His mother’s lips parted slightly as she blinked up at him, and she appeared uncharacteristically flustered, but soon recovered herself. She spoke with poise and graciousness, as always. “And I have been beside myself, waiting to see you wearing it, Lady Letitia. I shall have it sent to Vincent’s rooms immediately.”
His mother looked up at him again with a measure of concern, and he wondered if she had changed her mind about the necklace.
But no...it was something else. Perhaps his father was especially fretful today. This kind of weather always made him anxious.
Before Vincent had a chance to inquire, his brother Devon appeared under the keystone arch at the back of the hall and stared at Vincent as if he had just shot the butler.
Vincent felt all the muscles in his neck and shoulders clench slowly like a fist.
His raven-haired brother, with eyes as blue as an October sky, had returned from America little more than a month ago, after being gone for three very congenial years. Vincent was not yet accustomed to seeing Devon back in the house, striding around as if their personal war had never occurred. And his brother had taken charge of the estate as if their father had already handed over the title.
“Devon,” Vincent said flatly. “How good of you to greet us. You remember Lady Letitia, I presume.”
Of course his brother would remember her. She had thrown a tantrum in the study not long ago, screeching at Devon and slapping his face. It was the day she learned he had proposed to another woman.
It was one of the few decadent pleasures of the day, Vincent supposed, to bring Letitia back here and present her to Devon.
His brother’s gaze shifted to Letitia, as if he had only just then become aware of her presence. She glared at him for an icy instant before he strode forward and spoke with polite reserve. “Welcome back to Pembroke, Lady Letitia.”
She smirked and slipped her arm through Vincent’s. “Thank you, Lord Hawthorne. I am pleased to return, especially now that I am engaged to your very charming and handsome younger brother.”
“My congratulations to you both.” Devon turned his attention to Vincent. “But I must have a word with you. Now, if you please.”
It was not lost on Vincent that their mother was biting her lower lip. “I presume it is a matter of some importance?” he replied.
“Yes, it is an urgent problem.”
Just then their younger brother Blake appeared at the top of the stairs. “Vincent. You’re back...”
An awkward silence ensued. It seemed to Vincent that the scene had become rather theatrical, so he slid his arm free of Letitia’s possessive grip. “If you will excuse me, darling. Obviously, there is some colossal household matter that requires my attention.”
Her cheeks flushed red with what appeared to be annoyance. She was growing tired of waiting for the necklace, no doubt.
“Of course,” she said, with a mask of affability.
His mother moved forward to distract the two ladies. “Allow me to escort you both to your rooms, where I am certain you will enjoy the spectacular views of the lake.” She nodded at a footman to inform the housekeeper.
Wondering what was so important that it could not wait, Vincent broke from the ladies and followed the brother he so deeply despised into the library.
“I beg your pardon?” Vincent said as Devon handed him a glass of brandy. “Did I hear you correctly?”
“Yes.”
“You are telling me that a baby was brought here. To the house. This morning.”
“Yes.”
“And the child is alleged to be mine?” His body went utterly still as he comprehended this most shocking news, which in no way could be true. “This is beyond even you, Devon. You cannot be serious. Is this a joke?”
“Am I laughing?” his brother replied. “Do I appear amused, even in the slightest?”
No, he most certainly did not.
The possible legitimacy of his brother’s pronouncement and all its implications struck Vincent hard, but any immediate anxiety was smothered instantly by denial, for he had always been exceedingly careful. It absolutely could not be true.
He glanced down at the brandy in the glass, stared at it for a moment, swirled it around, then without taking a drink set it on a table. He crossed to the window and looked out over the vast estate to the horizon, blurred by mist and clouds. Everything inside him was churning with shock and unease and a tumultuous mix of emotions he could not even begin to fathom. All the while his intellect was measuring the predicament with heightened precision and clarity.
He thought of all the women he had bedded over the past year. He tried to picture their faces, but most were blurred images, flashes of memory. A laugh here, a kiss there—all insignificant, forgettable encounters. Only one stood out in his mind, like a lone portrait in a fine gallery. Of that night he remembered everything.
But it could not be her.
“How do you know this woman is telling the truth?” he asked, not yet ready to believe it, for there were many reasons a woman would stoop to such tricks. Wealthy and powerful, the men of Pembroke were each in their own right a tempting prize. Setting a trap such as this would be all too easy where Vincent was concerned, for the whole of England knew of his reputation, and certainly the women he slept with were not known for their morals and principles.
Except perhaps for that one particular woman, on that one particular night. She had been different from the rest. But it was not her.
“That is the problem,” Devon said. “We have no way of knowing.”
Vincent walked to the sofa and sat down, then planted his elbows on his knees, bowed his head and squeezed his hair in his hands. “What rotten timing.”
“It was bound to happen sooner or later,” Devon said. “You’re a man who enjoys his pleasures with women of loose morals. You are notorious for it.”
Vincent lifted his head. “I don’t need a lecture from you, Devon, of all people. And I will have you know that I always take precautions.”
“Not very good ones, evidently. It doesn’t take much, you know. Just one moment of weakness or forgetfulness.”
Vincent glared at his brother with unadorned loathing. “I know how it works. And so do you, by God.”
The reminder was enough to silence his brother, for they both knew that Devon had experienced his own moment of weakness three years ago. That precise lack of control over his passions had cut and mutilated their friendship forever, because they’d both loved the same woman—MaryAnn, who was off-limits to Devon because she was engaged to Vincent, and Vincent had loved her with all his young and foolish heart.
But Vincent did not need to think about that. MaryAnn was dead and buried.
Devon picked up Vincent’s brandy, handed it back to him, and sat down in the opposite chair. “You’re going to have to speak with this woman and find out if the child is yours.”
“Speak with her.” Vincent frowned. “She is here?”
“Yes. She is in the green guest chamber in the south wing.”
Vincent stared down at his brandy, then downed it in a single gulp. “What is her name?” he asked, grimacing as the alcohol burned a scorching path down his throat.
“She is guarding her identity quite doggedly I’m afraid,” Devon replied. “In fact, she doesn’t even want to be here. It wasn’t her intention to see you. She only meant to ensure the infant was cared for.”
Vincent felt a sudden pressure inside his head. “She hasn’t asked for money?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
He frowned. “What happened, exactly, when she arrived? And who knows about this?”
“She came at dawn on foot and knocked on the servants’ door. She explained herself to Mrs. Callahan, then asked her to deliver a letter to Mother. The letter states
the child is yours, but that the young woman can no longer care for her because—”
“The child is a girl?”
“Yes.”
Vincent tipped his head onto the back of the sofa. “Go on.”
Devon continued. “Unfortunately, the woman in question was long gone by the time Mother read the note. Mother went immediately to fetch the child, who was with the housekeeper, and brought both the infant and the note to me. I woke Blake, and we went out on horseback searching. The woman wasn’t difficult to find, as she was not well and hadn’t gotten very far.”
Vincent looked up. “Not well, you say?”
Devon answered the question with a grave nod.
For a long moment, Vincent sat and tried to make sense of his emotions, which were beginning to assert themselves with astounding force. He wanted to leap out of his chair, dash out of this room and meet the woman for himself, to discover her identity and see the baby. He did not act so hastily, however, for he knew he must keep his head. He could not permit himself to ignore the possibility that this was in fact a trap. That it was another man’s child, not his.
“Father is not yet aware what has occurred?” Vincent asked.
“We did not believe he could cope with the news just now.”
Vincent rubbed a hand over his thigh and contemplated the situation. “I agree with you on that point at least. It is difficult to predict how Father would react. We should keep this from him, at least until I have a chance to speak with the woman, whoever she is.” He stood. “I will go now and deal with her.”
“I don’t see how you have any choice, Vincent. It appears your recklessness has finally caught up with you.”
Vincent glared heatedly at his brother. “Spare me the self-righteous babble, Devon. You’re no saint yourself, and you know it.”
He turned and left the library.
Mounting the stairs with one steady, sure-footed step at a time, Vincent resolved to keep a vigilant head when he met this woman, for she could easily be a fortune hunter, and if she was, he would have to draw her out.
If, on the other hand, the child was his...
Something inside him lurched involuntarily. What would he do? Give the woman money, he supposed. Provide for the child somehow. And remind the woman that he was a callous, irresponsible rake with a heart of stone. Send her on her way. She’d be better off.
He walked faster down the central corridor, tense and impatient, irritable in his discomfort.
A baby girl. What would she look like?
He would know if she was his, wouldn’t he? Something in him would sense the truth, would recognize his own flesh and blood? He would feel something?
It was quiet as he strode through the gallery, past the potted tree ferns, around the corner, and at last down the south corridor. The doors to all the rooms were shut. He did not even know which one was the green guest chamber.
Heart pounding with impatience, he tried them all, gripping the knobs, shaking and rattling the doors that were locked until he found himself stepping into a bedroom.
Suddenly, he stood on a soft oval carpet, facing a window with drapes drawn to keep out the daylight, staring at a woman asleep in the bed.
Chapter 2
He once told me he would treat my heart and body with great care. He was lying, of course, for it was all a very clever, skillful seduction.
—from the journal of
Cassandra Montrose,
Lady Colchester,
December 2,1873
Vincent stood in the dimly lit bedchamber, not quite sure if any of this was real. He blinked a few times. Was he seeing things? No, he was not.
It was her, no one else. It was Cassandra Montrose, Lady Colchester, his passionate lover from that incredible night a year ago—the woman he had worked so hard to forget. The one who claimed to be barren.
He noted with more than a little discomfort that her face was pale and gaunt, her lips dry and chapped. Dark circles framed her eyes. What the devil had happened to her?
All at once his heart seemed to pound agonizingly, like a bass drum in an empty opera house. Lady Colchester startled awake at his presence and stared at him.
Oh God, those eyes. They, at least, were the same—still full of confidence and intensity, so utterly captivating that they knocked the wind out of him, just as they had that night in the ballroom.
Of all the women he had bedded, why did it have to be this one?
Sucking in a breath, he gazed quickly about the room.
“You are looking for your daughter,” she said.
There it was. The voice he had also driven from his memory—that low, husky, sensual cadence.
“If she is in fact mine,” he replied, remaining faithful to his vigilance, relaxing into more familiar behaviors, and reacting only to the fact that Lady Colchester had lied to him about not being able to conceive. “I am here to ascertain the truth.”
Those overwhelming eyes narrowed. She wet her lips and spoke with quiet restraint, without answering the question. “A lovely woman came and took her to the nursery so that I could get some rest. She said her name was Rebecca.”
“She is my sister-in-law, Lady Hawthorne.”
Lady Colchester folded her hands on her lap and stared at him in silence.
He studied her in return for a moment as everything came rushing back at him—the memory of how she had felt in his arms that night when they danced, the sound of her teasing laughter in the carriage, the flavor of her lips when he kissed her. It was a remarkable night, he could not deny it, but he had not been looking for that. He had not wanted anything so profound. He was not capable of it, not then, not now, and she had known it. He had made it very clear. He always made it clear to the women he took to bed.
“Do you even remember me?” she asked. “Because I am very aware that I am not the only woman you shared a bed with during that time, and you look quite baffled.”
“Of course I remember you, Cassandra,” he replied, using her given name intentionally, just to prove it. He remembered every bloody thing about that night, much to his dismay.
Her eyebrows lifted. “You remember my name. Indeed, I am impressed. It was so long ago, after all. So brief and unimportant and inconsequential.”
His eyebrows pulled together in a frown. “Obviously it was not entirely inconsequential. You had a child.”
Anger was suddenly boiling up inside of him, but for a terribly surprising reason, which shook him inwardly. Why hadn’t she tried to contact him before now? She had communicated nothing. For the past year he had been completely ignorant of the fact that they had conceived a child together.
Which incidentally never would have happened if she had been truthful with him about her ability to have children. He never would have allowed himself the luxury of making love to her without protection. And he would have withdrawn at the appropriate time.
“I hope you don’t think I am going to get down on my knee and propose to you,” he said, “because I am not.”
“What a dream come true that would be,” she replied sarcastically. “Oh, to become your Lady Vincent. Rest assured, sir, that particular turn of events was the last thing on my mind when I decided to come here.”
He paced around the room. “And what was the first thing on your mind, if I may ask?”
“Didn’t you read the note I left, before your brothers came riding after me as if I were an escaped convict?”
“No, I have not yet seen it.”
She looked away. For a moment, he watched her. She seemed too angry to speak.
“You look different,” he said.
“Yes, I know,” she replied. “Poverty has that effect on a woman.”
Experiencing a chill from her tone, he strove to keep his voice steady and find out exactly what had happened to her since they had parte
d. “My brother said you are not well.”
“Do I look well to you?”
“No, you do not. Tell me what has happened to you.”
She paused, staring at him. “I wouldn’t think it would be that difficult to guess at. A number of weeks after the night we spent together, I was surprised to discover I was with child. Obviously, it was the stuff of scandal, and my late husband’s heir was more than happy to have an excuse to call me a whore and turn me out into the street with nothing, just to keep himself out of it. It was all he wanted anyway, to be rid of me. So, I had no choice but to go home to my family, but they were appalled by my disgrace and immediately disowned me. After that I managed to survive on my own by working in a hat shop. I am still employed there. For the time being at least.”
Vincent strode forward, closer to the bed. “Why did you not come to me? I would have taken care of things.”
“‘Taken care of things.’ I don’t even want to know what you mean by that. Though I suppose it’s something you’ve had to do more than once in the past.”
“I would have provided for the child,” he clarified.
She shook her head with skepticism. “She has a name, you know. Not that you would even care to know what it is.”
“You are quite right, I don’t care.”
Before he could truly contemplate his initial instinct to be cruel, she heaved forward and coughed violently into a fist.
Vincent crossed the room in a single pulse beat and pulled a clean handkerchief from his breast pocket. He put his hand on her thin shoulder while she coughed, eyes tearing, her body shuddering as she fought for air. When she finally regained control and could manage a clear breath, she reached for the handkerchief he offered and wiped the tears from the corners of her eyes.
“You’re very ill,” he said, cupping her scorching hot forehead in his hand. “Have you seen a doctor?”
“Yes. I do not need to see another. There is no point.”
He was cross with himself for not realizing earlier how ill she was. “So that is why you came here? Because you need care?”
The Mistress Diaries (Love at Pembroke Palace Book 2) Page 3