, of course. He could have taken Leah’s portion, and there was none to be had, but when his gun went off…” Wilton shook his head. “I panicked. It was an accident, I swear. I hate the girl on some level, hate that her mother did what she did, hate that I couldn’t… But I just wanted Frommer backed off enough never to ask the wrong questions, you know? About dowries, of course, but also about inheritances. I made a mistake.”

  “As perhaps the girl’s mother made a mistake, one for which you could not forgive her.”

  Wilton nodded miserably but said nothing further.

  “Wilton,” Nick said before his compassion evaporated in the heat of his contempt, “I believe you did not premeditate murder. You will live out your days in the country anyway, because what you did before and after that accident was deliberate cruelty toward those you should have protected.”

  Another nod, and then Wilton seemed to shrink and draw in on himself, a physical metaphor for the shriveling of his soul.

  If indeed he still possessed one.

 
* * *

  “I don’t understand,” Leah muttered, glancing over at Nick as their coach rumbled off toward Darius’s estate. “You went to call on Wilton?”

  “I am your husband.” Nick took pleasure in reminding them both, though his errand with Wilton had meant Leah had awoken alone in their bed. “Your battles are mine to fight.”

  “You beat him?” Leah’s tone bore equal hints of relish and dismay.

  “Figuratively. You and Frommer were legally married, Leah. Your father encouraged the elopement to explain the lack of dowry, but he’d forgotten you also had inheritances—funds he’d stolen several years before—of which Frommer might have gotten wind. Those funds were to go to you in trust upon your marriage, a hedge against your father’s embezzlement of your dowry.”

  The coach slowed to make the turn from the lane, shifting Leah’s weight more snugly against Nick’s side.

  “Mother mentioned something about that, though she was very ill at the time, and I didn’t know if she was speaking factually or in terms of unmet wishes.”

  “Factually,” Nick said, settling his arm around Leah’s shoulder. Her scent was particularly luscious this morning, and to his eyes, she looked subtly radiant. “Embezzlement left your father with a need to put a good scare into any notions Frommer might have had about poking into your finances. As the son of a marquis, Frommer could have seen it done.”

  Leah turned to gaze out the window, which meant Nick’s fingers could caress the curve of her cheek. “But Wilton killed Aaron before any awkward questions were asked?”

  “Wilton claims it was an accident,” Nick said gently, “and the circumstances don’t particularly contradict him.” Hellerington did, of course, but his account was not entirely unbiased, and Nick could easily see Wilton panicking in a crisis. “The upshot is your father will make financial reparation to his children and behave himself in Hampshire for the foreseeable future.”

  She nuzzled his hand, which was enough to make Nick wish the coach were headed back toward Clover Down. “You’re sure?”

  “The statute of limitations on murder does not toll,” Nick replied. “Wilton probably doesn’t have that many years left on this earth, given the weight of his sins.”

  “The wicked put off meeting their fate as long as they can,” Leah observed. “What do my brothers think of this?”

  Their reactions didn’t matter to Nick, provided his countess was happy. “I don’t know. I sent messages to them this morning, summarizing my actions, and set off before they could reply. I gave Wilton to understand we are a united front, of course, because scandal would serve no one. Did you know I am an uncle?”

  She shot him a glance at the abrupt change in topic, but acquiesced. Her father’s perfidy would no doubt take time to ponder—and recover from.

  “Ethan has children?”

  “Two little boys whom I’ve not yet met,” Nick replied, though given Ethan’s proportions, they were probably big little boys. “I can’t wait to chase them through our orchard.”

  He waited while she digested that, but when his wife—his countess, his Leah, his lovey—made no comment, Nick abandoned half measures and scooped her onto his lap.

  “Better,” he pronounced. “I should not have left you alone in our bed this morning. A woman dealing with a pilfered inheritance, purloined marriage lines, a surprise, mostly grown stepdaughter, and a clodpated husband should not be waking all on her lonesome.”

  “A comfortable, clodpated husband,” Leah allowed, relaxing against him. “There’s more, though, isn’t there? You haven’t taken a sudden notion to go calling on Darius today, of all days, because you’ve tired of my charms already—I’ve not tired of yours, in case you were wondering.”

  Nick brushed his lips against her ear. “I was wondering if you were sore, lovey. My countess is a passionate lady.” And wasn’t that a fine, fine thing?

  “Blame me for provoking you to protracted displays of virility, will you?” She sounded wonderfully disgruntled as she kissed his jaw. “If this is your version of flirting, Nicholas, you are in sad want of direction. It shall be my pleasure to provide it to you upon our return to Clover Down.”

  “And it will be my duty…” The rest of the blather flew out of his head as Leah bit his earlobe. The coach rumbled along, the earl and his countess kissing all the while, until Nick caught a glimpse through the window of Darius’s gateposts.

  “Lovey?”

  She struggled to sit up, which allowed Nick to notice that their spate of kissing had taken a toll on her coiffure.

  “That is not a dignified endearment, Nicholas. I am a countess, soon to be the guiding female influence on your only daughter, and I will not allow—”

  Nick allowed himself one more little kiss, to stop his lovey’s verbal frolicking. “What would you think about becoming the sole female influence on Leonie and a somewhat younger child, a boy who bears a particular resemblance to your brother Darius?”

  She went silent, shifted off his lap, and tucked the stray lock of hair behind her ear, all vestiges of frolic and flirtation gone from her expression. “There’s another secret, isn’t there, Nicholas?”

  “Please don’t look so worried, wife of mine. This is a happy secret, a joyous secret that need not be kept secret much longer.”

  The silly woman tried to scoot away from him. Nick hauled her back against his side. “Shortly after you returned from Italy, a young woman presented herself to your brother, claiming that Wilton had ruined her. Your brother took her in, passed her child off as his own, and has kept the pleasure of raising the boy to himself these past few years. This struck him as the best way to keep the boy safe from Wilton, and in this instance—in this one instance—I will allow I agree with Darius.”

  When Leah would have worried a fingernail, Nick took her fingers in his hand and kissed them.

  The worry remained in her gaze. “I have a brother.”

  “A busy little fellow named John. We’re to meet him, assuming he hasn’t run off and joined the Navy.” Nick tried for humor, tried for a lightness he didn’t feel as he watched anxiety cloud his wife’s face. “Darius has asked us to add the boy to our household for a bit, in fact. He wants to put the lad even farther from Wilton’s reach, at least for a time.”

  The coach swung past a hedge of blooming honeysuckle, the sweet, soothing scent at odds with the tension Nick felt radiating from his wife. She started blinking, slowly, then more quickly.

  “Lovey, we don’t have to take the boy in. I’m sure Darius would understand. I did not promise we would, and you’ve dealt with enough upheaval.” Belatedly it occurred to Nick that a woman who’d lost a son might not be keen on raising a half sibling for the convenience of others. He’d bungled—

  “He looks like Darius? He has dark hair?”

  What had that to do with anything? “Sable, I’d say. And his manners are impressive for such a wee lad.” A tear slipped down Leah’s cheek, and Nick nearly bellowed for the coachy to turn the damned vehicle around.

  “My Charles had sable hair,” Leah said, taking the handkerchief Nick stuffed into her hand. “Charles and Darius were very alike, the same smile, the same eyes. Charles loved his uncle, and I believe Darius would have died for that child.”

  Nick could not tell if this was a good thing, given some of dear Darius’s other antics. “Darius loves this little fellow, Leah, clearly.” He brushed a tear from her cheek. “I was hoping you might love him too. We’re the boy’s family, you see, and he hasn’t had an easy time of it, with just your brother to raise him.”

  “Of course.”

  Of course—what? What did “of course” mean, muttered in near strangled terms?

  “Lovey?” Nick bent nearer, close enough to catch the fragrance of lilies of the valley, near enough to recall the flower symbolized the return of happiness. “Of course, what? I can make excuses to your brother, and you need not leave the coach. I can understand that you’re dealing with a lot, and I may have mis
judged—”

  He shifted back just in time to avoid her elbow as she twisted sharply and flung her arms around his neck. “Nicholas, I love you. I love you so. I love you until I ache with it, and then I love you even more.”

  “I love you too.” His arms came around her and held her tight, not for her, but for him—because he needed to hold her when she was upset. “But please don’t cry. I cannot abide it when you cry, Leah.”

  And yet, these tears did not strike him as tears of misery.

  “You don’t even know this boy, and you must scheme with my brother for the child’s safety,” Leah wailed. “You didn’t know me, and you m… married me, and made me your countess. You trust me with Leonie, and your own sisters don’t know of her, and my brother is an idiot to keep this from me, but you’re making him tell me, aren’t you?”

  She kissed him before he could answer, and the kiss told him what the words and the tears had not: Leah was happy. She was pleased to have another sibling—which certainly made matters easier—and she was also pleased with him. With Nicholas Haddonfield, her husband, which made Nick happy too.

  “I did not make Darius do anything.”

  “Yes, you did.” Another kiss, this one damp and salty with her tears. “You threatened to treat Darius to some fisticuffs if he didn’t allow us to help him, all in aid of saving face, I’m sure, because Darius is quite fierce, but oh, Nicholas…”

  She subsided to the seat beside him, which was fortunate, because the coach had been standing still for some moments. Nick took his thoroughly wrinkled handkerchief from her grasp and blotted her tears. “I did not want to upset you, Wife. This should be a happy day.” He took her hand in his, the better to comprehend the emotions rioting through her. “Why the tears, Leah? Is John to come stay with us at Belle Maison? Leonie alone will create a commotion. Two children at once, children who are strangers to each other and strangers to you, is hardly how I wanted you to begin your duties as my countess.”