But it could not take his music.
Emotion raged within him, so fierce it nearly tore out through his skin. He needed to purge himself of it, to regain some control over his life. There was only one way he had ever been able to do that.
He lifted his hands to the keys and began to play.
Chapter 5
Mr. Everton Wallace did not have the look of a lawman about him. He was not very tall and somewhat thin of frame. His brown eyes appeared good-natured behind his spectacles, and he had left his hat with Travers, revealing his balding pate. He shuffled his feet and hummed to himself as he made notes in a small book. Yet Bow Street claimed he was their best.
He had been scribbling for so long that Wylde was beginning to think he might have to send for refreshments when the runner finally looked up. “I believe I have nearly everything I need to begin the investigation, Your Grace.”
“Excellent.” Wylde glanced at the clock. A quarter before noon. Grandmother would be arriving shortly for their trip to Bond Street.
“One more question. When did the incidents begin?”
Wylde brought his attention back to the runner. “I estimate at least three months ago.”
“Very good, then. Is there anything else?”
He hesitated, then finally gave in to the demon that had been plaguing him. “I want you to investigate a young lady. Her name is Miss Miranda Fontaine, and she is new to London. I want you to find out everything you can about her background.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Mr. Wallace dipped his head in deference. “Is she related to this case or is this a separate matter?”
“No, an entirely separate matter.” He tapped his fingers on his desk, already regretting the impulse. “She sang at Mrs. Weatherby’s last night under the stage name the Contessa della Pietra. I do not want you to trouble Mrs. Weatherby with your inquiries—I will speak to her to see if she has the young lady’s direction—but please do question the Weatherby servants to see if Miss Fontaine arrived or left with anyone.”
“I will, Your Grace. If there is aught to know of this Miranda Fontaine, I will find out about it.”
“You reassure me,” Wylde drawled.
“Bow Street has earned its reputation,” the little man said with a proud huff.
Wylde raised his brows. “My grandmother is expected at noon, Mr. Wallace. Perhaps it would be best if you took your leave.”
“Of course. Good day, Your Grace.”
“Good day.” Wylde watched as the odd fellow scrambled out of the room. He was trying desperately not to judge by appearances, but Mr. Wallace did not look all that competent. Of course, that could be a ruse and the reason for his reputed success.
He glanced at the clock again. Ten minutes before noon…which meant he could expect Grandmother sometime in the next hour. His grandmother’s clock often ran more slowly than the rest of the world’s, rendering her fashionably—though constantly—late.
Wylde stood and stretched a bit, moving his neck from side to side to get rid of the kinks. It had been a long day, starting with an irate tailor with an unpaid bill for a coat he had never ordered and a horse trader who demanded payment for a nag he had never purchased. The imposter continued to rack up the debts, leaving him to pay them. And pay he did, for he did not want to further besmirch his reputation by adding debt dodger to the list. Hopefully, the runner would succeed where he had failed, and the matter would soon be resolved.
But what had possessed him to ask the man to investigate Miranda Fontaine? He had no desire for that sort of complication. If she were as smart a woman as she appeared, she would probably be long gone already, moving on to the next man who might fall for her wiles.
Perhaps when the investigator proved her duplicity, he would be able to forget her and shift his focus to more important matters.
A discreet knock came at the door, and then Travers opened it. “Miss Fontaine to see you, Your Grace. I have put her in the blue parlor.”
“The cheeky baggage!”
The servant hesitated. “Shall I escort her out, Your Grace?”
Wylde’s lip curled as anticipation simmered. “No, Travers. Allow me.”
When he entered the blue parlor, he experienced a moment of déjà vu, for there sat his little Quaker of the day before in her prim gray dress with her straw bonnet. Only this time she did not bow her head and fiddle her fingers like a nervous miss. No, she might be dressed like the Quaker, but the green eyes that challenged him reflected the fire of the contessa. He noticed, too, a basket that sat on the floor, next to her chair.
“Good afternoon, Miss Fontaine. I am astonished at your boldness.”
“I do what must be done,” she said, then rose to her feet long enough to bob a curtsy. Its brevity punctuated without words that she wished him to the devil.
He could not help the grin that tugged at his mouth. She was like a hedgehog, all prickly and cautious but ready to bite should the situation call for it. Like any impish boy, he could not resist the opportunity for a bit of mischief. He lounged across from her in a comfortable armchair, itching to put a dent in that cool demeanor. “I am all but ready to boot you to the curb, young woman, but never let it be said I am not a gracious host. Such a tragedy that you chose not to wear that burgundy creation from last night.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, nearly skewering him with her sharp gaze. “I have not come here to allow you to poke fun at me.”
“No, you have come here to irritate me to blazes. I see you have a basket there. What have you brought? A picnic lunch for the two of us to share in private?”
Her gloved fingers clenched in her lap. “You are a vile man. I can hardly credit that you are this sweet baby’s father.”
He jerked into a sitting position. “You mean there really is a child?”
She lifted her chin. “Of course there is. Your child.”
He wanted to stand up and quit the room, to get as far away from the infant as possible. But that would be cowardice, and he refused to show weakness when those perceptive green eyes were upon him. He tried to ignore the basket. “Very well, I will concede that I did not believe the babe existed. However, nothing has changed. I have already told you I am not his father.”
“If you can look at this angel-faced baby and still reject him, then you truly cannot call yourself an honorable man.”
“You think me soft-hearted?” He smiled with black humor, ignoring the sting of her very clever jab. Something about this woman awoke his fighting spirit, making him feel more alive than he had in years. Enough that he would force himself past aching grief to demonstrate his resolve. “Very well, then. Let us have a look at the mite, and then you may leave me in peace.”
“He is asleep.” She glanced down at the basket by her feet, and her face softened like a madonna’s. “I expect he will wake soon enough.”
“Come now. I will not wake him.” He rose and came over to her chair, squatting in front of her to peer into the basket. From the corner of his eye he was aware of her stiffening at his nearness, of the subtle shifting of her feet.
Of the delicate aroma of rose water.
“His name is James, after Lettie’s father.”
“Indeed?” He cast a quick, cautious glance at the baby, all he could stand without dredging up agonizing memories. Then he focused on her, allowing himself to be distracted by the scent of her, the warmth of her. Her skin was soft and radiant as only youthful skin can be. He wondered if it looked that way all over.
“You are staring.”
He jolted. Bloody hell if he wasn’t gawking like some green lad, but every time he saw her, he noticed some small detail that he had not seen before. This time it was the gentle dent in her chin, just a shallow little dip, but enough that he knew she would not be easily swayed from any path she chose.
Could it be he had only met her for the first time yesterday?
“Excuse me, Your Grace.” She gritted out the courtesy through clenched teeth. “You are su
pposed to be looking at the child, not at me.”
“Make you nervous, do I?” Grinning at this small crack in her prickly armor, he summoned enough bravado to look again at the child, but all he saw was dark hair and a tiny face scrunched in slumber. He glanced away, feigning disinterest, hiding his pain. “He looks like any other infant. I am afraid there is nothing to be learned from his countenance.”
He stood and retreated back to his chair.
Her luscious pink lips thinned. “So you still dismiss him?”
He gave a dark chuckle. “Young woman, I have been dismissing him from the beginning. You, however, are persistent. Very well, let us determine why I could not possibly be this child’s father. Do you happen to know what month he was born?”
“I know the exact day, Your Grace.” She rose to her feet, shoulders stiff and jaw clenched. “Lettie died giving him life on the third of March of this year.”
“The third of March. Which means he would have had to have been conceived…hmm…last spring. Late May or early June, perhaps.”
She gave a stiff nod. “I will defer to your greater knowledge of such things.”
He met her gaze now, suddenly chafed by her righteous attitude. “Indeed, I do know something about it. For you see, my wife died carrying my unborn child. That was two years ago this past February.” He sent her his coldest stare. She did not flinch or look away or in any manner concede a single inch. But he could see the way her expression softened, the sympathy that lit her eyes. And he hated her for that soft heart, curse her. He did not want to feel anything of the tender emotions. Not ever again. “This past year, Miss Fontaine…this past May and June, when I supposedly got your friend with child…I was still in deep mourning for my wife in solitude at my country estate.”
Her lips parted and he could see he had startled her. Good. Perhaps now she would cease challenging him. She glanced down at the baby, then back at him, and then her eyes narrowed. “Lettie swore on her deathbed that you were the father. She named you specifically. I doubt she would lie under such circumstances. And other people saw you together. How can you explain that?”
“Explain?” His voice rose as the anger of ill-use flooded him. “Young woman, I am the Duke of Wyldehaven, and I owe no one any explanations for my actions—with the exception of my king.”
Her lips thinned. “Wrong, Your Grace. You owe this child.”
“The hell I do!” he roared.
The baby jolted awake with a soft cry. Miranda cast Wylde a chastising look, then bent to lift the child from his basket. Despite her attempts to soothe him, the infant’s piercing wail sliced through the silence and slowly rose in volume.
Travers chose that moment to present himself in the doorway. “The Dowager Duchess of Wyldehaven,” he announced, then moved aside as Wylde’s grandmother hobbled into the room.
“What ever is going on here?” she demanded.
Miranda rocked the baby with her eyes averted, hesitant to look at the highborn lady directly. A man might hesitate to toss a young woman out on the street, especially if he found her attractive. Indeed, she had been counting on Wyldehaven’s evident masculine interest to buy her enough time to convince him to help James. A woman of power, however, was a different story. A woman would be more likely to eject another female, especially if she considered a man in her circle to be threatened.
“Answer me, Thornton,” the duchess demanded of the duke, and then an odd thumping noise made Miranda glance over.
The Dowager Duchess of Wyldehaven was a tiny lady who looked as if the slamming of a door might blow her down. The duchess’s head of silver curls would probably only reach her own shoulder, and her delicate frame was swathed in yards of pale blue silk. In her bejeweled fingers, the duchess clutched an elaborate cane that had been painted with colorful violets against a white background, and it was this that created the odd noise. Her slow, shuffling steps indicated that the cane was a necessity rather than an affectation of fashion.
“Grandmother, I did not realize the time.” The duke hurried forward to kiss her cheek, towering over the spritelike duchess as he offered his arm. She rested her hand on his sleeve as delicately as a butterfly alighting on an oak branch, and accepted his assistance to the sofa. “Come and sit, and I will have Travers fetch you some tea,” he said.
“There is a baby in your parlor, Thornton,” the duchess announced, gingerly perching on the edge of the sofa. “And a young woman with no chaperone.”
“Miss Fontaine was just leaving.”
Miranda glared at him, even as she bounced James in her arms to pacify him. The child was quieting, and with any luck he would fall back to sleep. “I do not believe we have concluded our business, Your Grace.”
If looks were weapons, his flinty gaze would have felled her. “I disagree. Have you a carriage? If not, I will have the servants summon a hack.”
Clearly the duke did not want her in the same vicinity as his grandmother. She swallowed back the bitter taste of disappointment, then straightened her spine. What had she expected? She should be used to such behavior from the rich and titled. She was less than nothing to him.
“Thornton,” the duchess chided, smoothing her skirts against the cushions. “How can you be so rude? At least let this young woman finish calming her child before you cast her into the street.”
Startled by the older lady’s dry tone, Miranda ducked her head and fussed with James’s blanket. Any other female of noble birth would have been appalled to find her paying a call on the duke, unaccompanied by a maid or other servant. That the Duchess of Wyldehaven paused long enough to consider the baby rather than have her and James tossed from the house said much about the dowager’s character.
“I am not casting her into the street.” Wylde’s irritable tone made Miranda’s lips curve. “We simply have nothing more to discuss.”
The duchess peered at Miranda, her gaze alighting on the bundle in her arms. “What is your child’s name, Miss…Fontaine, was it?”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Miranda managed to get up and bob a quick half curtsy while balancing the babe. “Miranda Fontaine. And this is James.”
“A good strong name.” She waved a hand in summons. “Come, let me see him.”
Miranda glanced at Wyldehaven, but he only cast her a sour look and stalked to the other side of the room. She approached the elderly lady and bent down so the duchess could see James’s face. The baby had squeezed his eyes shut and was sucking furiously on one fist.
“Oh, how precious.” The duchess beamed, first at the child, then at Miranda. “You must be so proud.”
“I am,” Miranda said, straightening. She tucked the blanket more securely around the baby’s face. “Though I am not his mother.”
The duchess chuckled. “Oh, I believe you are, at least in the way that matters.” Then she looked at her grandson. “Is this child yours, Thornton?”
The duke stiffened and sent a killing glare at Miranda. “No, Grandmother, he is not.”
Miranda pressed her lips together to keep her fierce rebuttal contained. As much as she was willing to debate with Wyldehaven until the end of time, she did not wish to upset the Dowager Duchess. How typical of him, though, to deny what was clearly evident. Closeted in the country, indeed!
The duchess looked at Miranda. “I take it you disagree, my dear.”
Miranda nodded.
“Well, then.” The duchess raised her brows at her grandson. “Let us find out, shall we?” She held out her arms. “Give the child here, and we shall determine if he is a Matherton or not.”
Miranda hesitated at the strange request. First the duchess had not had them ejected from her presence, and now she actually wanted to hold the babe? She glanced at Wyldehaven, but he looked just as puzzled.
“Come, come, young woman.” The authority in the old lady’s voice had Miranda complying before she thought. Gently, she placed James in the duchess’s arms.
He fussed just a little, but the duchess had clearly
handled infants before. She cooed to him and jiggled him until he calmed again and settled to sleep, slurping on the fist jammed in his mouth. Then she slowly unwrapped his blanket and, to Miranda’s surprise, pushed aside the baby’s gown so his feet were exposed. She peeled off one bootie and then peered at the tiny foot in her hand.
“Well,” she announced, “he is indeed a Matherton.”
“What the devil…?” The duke jerked to attention and crossed the room in three long strides. “Grandmother, what are you saying?”
The duchess glanced up at him. “I realize you are overset, Thornton, but you will have a care for your language when ladies are present.”
“My apologies, Grandmother. And I am not overset.”
“You are,” she corrected. “Look here. See the child’s toes? The second and third cluster together, as if growing from the same base. A Matherton trait.”
Miranda leaned in for a closer look and nearly bumped her head with the duke’s as he did the same. She caught a whiff of sandalwood from his nearness before they both jerked back. Heat crept into her face as he raised a brow at her.
“Thornton,” the duchess said. “You look first.”
The duke leaned in, observed the baby’s toes, then jolted back as if shot. “How can this be?” he demanded.
“Miss Fontaine,” the duchess invited.
Miranda leaned down to study James’s toes. The large toe and two smallest toes both grew directly from the babe’s foot, but the second and third ones appeared to come from one base, splitting into two toes halfway along. It was not a grotesque oddity or deformation of any kind, not anything that would draw attention if one were not looking for it. But based on what she knew about her own feet, her own five toes all grew separately, unlike James’s.
“This child is a Matherton,” the duchess announced. She handed the baby back to Miranda, who set to wrapping his blanket around him again. “What say you, Thornton?”
“I am not the father.” Miranda snorted, and he glared at her before looking back to the duchess. “Grandmother, you know as well as I do that nine or ten months ago, when this child was conceived, I was not even in London.”
To Ruin the Duke Page 6