“Victor?” Guinevere asked pleasantly in the pause while the duke gathered momentum.
Victor tugged at the cuff of a beautiful dove-gray morning coat that had likely stopped fitting him two years ago. “I’d spare you this if I could.”
“If that’s all you have to say, Victor, then I can spare myself,” Guinevere said, rising.
“Miss Hollister,” Westhaven interceded, “please have a seat. His Grace is understandably upset.”
“We are all understandably upset,” Guinevere shot back, “but only His Grace is behaving with less decorum than a five-year-old.” A look that contained both humor and foreboding passed between the brothers, but it was perfectly translatable to Douglas as well.
“And that,” the duke volleyed, “is precisely the kind of disrespectful, impertinent influence my granddaughter should no longer be exposed to.”
Firing his big guns early in the battle, typical of a man who was used to getting what he wanted.
“If I might be so bold?” Douglas kept his tone deferential.
The duke looked surprised Douglas could speak, but Victor looked hopeful, and Westhaven relieved.
“The duke and duchess have every right to feel their trust has been abused,” Douglas began, “but Miss Hollister has come here, has in fact entertained Westhaven in her home, and introduced Victor to his daughter in an attempt to create trust, not destroy it. It is unfortunate Their Graces learned of Rose’s existence in the manner they did, but Miss Hollister was quite appropriately leaving the determination of how to tell them to Victor. And he,” Douglas finished in the same tone he’d use on a skittish horse, “has not had time to absorb the news of his paternity before finding a way to bring the situation to the attention of others.”
“He had time to tell his damned brother,” the duke groused, but Douglas’s diplomatic homily had mollified him, no doubt to the relief of all present.
“The question before us,” Douglas went on, “is how we might each, as adults who care for Rose, work together in her best interests.”
“That is a pretty speech, sir,” the duke said, “but when the girl’s mother keeps her existence from her father until she receives his deathbed summons, then we’ve established such a woman cannot act in her daughter’s best interests.”
“Westhaven,” Guinevere said icily, her gaze trained steadily on Victor, “Their Graces remain ignorant of certain facts, and it is not my place to malign my daughter’s father to his parents.”
“Victor?” The duchess spoke up for the first time, her tone gently bewildered.
“It’s complicated, Your Grace.” Victor’s expression had become stoically blank and fixed on the toes of his shiny boots—Hoby, if Douglas weren’t mistaken.
“Then you had best begin your explanation, boy,” the duke blustered.
“I did not behave honorably,” Victor said. He directed his words to Guinevere, and Douglas heard both apology and profound regret in his admission.
“We damned well know that much,” the duke expostulated. “But why shouldn’t I have this woman arrested for prostitution?”
“Because I didn’t pay her one farthing?” Victor replied, a flush suffusing his pale features. “Because I used her badly indeed, lied to her, abused her good name, broke my word to her as a gentleman, and then convinced myself my abandonment of her had no lasting consequences to her, but was, in fact, the best I had to offer her?”
Victor dissolved into a fit of wracking coughs, and the duke fell silent, watching his son with eyes that abruptly looked old and tired.
“I raised you to be a gentleman,” Moreland said. “And you are a disappointment to me and to your mother.”
“Moreland,” the duchess reproved. “You are not a disappointment, Victor.”
“He is,” huffed the duke.
“Disappointment I may be,” Victor said, seeming to find some resolve, “but I am also Rose’s father, and I have behaved in a manner that does not allow you to cast aspersion on her mother. Miss Hollister would have been within her rights to have me called out, and the marquess, I am sure, would have cheerfully settled the matter for her.”
The duke blinked. “Marquess?”
Guinevere raised her chin in a manner that did not bode well for the civility of the proceedings. “My cousin, Your Grace. The Marquess of Heathgate, my other cousin being the Earl of Greymoor, my cousin by marriage being Viscount Fairly, and through those connections, I am also family to Lord Amery.”
“And none of ’em could keep your virtue safe,” the duke pointed out with satisfaction.
“The only threat to her virtue,” Westhaven countered implacably, “was raised in the ducal household, Your Grace.” The duke looked chagrined at his heir’s reproof, but Guinevere—bless her, damn her—seized the opening.
“So what is it you want of me, Your Grace?”
“Nothing,” the duke snapped. “From you, nothing. All I want is my granddaughter. She is to be raised with the privileges and standing of a duke’s granddaughter, and that is all there is to say on the matter.”
Moreland had raised two by-blows with his eight legitimate progeny. Douglas gave the man credit for not even mentioning the question of Rose’s legitimacy—fleeting credit.
“And how do you hope to gain possession of Rose, when she has both mother and father able to care for her?” Guinevere parried.
“Her father”—the duke shot a pitying look at Victor—“is not able to care for himself, though it pains me to say so before either my sons or my duchess. Her mother is a female. Unavoidable, but there you have it.”
“Your Grace has spoken in haste.” The duchess looked less concerned and more affronted. “Guard your tongue, if you please.”
Startled, the duke turned to his wife, perhaps realizing too late he’d blustered past the lines permitted him by his bride. “Apologies, my dear. Meant no offense—to you, that is.”
“You just offended mothers the world over, Moreland. Rose has known only her mother’s care, and she is clearly a delightful child. You cannot expect Rose will appreciate the grandpapa who tore her from her mother’s loving arms. If the child has one-tenth of her grandsire’s stubbornness, you will have lost the match with your opening moves.”
“But, Your Grace,” the duke retorted, “our only grandchild must have every advantage, particularly when the same has been denied her for the first five years of her life.”
In the duke’s words, Douglas heard an interesting—an encouraging—note of wheedling.
“Your granddaughter has never known material want,” Guinevere said. “She has been raised at Enfield, my grandfather’s baronial estate, where within the limits of proper discipline, she has been given everything a child needs to thrive, excepting perhaps, the love of her father. For that last, I have already apologized to Victor. I apologize to you and Her Grace as well, for having denied Rose the benefit of association with you. Given the circumstances of her birth, however, I could not be sure you would welcome her into your lives, or that you wouldn’t try to wrest her from me and my family.”
In the silence that followed, a look passed between the duke and duchess, one that spoke of love, understanding, and decades of shared life and loss. This silent communication fascinated Douglas even as it broke his heart. From the tenor of the discussion, it was clear Douglas and Guinevere were not going to have the opportunity to develop such a depth of understanding with each other.
“I would like to meet my granddaughter,” the duke said, “and under propitious circumstances, if you please.”
The entire room breathed a sigh of relief, because the duke’s reasonable request—albeit stated as anything but—signaled a departure from the name-calling and posturing.
“I’m sure Rose would like to meet you too,” Guinevere said, giving the duchess a look of gratitude. Somehow, when Her Grace had expressed
her displeasure with Moreland’s disparagement of motherhood, the duke had become human. He’d become capable of acting like a loving, if high-handed, grandpapa.
“Your Grace,” Westhaven addressed his mother, “I’ll ring for tea, if you’d pour. I’m sure you have questions for Miss Hollister about our Rose.”
Our Rose. Douglas didn’t know if Westhaven made a diplomatic overture with his words, or a bid for possession. He did know another cup of perishing tea would be a trial.
“Miss Hollister,” the duchess began in tentative, if pleasant, tones, “perhaps you could tell us a little more about the child?”
“What would you like to know?”
“Anything,” the duchess said quietly. “Anything at all.”
***
Two hours later, the farewells were observed with the protocol necessary in the presence of such exalted company—protocol that struck Gwen as ludicrous given how Moreland had comported himself.
Almost as ludicrous as Douglas taking the backward-facing seat in the coach.
“For the love of God, would you please sit beside me?” She wanted him to do more than that—much more, even in a moving vehicle, but contented herself with his arm around her shoulders when he shifted seats. “Can you imagine what a Tartar the duke was as a younger father?”
“He might have been less autocratic,” Douglas replied, “but even half the current complement of self-assurance would be a difficult thing in one’s sire. The duchess is delightful, however, and your ally.”
In Douglas’s calm assessment of the situation, Gwen gained a measure of peace, but only a measure.
“She is not my ally. She is the duke’s ally, first, and maybe Rose’s, second, then her sons—though that’s a near thing—and with whatever kindness and civility is remaining, she will not oppose me.”
He did not argue with Gwen, when she wished he would. Heathgate met them in the mews, which meant Gwen had to keep her hands more or less to herself when she wanted to cling to Douglas and not let him out of her sight.
“How did you fare?” Heathgate asked.
“The duke was perfectly obnoxious,” Douglas replied, “but he calmed down when the duchess put a firm hand on the reins.”
“I trust you were ready to add your whip and spurs if necessary?” Heathgate patted his horse on the rump as a groom led it away.
“Guinevere had him in check. A bit of the home brewed and he was more humble.” Douglas sounded proud of her, which gave Gwen an odd pleasure.
Heathgate’s gaze shifted from the mare’s quarters to Gwen. “Is that how you’d characterize matters?”
“Close enough. Rose is to meet Their Graces at their home on the day after tomorrow. I can’t help but fear, however, that I’m being lulled into a sense of security I’ll come to regret.”
“What do you mean, Gwennie, and don’t think to spare my sensibilities?”
“The duke all but called me a strumpet, and made it clear he wants Rose but has no use for me. He did turn up sweet when Her Grace went to work, but I do not trust Rose’s grandpapa.”
Douglas whipped off his gloves. “He’s a wily old devil and wields considerable charm, though only when it suits his purposes. I don’t trust him, and given what we saw, I do not trust his sons to hold him accountable for his actions.”
Heathgate smiled an unpleasant smile. “Then you both might be interested to hear what Fairly had to say over breakfast this morning.”
As they made their way into the house, and Gwen absorbed what Heathgate had to pass along, she felt relief that David had located leverage to use against the duke.
But beneath the relief of having put the meeting with the duke behind them, beneath the fatigue dragging at her constantly, and beneath the comfort of knowing she was well supported, Gwen still felt a persistent sense of foreboding, a sense that if she blinked, her entire world would be knocked on its pins.
And she was increasingly certain when that happened, she would have to choose between her child and the man whom she loved more with each passing hour.
Fifteen
“Hello, Rose.” The duchess dipped gracefully to her haunches. “How are you today?”
“My stomach feels funny,” Rose said, gripping her mother’s hand while Douglas observed the exchange in silence. “Are you my grandmama?”
“I am. I am your papa’s mother, and this is his papa.”
Rose scowled up at the duke and dropped her mother’s hand to plant both small fists on her hips in a posture reminiscent of Guinevere in a taking. “You had better not say mean things to my papa or my uncle Gayle,” Rose admonished His Grace. “It isn’t nice.”
To Douglas’s unending surprise, the duke blinked then came down beside his wife.
“I apologize. I was very unhappy with your papa.” The duke cleared his throat and looked beseechingly at his wife, who seemed to be stifling a smile.
“You needed a nap,” Rose pronounced.
“I very probably did,” the duke allowed. “But I am quite well rested today, and I would like to introduce you to someone.”
“Another uncle?”
“No, not another uncle.” The duke rose and assisted his wife to do likewise. “Not yet, though you do have another uncle named Valentine and one named Devlin. You also have a proper gaggle of aunties, but they will have to wait their turn to make your acquaintance. This person I’d like you to meet lives in the stables, and he’s a very lonely fellow.”
The old reprobate was cozening his granddaughter, and he was a natural at it. Beside Douglas, Guinevere’s lips had flattened, and her expression had gone mulish.
“We have lads at Enfield,” Rose said, “so does Uncle Andrew. He has lots of lads and grooms.”
“Let’s fetch your cloak so you can meet this lad, shall we?” the duke suggested conspiratorially. “Her Grace will remain here, but your mama will want to come along. Westhaven”—the duke’s expression lost its genial quality—“you will entertain Amery in our absence, if you please.”
Westhaven bowed his acquiescence, a look of resignation crossing the Moreland heir’s face. Douglas accepted Guinevere’s cloak from a servant. As he fastened the frogs at her throat—doubtless a presumption in present company—and he presumed further by whispering, “courage,” just loudly enough that only Guinevere should have heard him.
She smiled faintly and trailed dutifully after her daughter, who was now holding the duke’s hand with every evidence of trust.
“Unscrupulous old buzzard,” Westhaven muttered when he and Douglas were alone. “I realize it’s early, but shall we fortify ourselves?”
“It’s late enough, and the day has been challenging,” Douglas allowed. “I suppose he’ll offer to give her that pony and then lament that Guinevere won’t have any room here in Town to keep the beast?”
“Oh, probably,” Westhaven said, handing Douglas his drink. “I love him, though I find it increasingly difficult to like him. He is upset about Victor’s illness, feels guilty for having been caught unawares by a granddaughter several years old, and is likely to behave badly as a consequence.” Westhaven stared out the window of the Moreland formal parlor as Rose traversed the back gardens, one hand held by her mother, the other by her grandfather. “He also no doubt feels guilty because he permitted my late brother Bart to join the military, and he is certain I will make a miserable excuse for a duke.”
“That’s rather harsh.” And what were all these confidences in aid of, anyway?
“The miserable part is accurate enough,” Westhaven rejoined. “In truth, I don’t think my father is as hale as he once was, and his own death looming before him while a second son shuffles off this mortal coil has put him rather out of charity with the Almighty.”
“I’m sure God will muddle through somehow.” His Grace, Rose, and Guinevere disappeared into stables that looked as clean an
d tidy as the Moreland mansion itself.
“Amery,” Westhaven said, all humor gone. “Mad George and the Regent both know not to cross my father. Though I do not consider my interests the same as yours, I cannot warn you clearly enough you’re underestimating him.”
“Perhaps I underestimate His Grace,” Douglas said, eyeing his brandy, “and perhaps he underestimates the support available to Miss Hollister should she find herself in difficulties. Your father’s finances are dangerously overcommitted, my lord, and the funding for his linchpin canal project will be withdrawn, without notice or mercy, should he overstep his role of doting grandpapa. I trust you will advise him of this development should the need arise?”
“I would honestly rather not,” Westhaven said, tossing back his drink far too easily for the early hour. “Were that man to publicly fall flat on his arse even once, it would appease every instinct for justice in the known world. And then, just perhaps, I might wrestle the ducal finances into my own hands, where I can begin to put things to rights.”
What a curious disclosure to make to a virtual stranger—or was this where the posturing attendant to any negotiation became convincing? If so, Westhaven was both a brilliant strategist and a talented actor.
“Then I will have to convince His Grace either that he is not giving up on Rose by becoming merely her grandfather, or, in the alternative, that it will cost him something more dear than his wealth to pursue this beyond what Miss Hollister will tolerate.”
“You are not threatening to harm my father, I hope?” Westhaven asked with soft menace.
“Oh, for God’s sake. You, yourself are threatening to withhold information he would find quite useful, Westhaven. I am no more a threat to your dear papa than he is to Rose or Miss Hollister.” And that was nothing more than fact.
Douglas took a sip of brandy, the very quality of which suggested the ducal resources would be formidable too, despite what Fairly had passed along regarding the Windham family finances.
Douglas: Lord of Heartache (The Lonely Lords) Page 27