The Puzzle of a Bastard

by Sande, Linda Rae

  Frances pushed past the old crone and disappeared from view. That’s when Mrs. Hough’s attention went to Gabe. Her eyes narrowed. “Oh, I see how it is—”

  “Good evening, Mrs. Hough. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Gabe Welling—”

  “Oh, I will not, sir! Remove yourself from my sight. Rakes are not welcome in this neighborhood. ”

  Gabe’s eyes widened in disbelief. “Madam, I’ll have you know I am not a rake. I am a gentleman, and I am employed by the British Museum as an archivist,” he stated. “Mrs. Longworth’s tardiness is entirely my fault, and you shall not hold it against—”

  “You will not tell me what to do, and I do not care who you are.”

  Frances reappeared carrying a wrapped bundle, and a cloth bag hung from one arm. “He’s soaking wet,” she complained. “When was the last time you changed his nappy?”

  Mrs. Hough’s expression darkened, and Gabe watched in horror as she turned her wrath on Frances. “I’m quite sure I cannot recall. His incessant crying has been most vexing.”

  Frances recoiled, but then furrowed her brows. “Did you... did you feed him? I was sure I left enough for both his luncheon and his dinner.”

  “Leave this instant, or I shall never again look after him,” Mrs. Hough threatened. “If I’d any idea you were a... a whore, I would never have agreed to take him in the first place.”

  Gabe was sure he had never seen Frances look so shocked, almost as if the hag had bodily struck her. “You apologize this instant for your slanderous comment,” he demanded. “Mrs. Longworth is an expert in her field, gainfully employed at the British Museum.”

  “You will not tell me what to do,” the crone spat out.

  Determined she no longer be the target of Mrs. Hough’s wrath, Gabe stepped forward and reached for Frances’ hand. “Come. Let us be going. Mrs. Hough, be assured Mrs. Longworth will never again darken your door, and should I ever come across you again, you will suffer the cut direct,” he warned.

  Frances whispered a hoarse, “No!” even as he pulled her toward the coach. The light from behind them disappeared as the door was slammed shut, and the whimpers from the bundle Frances clutched increased to wails.

  Gabe opened the coach door and did his best to help Frances into the coach. When he caught sight of her teary eyes, he knew why it was she had trouble making her way into the conveyance. He turned his attention up to the driver. “Tell me, Mr. Watkins, do you suppose your wife is still up and about?”

  The driver nodded. “Of course. Much as she’d like our two to be settled in bed, she reads to ’em ’til eight... sometimes nine at night. And the Thompson babe is probably still awake as well.”

  Gabe allowed a sigh of relief. “Then we shall head back to Trenton House.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  Once Gabe was settled in the seat opposite Frances, the coach lurched into motion. His gaze settled briefly on the townhouse at Number Three, and he realized why it was he recognized the street. His cousin, Thomas Wellingham, lived there with his wife, Emma. On the other side of the street was the largest town home, that of Tom Grandby’s grandmother, Sophia Simpson and her second husband, Henry.

  His anger at Mrs. Hough having abated somewhat, Gabe took a deep breath and regarded Frances for a moment. Tears streamed down her cheeks, but the baby’s cries had stopped. When he heard the tell-tale sounds of nursing, he understood why.

  “You will not take that baby back to that crone,” he hissed vehemently.

  Frances let out a huff, obviously prepared for his attempt at chivalry. “And, where, pray tell, will I take him? Mrs. Hough was the only one I could find to look—”

  “He can stay at my house. Mrs. Watkins would gladly look after him.”

  Frances gave a shake of her head. “I will not prevail upon someone I do not know—”

  “I will introduce you. Tonight. She is quite qualified.”

  “Qualified?”

  “She was my sister’s nurse and now sees to a couple of the servants’ children as well as her own,” he explained, aware that the fight seemed to have gone out of his colleague. “Your babe’s nappy will be changed, and he will be fed whenever he is hungry.”

  “At what cost?” she asked in a whisper. “I gave Mrs. Hough a pound a week—”

  “Wot?!”

  “I was desperate, Mr. Wellingham.”

  “Gabe, please,” he murmured. “I will not begin to guess how it is you can afford such an extravagance—”

  “Must I remind you I have a position?” she countered, just before she seemed to crumple. Her head dropped back on her shoulders, and when she turned her attention back on him, she seemed to have regained her composure. “I live cheaply so that he can be well cared for.”

  Gabe wasn’t about to argue that Mrs. Hough’s care didn’t seem well by any stretch of his imagination. “His care under Mrs. Watkins will be far better, and the cost much less,” he said.

  “How much less?”

  Not expecting to have to quote an amount, Gabe lifted a shoulder. “You’ll not have to pay more than a pound a month.”

  Frances gasped. “How... how can that be?”

  “Mrs. Watkins is already employed at the house to see to the other children. We’re simply adding one more, and she adores babies.” In all the hubbub, he hadn’t thought to wonder why it was Frances had a baby. He was sure she had never been married, but now he wondered if she was a widow. He angled his head to one side. “What is his name?”

  Frances sniffled. “David.”

  “Was he named for his father?”

  She shook her head. “He... he would have wanted nothing to do with me if I told him I was with child, so I...” She allowed the sentence to trail off and then sighed as fresh tears trickled down her cheeks.

  His breath held a moment, Gabe swallowed. Her babe was a bastard. “He is why you left Staffordshire.” The words were meant to come out as a question.

  “His father threatened to tell everyone at the studio that I was a whore if I so much as hinted I was really Frank Longworth. And I would have lost my position if anyone had learned about the babe.” She seemed about to sob, and Gabe quickly moved to sit next to her.

  “The worst of it was that I only had the position because I had to agree to... to... allow him...” The unmistakable keening of a woman in distress had Gabe wrapping his arm around her shoulders to pull her closer.

  “Shh,” he whispered as he felt her relax into his hold. He looked down to see two dark eyes regarding him with interest. Given the size of the bundle and the features he could make out in the dim light, he figured the babe was no older than six or seven months.

  He would have to be, since Frances wouldn’t have still been pregnant when she started at the museum.

  Then he remembered her enormous apron and thought perhaps she could have hidden her condition behind it.

  “He’s quite a handsome little man. How old is he?”

  “I gave birth to him in June, so... seven months, I suppose.”

  “So... you took some time off?” He hadn’t yet been hired at the museum back then. He was still in Cambridge.

  “Of course, not,” she replied, sniffling.

  Gabe jerked. “How is that... possible?”

  She shook her head. “I brought him in a basket to work with me. I hid him under a blanket. He rarely cried. But after a couple of months, he was simply too hard to hide, so that is when I began paying Mrs. Hough extra to care for him,” she explained. She suddenly glanced out the window. “Where...? Where are we going?”

  “Back to my house.”

  “But... I need to go home—”

  “Must you?”

  Frances turned to stare at him. “You are doing this with the expectation of something in return. I understand,” she whispered.

  “I am not,” he argued. “I merely wish to make up for what happened earlier. You will spend the night in a guest bedchamber, and David will be seen to by Mrs. Watkins.”
<
br />   “And in the morning?”

  He hesitated before saying, “Breakfast. A rather elaborate affair on Sunday mornings. Not to be missed. And then... I shall see to it you are returned to your home.” It was then he realized that they had just been to her home. Mrs. Hough wasn’t just a caretaker for her baby, she was also her landlord.

  The thought of taking her back to the old crone’s townhouse had Gabe wincing.

  “And if I want to go home tonight? Now?” she countered.

  “Do you?”

  Frances jerked in his hold, her gaze going to the parade of townhouses that passed by beyond the glass windows. After a time, she realized they were in Mayfair. She saw the sign for Curzon Street and knew then they were close to Hyde Park.

  The thought of a sumptuous breakfast after tonight’s dinner had her deciding she would accept his offer of hospitality. But only for the one night. Tomorrow was Sunday. Once Mr. Watkins took her home in the morning, she would have the entire day to spend with her son. Mrs. Hough would probably be away at church for half the day. “This is very improper,” she whispered.

  Gabe sighed. “I suppose it could be construed as such, but we will know the truth, as will the servants. You are simply a guest. A colleague in need of a place to stay.”

  “You will not expect me to share your bed?”

  “Of course not.”

  “And you will not expect me to share mine?”

  Gabe winced. The mere question had him wishing he wasn’t so damned honorable. “As I tried to explain to Mrs. Hough, I am a gentleman,” he murmured. “As much as I wish I could share your bed—and I do because... I have no idea why—I have no expectation you will extend an invitation for me to do so. Therefore, I intend to spend the night in my bedchamber. Alone.”

  Frances stared at him, shocked by his claim that he wished he could share her bed. After everything that had happened this evening, and given what he had just learned about her, the very last thing she expected was for Gabe Wellingham to desire her.

  Chapter 21

  About a Ring

  Meanwhile, in the dining room at Woodscastle

  James had thought to wait for the dinner bell to chime before going into the long dining room at Woodscastle, but curiosity had him perusing the sideboard and other furnishings as he waited for Emily to join him.

  He had changed into dinner clothes, glad for the excuse to set aside the book he had been studying most of the day. The mindless act of undressing and dressing had allowed him to simply think.

  Without conscious thought, images of Emily filled his mind’s eye. For the past few days, he found he had become obsessed with her.

  He wondered what she was doing. What she was thinking. What she liked and disliked. What did she think of him? And why the hell had she agreed to become Henry’s wife?

  The thought reminded him that she had never said why it was she had agreed to marry Henry. Just that Henry had claimed to love her.

  And why had his brother thought it necessary to wait until all the other Grandby girls were married before calling on Emily? Wasn’t that an old-fashioned idea?

  He stared at a porcelain figurine atop the sideboard, one positioned next to a vase featuring a feminine shape. The gentle curves of its silhouette had him wondering if Emily’s were similar. He knew she had the slender waist and a generous bosom—her dinner gowns emphasized her charms—but her hips were always hidden beneath the bell skirts that had become so popular this past decade.

  Damn the French.

  “Do you frown at it because it displeases you? Or because you’re thinking of something else?”

  James turned and helped himself to Emily’s hand. He raised it to his lips and kissed the back of the silk glove. “I was cursing the French,” he admitted.

  “Oh.” She dipped a curtsy. “Liquor? Or fashions?”

  “Why, fashions, yes, if you must know.” His gaze dropped to her skirt—this one wasn’t nearly as wide as some of the others she had been wearing. The shimmering peacock blue silk draped in soft folds from her waist—and he allowed a brilliant smile when the silhouette of one of her thighs was briefly in evidence. The same fabric sheathed her bodice, but was cut low enough to display the tops of her breasts.

  The only item that appeared out of place was the gold ring that hung on the chain around her neck. The sapphire stone was at odds with the greener blue of the silk.

  “You look stunning.”

  Emily couldn’t hide her first reaction. “Now you have me suspicious,” she warned as she moved to take her seat at the table.

  “Rightly so. I was trying to imagine the shape of your bum.”

  She sat down. Hard. “If your intention was to shock me, Mr. Burroughs, you have managed to do so,” she replied, barely able to suppress a grin.

  James joined her at the table. “I cannot believe I just said that out loud,” he murmured. “You must think me mad.”

  Pretending she had already come to that conclusion, Emily waved for a footman to see to the first course. “Really, James. You need only ask.”

  “You’re joking,” he accused, after a very long pause.

  “You can ask me anything. At this point in my life, nothing except for what you just said would shock me,” she claimed.

  “Why did you agree to marry Henry?” The words poured out so quickly, even he was shocked at hearing them.

  Given the footman was in the process of pouring wines, Emily was saved from having to respond right away.

  After Humphrey appeared with the first course of soup and set it down, she said, “He claimed he had loved me for a very long time. And I felt affection for him. At the time,” she quickly qualified. She turned her attention on her soup, knowing James would want to know more. Before she had finished her second spoonful, he cleared his throat.

  “At the time,” he repeated. “So... what happened that had you changing your mind?”

  Emily was almost relieved at hearing the invitation to tell her side of it. No one else had asked, but then she had been very careful about keeping her betrothal a secret. “Lady Andrew paid a call. She asked if Henry had said anything about needing money. A loan.”

  James dropped his spoon into his soup and stared at her. “For what?”

  Although she had been determined to remain calm should James ask anything more about his brother, Emily found she was torn about telling him what she knew. The man was dead now. But perhaps Henry had left a mess, and James, or worse, their father, would discover it the hard way.

  “Gambling debts.”

  James stared at her, as if she might have grown horns or sprouted a tail. “Henry?” The name was said so softly, Emily barely heard it.

  “Last winter, he went to Lady Andrew and told her he was in need of some funds. Wondered if she might be of help because he didn’t want to bother your father at the bank.”

  “Go on,” James said, his mind racing. As far as he knew, Henry wasn’t a gambler. He played whist on occasion, but only at house parties.

  As far as he knew.

  “She spent some time in conversation with him in an effort to learn what might have happened. She claimed he was given a generous allowance—”

  “He was. We both were,” James said.

  “But he finally admitted he had been duped in a card game and had lost it. And in his attempt to earn it back, he lost more than he had with him.”

  James inhaled slowly, knowing what she described was probably just the tip of a much larger problem. “Let me guess. It was not just the one time.”

  Emily shook her head. “I had already agreed to marry him, but I hadn’t yet told my father—he and Tom were up north for some railroad negotiations or some such—so no arrangements had been made as to my dowry.”

  “Thank the gods,” James murmured.

  “And, then, within the next week, Henry came down with what he thought was a head cold. Another week, and he was bedridden. It was as if he had given up on living. He couldn’t get money
from Lady Andrew—she refused him outright when she learned why he needed it—and I only considered it because I didn’t know the truth of just why he needed it until she told me.”

  James listened intently, his gaze on how her hand gripped the ring that hung between her breasts.

  “What did you do?”

  Emily pinched her lips together and tugged hard on the chain that held the ring. The clasp gave way, and she allowed the ring and chain to fall onto the tablecloth. “It’s paste,” she said in a whisper.

  Reaching for the ring as if it was a snake intent on biting him, James unthreaded it from the chain and examined it closely. “Pardon my curse, but it’s a damned good copy,” he murmured, noting the sapphire’s color and the way the diamonds that surrounded it shimmered under the dining room chandelier. The gold band even looked as if it was made of gold.

  “I had it made to replace the real one,” Emily said, wiping a tear from her cheek. “While I still had the real one.”

  James dropped the ring. “What happened to the real one?”

  Emily struggled to take a breath. “Forgive me. I knew it was your grandmother’s, but I would have been satisfied wearing the copy, so I pawned it, and then I had a courier deliver the money to the man who threatened to kill Henry,” she explained. “In the end, it didn’t matter. He died a few days later.”

  “Oh, my God, Emily,” James said in a whisper. He lifted the ring again. “Are you quite sure you pawned the real one and not the copy?”

  Emily couldn’t understand why James seemed so interested in the ring. “I’ve just told you that your brother was in debt due to gambling. I’m quite sure the money from the ring was enough to cover his debt to the one man, but what if he owed money to others? I have worried all this time that someone would come for your father or for you.”

  “No doubt there were others who held markers, but Henry is dead. Anyone holding a marker wouldn’t dare try to collect from my father. He’s a duke’s son. A duke’s brother.”

  “What if they come for you?”

  James allowed a shrug. “I’m a duke’s grandson. A duke’s nephew,” he reminded her. “His debt is not mine.”