by Julie Beard
"I was so fond of her," he said sadly, taking his cup and sipping while Harding collected his own. "Why do you want to know about her now after all these years?"
Harding sat forward. "You see, my lord, Mr. Fairchild believes he's dealing with her relations."
The earl's features sharpened at this news. "What sort of relations?"
Harding shrugged apologetically. "I cannot tell you yet, sir, it is a most private matter. But I will tell you everything I can as soon as possible."
The earl's intelligent eyes stewed over this a moment, then he nodded.
"Very well, Mr. Harding, I will tell you everything I can. At this point in time I have nothing to lose and everything to gain. Desiree died twenty-five years ago; I believe
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it was during childbirth." His voice had thinned measurably. "I am embarrassed to say I do not really know. It is no secret that she was my mistress. Even my wife knew this and accepted it. I had set Desiree up at Sheffield Keep, one of my holdings a few miles from here.
"Though she was of humble birth, the daughter of an English costermonger, she became well known in Paris at a young age as a courtesan. It was her exceptional beauty that raised her from the ash heap like a phoenix. I fell in love with her during my tour and lured her to England when I was still romantic enough to do such impractical things. I would have married her, I was that madly in love, but my father pressured me into a more appropriate match. I still kept Desiree as my mistress, and still loved her.
"I believe that Desiree died giving birth to my child. A daughter. And I have reason to believe the girl is alive today. However, I cannot find her. Everything I know I learned from overhearing Desiree's housekeeper talking at Sheffield Keep. She quit when she realized I was wise to the child. She lives here in town, but she's no longer in service and refuses to speak with me about anything personal in nature."
Harding hung on his every word.
"I believe the housekeeper helped Desiree give birth to my child, and then placed the baby in a home after Desiree died."
Harding quickly calculated. This had all happened twenty-five years ago. That would make Lord Osborn's child a contemporary of Miss Cranshaw's. Liza Cranshaw.
Just as the large clock in the corner struck the half hour, a thunderous thought struck the secretary. The notion was
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so sudden and so profound that his limbs went numb and his face went pale.
"Sir, do you know your daughter's name?" The secretary drank like a man in a desert. The tea soothed his frayed nerves.
"No. I never saw my daughter. I simply heard Mrs. Halloway's whispered conversation about her after Desiree's death. I latched on to this news eagerly, for my wife had no children, then or after. If I were to find this child, I would be willing to legitimize her and leave her my fortune. She may not even know her true identity."
Harding nearly choked on his tea. "Excuse me, sir, did you say Mrs. Halloway?"
"Yes. That was the housekeeper. Do you know her?"
"I've heard of her. She's been writing to Desiree's relations."
The earl steadied his cultured gaze on the secretary. "Do you think one of those relations is my daughter, Mr. Harding?"
"I... I'm not certain, sir. It's possible," Harding hedged, while secretly he would lay odds on it. It all fit. Mrs. Halloway had placed Desiree's baby with the Cran-shaw family. And that baby was Liza. Apparently Lord Barrington had discovered the secret, and Liza was trying to spare her adoptive parents the scandal. No wonder Miss Cranshaw had been confiding in Mrs. Halloway. The housekeeper was the only one whom she could trust with her secret—that she was illegitimate, a nobleman's by-blow.
Lord Osborn fell silent and sipped his tea thoughtfully, then turned his gentle, yet penetrating gaze on Harding again. "I accepted your call, Mr. Harding, because I thought that perhaps you had come about my daughter."
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Harding placed his cup in his saucer and looked up with regret. "I am sorry, my lord. I do not bring such good tidings. And my business must be private, for my employer is a solicitor and must abide by strict confidentiality. All I can say is that the name of Desiree has been whispered in Middledale. Mr. Fairchild can tell you more when the whole mess is put to rest. However, if you have a portrait of Desiree, I'd like to see it. If I learn anything of your daughter, perhaps it will be through seeing a similarity to her mother?"
"Over there." He pointed to the far wall. Harding saw yet another stately portrait, yet this one was of a fetchingly beautiful woman. It was a small canvas, no more than a foot tall, and it was strangely placed, slightly off center, as if it had once hung as a pair with another painting.
"Come and see for yourself how beautiful she was," the earl said and guided Harding to the other side of the room.
The secretary looked up in amazement. The woman in the painting had snow-white skin and dark blue exotic eyes. Her hair was white as well. She wore a powdered wig, which was fashionable in those days. Her waist was tiny and accentuated by her corset and gown, and she looked wistfully and serenely at whomever dared to hold her stare.
"She truly is ... er, was ... magnificent," Harding said. And he did see a resemblance to Liza Cranshaw, though he would keep that tantalizing detail to himself for the time being.
"Yes. Desiree was the most beautiful woman I have ever known." The earl crossed his arms, as if realizing it again for the first time in a long while. Then he caught
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Harding's attention shifting to the empty spot next to the picture, where there remained the faint outline of a square of exactly the same proportions. "That was where I had hung another portrait of Desiree. But it was stolen last year. They were both painted by the artist Thomas Lawrence. He's becoming quite famous. The pictures would bring in a generous price were they to be sold."
"One was stolen? What a pity."
The earl warmed to the empathy Harding displayed. "Indeed. Particularly because it was stolen by a viscount, of all people. A young man with so little conscience he reflects poorly on his peers. I took him in as a guest because I know his father, but the young scoundrel made off with this portrait. No doubt to pay off gambling debts or to lose himself in an opium den. He had that look about him. I've kept quiet about it out of respect for his father, the Marquess Perringford."
Harding began to tingle all over. All the pieces of the puzzle were hurtling into place at a dizzying speed. "Excuse me, sir, I do not mean to be impertinent, but was it, by any chance, Lord Barrington?"
Osborn looked down at him with a powerful frown. "Yes, by Jove. Look here, sir, I think it's time you told me your true purpose here."
Harding looked him square in the eye. "My lord, I would not be worthy of my position if I did not keep my employer's secrets. However, I can say I believe I may have some information about your daughter, and perhaps even about your painting. It is simply a guess on my part, but I can assure you that I will tell you anything that I know once Mr. Fairchild is done dealing with that scallywag of a lord. I may know the merchant family who took in your daughter and raised her as their own. And once I
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am sure of my suppositions, I promise to write. Is that fair enough, my lord?"
"I suppose it will have to be. Since I had given up hope of ever finding her, any help you can give me will be a boon." A slow smile blossomed on his firm lips. "Now let us finish our tea. You bring the best news I've had in years. I want to savor this moment as long as I can."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
arding spent the night at the Rearing Horse Inn and returned to Middledale the next day. The earl insisted on sending him home in a luxurious barouche so plush and richly appointed that Harding was glad pride had not necessitated a refusal. Of course, he never let pride get in the way of comfort. If only Mrs. Brumble were here to enjoy it as well. The seats were almost downy and he felt like a king riding alone with four horses carrying him to his destiny.
Harding thought long and h
ard about his interview with the earl. He'd been stunned by Osborn's revelations. Barrington's theft of the portrait clearly confirmed that this Desiree was the woman whom Miss Cranshaw had referred to in her letters. Barrington was apparently using the portrait to blackmail her into marriage. And Harding was all but certain that Miss Cranshaw had neglected to tell Jack the truth. She had to be Lord Osborn's daughter. Harding could scarcely wait to tell Mr. Fairchild.
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Lord Osborn's carriage deposited Harding in Middledale at sundown. He was disappointed to discover that the solicitor and his articled clerk were gone. A brief note indicated they had gone to Tutley Castle under a dramatic turn of events. Harding would hire a horse tomorrow and meet them there, but it would be too dangerous to set out after dark with no outriders.
He spent a restless night at 2 Hanley Street and rose early to tend to some pressing business for Bartholomew Cranshaw. After all, Mr. Fairchild still had his debts to pay and a living to earn. It was midmorning by the time Harding gathered up his hat. He was just about to depart when there was a knock on the door. Irritated by the interruption, he momentarily considered ignoring it and slipping out the back, but his sense of responsibility would not allow it.
"Just a moment." Harding scooted to the door and opened it. It took a full five seconds to realize precisely who had come. When he did, his heart nearly stopped.
The first thing he noticed were her eyes. They were a deep, sapphire blue and a lilting, oval shape. Though heavier than before, her face was utterly feminine. She was very beautiful, though in a more matronly fashion than before. There was something else that didn't quite match her portrait. What was it? Ah, yes, her hair! She no longer wore a powdered wig; rather, she boasted her own natural brown color, streaked with gray, pulled up with combs into a chignon. If Harding had not visited Huntly House yesterday, he would not have known today that this woman was Desiree. Desiree, the French courtesan, standing in his very midst. She was like a ghost come to life. Apparently the earl had been misled. Desiree was very much alive.
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Harding cleared his throat with effort. "Er... good day, ma'am, or miss, or..." He cleared his throat and blushed furiously. "Have we had the pleasure?"
She smiled warmly. "No. Is Mr. Fairchild in?"
"No, I am afraid not. I'm his secretary, Clayton Harding. Would you like to make an appointment to see Mr. Fairchild?"
"Yes, that would be very nice indeed, thank you."
"May I ask who is calling?"
"Of course. My name is Rosalind Cranshaw."
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
ack and Giles spread out their papers on a desk inside the old abbot's quarters at High Hill as if preparing for a military campaign. They were trying to analyze precisely what evidence they did or did not have against Lord Barrington. As Giles sat at the desk and flipped through papers with a frown on his forehead, Jack scratched the back of his neck and paced with an uncomfortable combination of stubborn rage and helplessness that churned like bad porridge in his belly. Not even the historic dignity of this room could give him comfort.
The stone chamber had vaulted ceilings and dark beams that harkened back to bygone days when warriors and priests ruled the land. The world Jack lived in was a safer, easier place in which to live, but infinitely more complex. He had to conquer a nobleman without firing a single shot or raising a sword. Without money or a title or political connections, he had few weapons with which to fight this battle, only stubborn indignation, and the law.
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"There has to be something more substantial," Jack muttered, running his hand around the back of his taut, muscular neck. He wore only a loose shirt and breeches, and yet he was burning up with frustration. A gentle breeze sailing through the open, mullioned windows did little to cool him.
"It all points to Barrington, sir," Giles replied. "Especially now that we have Beauchamp's account."
There was a knock on the door.
"That would be Annabelle Davis," Giles said, going to open it. "I asked her to come down after she had bathed and changed into the clothing Lord Tutley's housekeeper sent over."
Jack slipped on his waistcoat while Giles opened the door. Annabelle stood there with a look of trepidation. Her recently washed hair fell in loose, moist waves down her back. Freshly scrubbed, Jack realized for the first time just how lovely she was. Her green eyes were almost translucent and her skin glowed pink. But dark smudges beneath her eyes spoke of sleepless nights, and a tremor of fear in her smile touched Jack deeply.
"Miss Davis, do not be afraid," he said warmly, leading her in with a gentle touch to her elbow. "I simply want to talk to you in the hopes that you might be able to help your father out of his predicament. Would you be willing to speak with me?"
She hesitated, then nodded.
"Sit here at the table, Miss Davis, won't you, please?" Jack said kindly. He pulled out a chair for her, then he and Giles took seats as well.
"What is it you need from me?" Annabelle said in a sweet, rich voice that was stronger than Jack might have expected. Thus far they'd only exchanged cursory greet-
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ings. "I've told my father everything I know. I don't know who set the fire. I don't know why you expect me to know. It's as if you all believe it's my fault."
Jack was taken aback by her defensiveness. He would have to proceed gently. "Miss Davis, we believe nothing of the sort. This is a very complex matter. In a very strange and convoluted fashion, the crime against your family may be tied to an attempted crime against Miss Cranshaw."
Annabelle's gaze shot up at this. Jack was heartened to see concern for Liza melting her defenses. "Miss Cranshaw? Has she been hurt?"
Jack leaned back and crossed a leg over the other knee. "No, but she might very well have been hurt if she hadn't been prepared to defend herself. And that is what I'm asking you to do, my dear lady, defend yourself and your family. To that end, I'd like you to tell me everything you can about Viscount Barrington."
She jerked as if he'd just scalded her. Then she flew to her feet. "I told you, I've done everything I can. I know nothing that I haven't already told my father."
Her hands went protectively and unconsciously to her abdomen, and a cold realization washed over Jack. He turned to Giles and said quietly, "Leave us, won't you? Watch the door. I want to speak privately with Miss Davis. Make sure no one overhears us."
"Very good, sir," Giles said unquestioningly, then did as he'd been instructed.
Jack leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "Miss Davis, won't you please sit? While I do not want to distress you, I must speak very frankly with you, for the good of Miss Cranshaw and your family."
A wild look of sorrow flitted over her face, then that
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cool mask returned and she sank back in her chair with obvious reluctance. "How can I help you?"
"I believe that Lord Barrington is responsible for the fire that destroyed your father's shop."
She speared him with her enigmatic eyes. Then she shuddered with an emotion he couldn't identify. Remorse? Hatred?
"I also have reason to believe," Jack added carefully, "that he has taken great advantage of young women in the past."
Her face went blank, and she turned her gaze to him as the tears poured down her cheeks. "You know, then."
"I do not know anything, my dear Miss Davis, but I can well imagine."
"You are a solicitor?" she asked.
"Yes, and everything you say to me will be confidential. I swear to you, upon my honor."
She nodded, and her sweet little mouth that curved like an archer's bow began to tremble. "He forced me." Her tear-filled eyes darted back and forth as if the event were taking place in front of her now. "He took advantage of me. He offered me a ride in his carriage when I was walking in the woods. I am so ashamed that I accepted. But I thought he was a great lord doing a small kindness. It was snowing and I was so cold. He ... he did it in the carriage on the way to
my father's shop. A month later, I went to the same place, hoping to catch him. I stopped his carriage in the woods and told him that... that I was increasing. That was when the threats began. He told me if my family didn't leave Middledale, he would ruin my father. He said he was going to marry Miss Cranshaw and didn't want anything to get in the way of his good fortune. I tried to tell Papa that we should leave town, but I could not tell
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him why ... and then the fire destroyed everything."
She took a sniffling breath and smoothed away her tears. Jack produced a kerchief and she silently took it, dabbing her eyes as she sniffed.
"Thank God I lost the child," she said. "My parents still do not know. I beg you, Mr. Fairchild, do not tell them."
"Of course not, my dear Miss Davis. Your secret is safe with me. I only ask your permission to speak about it with Lord Barrington."
"Oh, no! He'll kill my father if he finds out I've spoken to you."
"No," Jack reassured her. "I will use this intelligence to back him into a corner. I am a solicitor, Miss Davis. I know how to use the law to my advantage, and Lord Barrington knows it. In my hands, evidence of rape and arson will be enough to cow even a criminal nobleman. Will you trust me on this?"
She took in a slow, quivering breath, then nodded.
"I doubt very much it will be necessary, but would you be willing to accuse the viscount if that is what it takes to vindicate your father and free Miss Cranshaw from Lord Barrington's blackmailing scheme?"
She thought for some time, then nodded with resignation. "If I must, I will. I have no chance of marriage without a dowry in any event. What difference will it make if my reputation is ruined? All I ask is that you make him pay, Mr. Fairchild. Please make him pay."