“I can’t imagine why you’re surprised by that,” his mother said sharply. “I’ve never cared about it before.”
“My lord, perhaps you would like—” Camilla began.
“Oh, don’t pretend with me, Mother,” Pierce snapped. He was tired of waiting for Mother to show her true self. It was time to force her into it. “We both know that you care a great deal about money. For once in your life, be honest and admit that this entire farce is about your wanting to get your hands on Father’s fortune.”
She paled. “Camilla, dear, if you would leave me and Pierce alone to have a private word . . . ”
When Camilla rose, Pierce stayed her with a glance. “What my mother doesn’t want you to know is that my maternal grandfather, the baron, liked to live a bit too well for his income. Mother grew up in luxury, but by the time she was old enough to marry, Grandfather Gilchrist had been forced to economize, which I gather he wasn’t very good at. That’s why Mother cast her net for Father, so she could return to the wealth and prestige of her girlhood.”
He smiled coolly at his mother. Let her deny it to his face, damn her.
But her gaze on him was steady and unabashed. “Since you seem determined to air our family affairs before Camilla, pray do not mince words. As you know perfectly well, my papa wasn’t ruined by high living but by gambling. He amassed so many debts that he was in danger of going to debtors’ prison.”
That took Pierce completely aback.
Mother shifted her gaze to Camilla. “Pierce’s father bought up all of Papa’s vowels and offered to forgive them entirely in exchange for my hand in marriage. So yes, I married him. It seemed the best course of action at the time.” She rose abruptly, her color high. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get someone to bring us some tea.”
Pierce stared, thunderstruck, as his mother swept from the room. What the hell was she talking about?
“You didn’t know,” Camilla said in a hushed tone.
He glared at her. “She’s lying.”
“Why would she? That would mean telling the sort of secret about her family that no woman could want known. And telling it before me, who isn’t part of your family.”
Her logic beat at his defenses. “Then why is this the first time I’m hearing it?” Shoving the tin soldier into his coat pocket, he paced beside the table. “My cousins told me she married Father for his fortune. And it took a great deal of wheedling for me to find out the little I know—that Grandfather was practically penniless when Mother married Father. There was no mention of gambling debts.”
Abruptly he realized why. Who would have told him? Father’s last solicitor had been hired well into the marriage. The Waverlys were from Father’s side of the family; they would know only what they’d been told. And Father would have been too proud to let it be known how he’d acquired his wife.
Consumed by a need to hear it all, Pierce strode out the door, with Camilla following. They both stopped short when they found the countess standing there, breathing hard, clearly trying to regain her composure.
“Father bought you?” he demanded.
Setting her shoulders, Mother faced him. “Don’t be so dramatic. He courted me like any other gentleman. He just made sure that his suit would be received more favorably than most. I could have refused him. No one forced me to accept, not even your grandfather.” She tipped up her chin. “I made my own choice.”
He stared at her. Perhaps. But somehow it didn’t seem quite as mercenary as before. “I didn’t know,” he rasped. “I never knew any of this.”
She looked perplexed. “But I explained it in my letters.”
Pierce felt the familiar guilt like a punch to his gut.
She must have read it in his face, for she paled. “You didn’t read them.” When he let out a low curse and turned away, she murmured, “I thought you just . . . couldn’t forgive me for . . . I understood that, considering. But you didn’t . . . you haven’t even . . . ”
Releasing a low moan, she turned for the stairs. “Pray excuse me. I feel a sudden headache coming on.”
Camilla watched as his mother fled, then whirled on him with eyes flashing. “You didn’t read them? Any of them? I thought you might just have been ignoring what they said, but not to read them at all . . . ”
The outrage in her voice roused his own temper. “Don’t condemn me without knowing the entirety of the case.” He nodded jerkily toward the stairs. “Didn’t you hear her speak of my not being able to forgive her? Don’t you wonder what it is I can’t forgive her for?”
“Oh, I’m sure you blame her for all sorts of silly things.”
“Silly thi—” He choked out a laugh. “Ask her about my matriculation from Harrow, about every school holiday.” He scowled at her. “Ask her what happened when I came into my majority. I daresay she won’t answer you. And until she does, you have no right to judge me.”
“Why not tell me yourself?” she demanded.
“You’re not going to believe any of it unless you hear it from her. That has become perfectly clear.”
Besides, before he destroyed Camilla’s faith in his mother, he needed to know more of the truth. He was obviously missing a few pieces.
Wheeling around, he walked away and headed toward his father’s old study, the one place where he might find answers. But when he reached it, he halted at the door. He couldn’t bring himself to go in there—not after the last time.
In any case, if Father had left documentation, it would be at Montcliff Manor, not here, since he and Mother moved into the manor when Pierce was twenty-two. And after Pierce inherited, he went through every inch of the place, looked over all his father’s papers for some indication of the truth. He found nothing.
Perhaps you should have read her letters.
Mother’s expression when she realized he hadn’t swam into his mind. She’d looked wounded. Shocked. Betrayed.
The eight-year-old inside him wanted to shout, “Good! Now you know what it’s like to be ignored and abandoned!”
But the mature man felt shame—then anger at himself for even feeling shame. Why was he letting her affect him? For all he knew, she was inventing this to suit her needs. Had she given any proof in her letters? Referred him to anyone who might confirm her tale?
Damn it, he should have read them, if only to be prepared for whatever she threw at him. That would have put him ahead of the game when he came here. Now he had to muddle through this as best he could.
Had she really written to him about Grandfather’s gambling? She must have—she’d assumed he’d read the letters, so there’d be no point now in her lying about that. What else might she have told him? Something to explain her complete lack of interest in him until two years ago?
No, at Father’s funeral, she’d refused outright to give him answers. There was no reason to think she had put them in a letter, especially given her reticence to talk about the past since he’d been here. But the fact that he’d so thoroughly misunderstood the nature of his parents’ marriage made him wonder what else he’d misunderstood.
He threaded his fingers through his hair. If Grandfather had sold her to Father, if it really hadn’t been a love match, then perhaps Father had been behind her refusal to see her son. Might he have threatened her with something to keep her by his side and away from Pierce?
That made no sense. Why would Father essentially abandon his only heir? Why would he demand that she do the same? Besides, that day when he’d come here at twenty-one, she had been just as cruel as, if not more so than, Father when—
He spat an oath. It made far more sense to believe that Mother had thrown in her lot with the man who could give her everything, and Pierce had been an inconvenience. When he was in school, he always read of Lord and Lady Devonmont flitting to this dinner or that ball in Bath or York or London. They’d seemed to be going incessantly to house parties with the loftiest members of society.
At the same time, it was getting harder and harder to see Moth
er as some . . . frivolous, money-grubbing female who’d snagged an earl to move up in society.
His throat tightened. This was why he hadn’t wanted to come here, damn it! There were no answers here, just more questions, more opening of wounds he thought he’d sewn shut with steel thread.
Damn her! And her meddling companion.
That thought swirled in his brain the rest of the afternoon, fortifying him for dinner. He would demand to know what was in the letters. Then he would demand to know what exactly she wanted from him after so many years of neglect. And if she wouldn’t tell him, he would lay out for Camilla why he’d been estranged from his parents.
Yes, that’s what he would do.
But when he came down to dinner, fully prepared for a confrontation, no one was there. On his plate was a folded sheet of paper addressed to “Lord Devonmont” in what must be Camilla’s hand, since it certainly wasn’t his mother’s.
He gritted his teeth. God, but he was sick of missives. Letters were what people resorted to when they didn’t want to lie to your face. When they wanted to pretend they weren’t ripping your heart out.
With an oath, he opened it to read:
Your Lordship,
Your mother has a fierce headache and will not be coming down to dinner. With your permission, I shall stay with her this evening.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Stuart
Balling it up, he tossed it into the fire. With his permission—right. As if he had any say in the matter.
He could read between the lines. No dinner with Mother, so no evening with Camilla. He was being punished—for speaking the truth, for not reading Mother’s letters. Punished for not opening Camilla’s eyes to what his mother really was.
Except he wasn’t sure anymore what his mother really was. Who she was. He couldn’t even be sure anymore what he meant to her.
And that was driving him insane.
11
Camilla paced the countess’s sitting room, praying that she would emerge soon. The lady’s maid insisted that her ladyship had asked not to be disturbed because of her headache.
Camilla sighed. More likely, the woman’s heart had been cleaved in two by her unfeeling son.
Ask her what happened when I came into my majority. I daresay she won’t answer you. And until she does, you have no right to judge me.
All right, so perhaps he wasn’t so much unfeeling as wounded. But why? And how? As a paid companion, she’d seen plenty of families torn apart over foolish nonsense—a father embarrassing his son in public, a daughter who turned down a marriage proposal. Families were difficult to fathom.
But she began to think it wasn’t something small that had torn this family apart. The rift seemed deeper and wider than she’d assumed.
Perhaps Pierce was right. Perhaps she should not have meddled. Certainly she’d brought more pain to Lady Devonmont in the process. Still, how could he not have read his own mother’s letters? It didn’t seem worthy of him.
Then again, she didn’t really know him, despite having spent a week of evenings with him. He was entertaining—witty, clever, and even charming when he wanted to be. She’d poked at his mask, lifted it a bit, tried to peek beneath it, but whenever she got a good glimpse of his real self, he jerked the mask back into place.
It was maddening.
The door to the bedroom opened, and the countess walked out. At once Camilla’s heart dropped into her stomach. Her ladyship’s eyes and nose were red, her features drawn.
She looked startled to see Camilla. “I thought you’d be at dinner.”
“I’m not about to abandon you when you’re upset.”
The countess forced a smile. “I’m not upset. I’m just a bit . . . ” Her face began to crumple, and she turned away to hide it.
“You are upset, and you have every right to be so.” Camilla hurried over to put her arm about the woman’s shoulders. “It was cruel of him to ignore your letters.”
“He had his reasons,” she choked out.
“You keep saying that. But what could they possibly be?” When the countess just shook her head and pulled free to walk back toward her bedchamber, Camilla steadied her nerve and added, “He told me to ask you about his holidays from school.”
Lady Devonmont froze.
“He didn’t tell me why I should ask, and he wouldn’t tell me why he mentioned it. He left that to you. Why? What happened during his holidays?”
The countess stood there a long moment, as if debating something. Then she sighed. “Nothing happened. That’s the trouble.”
“If nothing happened, then why—”
“I wasn’t around for his holidays. That’s what he wants you to know.”
Camilla blinked, sure that she had misunderstood. No feeling mother was absent for her child’s holidays from school. “None of them? No Christmases, no Easters?”
“Not a one,” she whispered.
Shock coursed through her. Even when she’d been forced to leave Jasper with her husband’s family, she’d always made an effort to be with him for important occasions. She couldn’t imagine not seeing Jasper for Christmas, for pity’s sake.
The rest of Pierce’s words leaped into her mind. “And his matriculation ceremony? He said I should ask about that, too. Don’t tell me you weren’t there for that, either.”
The countess faced her with a shattered expression. “He spent every school holiday from the time he was eight with his cousins at Waverly Farm. They were the ones, along with his great-uncle, to attend his matriculation ceremony. I couldn’t go. I wasn’t allowed.”
“What do you mean?”
Lady Devonmont’s eyes, the same warm brown as Pierce’s, darkened, and she released a long, tortured breath. “Pierce’s father wouldn’t allow it.”
“The earl?”
“Yes, of course the earl,” she snapped. “Who else?”
“Right, sorry,” Camilla mumbled. Her mind reeled at the very idea of Pierce being left to relations when he had two perfectly good parents. “I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don’t. Neither does Pierce.”
No, how could he? It must have driven a stake through his heart to essentially lose his parents so young. He’d been only two years older than Jasper!
Her ladyship began to pace. “That’s why I’ve never told him that his father was the reason for my absence. Because it would only raise more questions that I can’t answer.”
“So you don’t know why the earl kept you from your son?” she said incredulously.
“I do know why.” The countess’s face closed up. “But I shan’t discuss it. I can’t. Some things must remain private.”
“Private? The reason your son was abandoned is something you consider private?” Camilla cried. “I daresay he deserves to know why.”
“He does, but I can’t . . . ” Her voice broke. “I won’t speak of it. I begged his forgiveness in my letters for not being a mother to him all those years, and I understand if he can’t forgive me. But as I told him, I had good reasons for agreeing to let others raise him. I did what I had to. He will simply have to accept it.”
Camilla gaped at her. “Don’t you see why he can’t, not without knowing why?”
The countess shot her a warning glance. “Stay out of this, my dear.”
“How can I, when I see how it pains you both?”
“Curse it, why can’t you both just leave the past be? Why can’t we just start anew and forget—”
“Because you can’t! Not if you want to repair your relationship with your son.”
Her ladyship let out a low moan but wouldn’t say more.
“Why wouldn’t the earl let you see him?”
The countess just shook her head.
Drat it, the woman was as stubborn as Pierce! And what did she mean, some things were private?
Oh. Camilla could think of only one reason the countess might feel a need for privacy in such a situation. And it would explain why her ladyship had
snapped at Camilla for unwittingly implying that Pierce wasn’t the earl’s son.
Perhaps Pierce really wasn’t the earl’s son.
It would explain so much—why the countess didn’t want to talk about it, why Pierce didn’t want to talk about it. If he were another man’s son . . .
The thought brought her up short. She’d seen a portrait of the late earl. Pierce was the very image of his father. Anyone with eyes could tell that.
Besides which, he’d been born well on the right side of the blanket, for the countess often said she’d had him ten months after her marriage at eighteen. And while Camilla could almost imagine the countess giving herself to one man, and then being forced to marry another after she found herself with a babe in her belly, Camilla had trouble imagining her ladyship as an adulteress. Especially married to a man as rigid as the earl.
Nor did Pierce seem to think such a thing. Surely he would have hinted at it if he’d known. But perhaps he didn’t know. If there was even anything to know, which she began to doubt. He did look amazingly like his father.
Which meant something else was at work here.
Remembering other things Pierce said, Camilla added, “At least tell me what happened when he reached his majority. He said you would never say.”
The color drained from Lady Devonmont’s face. “He’s right.”
“But why?”
“Because . . . because you would hate me if I told you.” Her throat moved convulsively. “And I just can’t . . . bear to have you hating me, too.”
Camilla couldn’t imagine anything her ladyship could have done that would be as awful as all that. “I would never hate you, my lady. If you’d only explain—”
“Enough, curse it!” The countess drew into herself, putting on her own mask—a cold, uncaring one that didn’t hide a thing, for her eyes blazed bright within it.
Then she turned on her heel and headed for her bedchamber. “I’m retiring for the evening. We will not speak of this again.”
“But, my lady—”
“No!” She halted just short of the door, her shoulders trembling as if she fought to contain tears. Then she seemed to steady herself. “I never asked you to interfere in this, Camilla, and if you continue . . . ” She left the words hanging, but the implication was clear.
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