“They’re fixing to make me hall boy. Only Eastwicke says I’m to improve my manners and speech.”
George shot to his feet and strode to the window. Hall boy! Fit for nothing better than to empty the servants’ chamber pots and polish the master’s boots. When he was a bit older, he might advance to lighting the kitchen fire. How could Isabelle allow it? How could she think this life was an improvement over their life in Kent?
“Do you like being hall boy?” He struggled to keep his tone casual.
“It’s all right. I don’t like the clothes, but Cook gives me all the beef I can eat.”
Well, yes, at least he wasn’t starving, but hall boy! “What does your mama have to say about your situation?”
Before Jack had a chance to reply, a voice sounded in the corridor. “That boy! Where has he got to now?”
That boy’s eyes widened. “I’ve got to run.”
He scampered from the room before George could say another word. Just as well. He wanted to smash something. He eyed the portrait of the dandy. “I ought to put you out of your misery.”
Not that sending his fist through the canvas would make him feel any better. Or endear him to Redditch, for that matter. He must at least start this interview on a friendly note. Defacing the earl’s ancestor hardly fit the bill.
And just where was Isabelle in this monstrosity of a townhouse? Did she even have a say in Jack’s upbringing now that she’d returned to her family? Had they truly taken her in, or did she live like a servant as well?
He shook his head, as if that would clear out his thoughts of her. It was over. She couldn’t forgive him. He must accept that and forget. Once he was quit of Redditch today, his last tie to her would be severed. And then he’d have no more reason to think of her, to lie in bed at night and dream of the sweet haven of her body.
More footsteps, heavier this time, announced another imminent arrival. George pressed his fingernails into his palm, the mild pain a reminder that he must maintain his sang-froid. The idea of Jack being treated like the lowest of servants sent his blood pounding through his veins in seething torrents.
But he’d cooled his heels for weeks waiting for Redditch to return to Town. He would achieve nothing if he got himself thrown out for insolence or, worse, violence.
“Yes, and what might I do for you?” Redditch possessed nothing of his daughter’s ethereal beauty and delicate lines. Except for his lack of overly garish clothes, he bore a striking resemblance to the fop in the portrait, although his nose was longer and thinner. The better to look down on peons.
“Have we been introduced?” His tone matched his air, cold and distant. In sheer disdain, Isabelle was his equal. She’d uttered her final words to George with the same amount of frost.
“Did your man not give you my card?”
No response. Not even a blink of a steely gray eye.
“No matter, my lord. I’ve come on business.”
Redditch hitched up his chin. “You have business with me?”
“In the name of Adrian Summersby, I do.” George expected a reaction to that name, at the very least.
“Am I supposed to know who that is?”
Was the man made of ice? Even so, the heat of George’s anger would be sufficient to melt the earl, and soon. His blood was ready to boil over.
“Am I to surmise from that question that you hound so many men to take their own lives, you can’t even keep their names straight?” George reached into his pocket with a shaking hand and withdrew a heavy purse. “There’s more where this came from, a down payment, if you will. I thought to give it to you to clear a friend’s name.”
Redditch looked him in the eye. “Do you enjoy tilting at windmills?”
“What the devil are you talking about?”
“You wish to restore the honor of a suicide.” Redditch gave an ugly shout of laughter. “What next? You’ll petition the church to give him a decent burial and the courts to restore his goods to his heirs?”
George let his chest expand with air, again and yet again, enough that the urge to hurl the purse at Redditch’s head subsided. “Do you have any idea what it looks like when an old friend puts a pistol in his mouth and pulls the trigger? I do, thanks to you. It isn’t pleasant.”
Redditch’s pasty cheeks took on a pinkish tinge. “You can’t lay the blame at my feet if the man was too cowardly to face up to his obligations.”
“He was desperate,” George hissed. He wouldn’t let himself shout, wouldn’t give in to the need to grab this bastard by the lapels and pummel some sense into him. “Your lackeys hounded him until he saw no other way out. And for what? Filthy lucre. You don’t look as if you’re in any great need.”
He flung a hand in the direction of the fop. “Good Christ, you might sell a painting or two and make up the difference.”
“Now see here—”
George hefted the purse. It weighed heavy in his palm, but surely not as heavy as Summersby’s worries during those final days. Most definitely not as heavy as Jack’s duties would weigh on him over the years.
Jack.
Only one of them was alive. Only one would have to endure this man’s notion of justice and propriety. And Jack was so young. Years stretched ahead of the boy before he might extricate himself from this situation, if he ever did. George couldn’t condemn a child to that. He’d had enough personal experience with a relative holding him back.
As for Summersby’s widow, he had enough to ensure her care, as well.
“Yes, I see now.” He closed his fingers about the bag of coins. “I’ve changed my mind. I’m not about to hand you as much as a pence for Summersby’s debts. You can choke on them.”
Redditch opened his mouth, no doubt to summon the butler, along with a bulky footman or two to convince him to leave.
“No matter what,” George said before Redditch could call out, “Summersby isn’t coming back, and there’s the living to consider. I’m going to put these funds into a trust—in the name of your grandson.”
The pink in the earl’s cheeks turned to two ugly red blotches. “I have no grandson,” he roared.
“I can see how you prefer to deny him, since you’re currently treating him as your hall boy.”
“You know nothing of my family. Nothing!”
“I reckon you have your daughter spirited away somewhere as well. Perhaps I’ll find her in the scullery.”
“Eastwicke!”
“You might want to reconsider before summoning your toughs. I know a great deal about your family’s scandals, a great deal I’m sure you’d rather keep quiet.” George turned the purse in his hand. “I’m sure I’ve got enough here to print pamphlets.”
The butler loomed in the doorway. “You called, sir?”
“An error on my part. I do not require anything.” Redditch waited until Eastwicke had returned to his designated circle of hell before continuing. “If you print pamphlets, I shall sue for libel.”
“One problem with that, my lord.” George permitted himself a smile. “It isn’t libel if it’s true.”
“How dare you threaten me?”
“I’d prefer not, if we can come to an understanding. I’d much rather spend this blunt on something worthy, such as arranging a place for Jack at Eton.”
“Eton?” Redditch laughed. “More windmills, is it? Eton does not admit bastards.”
“Harrow then. Never fear, I shall find a public school that will admit him.”
“He will never be admitted into polite society, no matter if he has the education for it. In fact, once he gets to school, the other boys will remind him of his origins daily.”
George nodded. How well he knew the machinations of English public schools. He’d survived and so would Jack. “I plan on ensuring he has the proper tutors. Both in Latin and boxing.”
A snuffle just outside the morning room set Isabelle’s senses on alert. She set aside her dusting cloth and turned toward the sound. Jack lurked in the corridor beyond. The l
ook in his downturned eyes screamed guilt.
That boy, always wandering off. “What are you doing here?” she asked. “You know Eastwicke won’t approve if you’re not at your post.”
“Don’t care what he thinks.” His response was hard and sullen.
“You must have a care for his good opinion.” How many times in the past weeks had she repeated this dictum? “It’s how you’ll retain your position so you can earn your keep like a grown man.”
“I don’t want to earn my keep here anymore.” He advanced a few steps into the room. “I want to go back and live with Biggles.”
Isabelle crossed her arms over her dark gray bodice and tapped her fingers against her elbow. Jack’s dissatisfaction with their current living arrangement was hardly a new thing, but the past few days had passed without complaint. She’d thought he was getting used to it. Finally.
“Did Eastwicke have words with you again?”
Lower lip caught between his teeth, Jack shook his head.
A glance down the corridor showed no butler or footman bearing down on them. Perhaps she had time to convince him to return to his post. She knelt and put an arm about his shoulder. He jerked beneath her touch, the movement not evasive. No, it was more of a wince. He held his right hand hidden behind his back. How odd.
“Do you have something for me?” she asked carefully.
Another shake of his head.
“What are you hiding then?” Her gut told her it wasn’t anything good.
On his refusal to reply, she reached for his arm. Stubborn to the last, he held himself stiff. When she finally managed to coax his hand into view, her breath rushed out in a gasp. Angry, red welts lined a rapidly swelling palm.
“Did Eastwicke do this?” She resorted to a whisper in order to keep her voice steady. No sense in upsetting the boy any further. She was upset enough for them both.
He nodded, and she pulled him into a full embrace. The backs of her eyes burned, and her fingers trembled against her son’s coarse hair. Blast it all to the devil. Eastwicke, that overblown oaf. She wouldn’t stand for it. Jack may have no more standing in this house than the lowest servants, but she wouldn’t step aside and allow him to be mistreated.
“We’ll see about this,” she said, the words as much a promise to herself as an affirmation to her son. “I’ll have a word with Father, and we’ll see.”
She released Jack and scrambled to her feet, pressing her palms along her skirts without thought. She’d no reason to smooth such weeds, but she still retained enough pride to face her father with her chin held high.
He tugged at her apron. “Mama?”
“What is it, dear?”
“I wasn’t at my post.”
“Yes.” She ruffled his hair. “And you’re still not.”
“But, Mama, George is here.”
“George?” What on earth? Her pulse kicked up a notch. “You mean Mr. Upperton.”
“Yes, George.” Heavens, Jack sounded so hopeful, as if George might rescue him again. “It’s why I wasn’t at my post. Eastwicke showed him in, and I had to make sure.”
Her heart leapt into her throat. She pressed her fingertips to the notch at the base of her neck, as if that might persuade it to calm its rapid beat. She could not hope for a rescue this time. What could he possibly want here? Blast it all, she shouldn’t care. She wouldn’t let herself. She’d never get over the hurt if she couldn’t control her reaction to the mere thought of his presence.
She’d do this. George or no, she’d face her father and tell him in no uncertain terms what she would not tolerate.
She sent Jack back to his post and strode down the corridor, failing to stem the barrage of memories. George stumbling from the waves with Jack in his arms. Wandering in from the garden at Shoreford to catch him at the piano. Ducking into the gamesman’s cottage to escape a sudden downpour. George laying her out on her kitchen table to prove to her the ecstasy possible between a man and woman.
The glare of cold steel he’d turned on his mistress. Yes, she must keep that image foremost in her mind. The rest was nothing but distraction.
Exceedingly pleasant distraction, but distraction nonetheless.
The sound of raised voices emanating from one of the smaller parlors brought her up short. Gracious, what could they be arguing over? Something about pamphlets and decent people and society’s opinion, but the words jumbled in her mind. Then she heard mention of her son’s name.
Of course. George knew Jack was here. They’d seen each other.
Shame billowed through her. George had seen how low she’d stooped to ensure a roof over their heads and decent food in their bellies. Jack’s belly, especially.
No more. She refused to put up with the humiliation of seeing her boy polish boots. Somehow she’d find a better way, but not here. Squaring her shoulders, she stepped into the doorway.
George stood less than a foot away from the familiar figure of her father. The two men glared at each other. George’s hand curled into a fist at his side, and his shoulders heaved with rapid breaths. Handsome as ever, he seemed to swell to fill the space of the room.
Distraction. She blinked the image away.
“What is it you want?” her father demanded.
George turned his head toward the door. He met her gaze and held it. A glimmer of longing passed through the gray depths of his eyes. How she wanted to shutter her lids against that expression, but it compelled her to bear witness, as if it had a will of its own. This is my naked emotion, and you shall see it. You shall.
Good Lord, she couldn’t imagine a man wearing such an open expression—unless he was in love. The force of his feeling speared her through the chest and arrowed deep into her gut until her knees threatened to buckle.
But then his eyes flicked down her body. Heat flooded her face. Dear God, he was staring at her serviceable rag of a dress, so out of place in this fashionable townhouse. He’d never seen her bedecked in finery, but it had never mattered until now.
He turned to her father. “What I want most is not in your power to grant me.”
Her father pivoted, following the direction of George’s gaze. “Not now, Isabelle.”
“It may as well be now.” The anger seething behind George’s words pulled their attention back to him. “I didn’t think I could possibly form a lower opinion of you. This interview is over.”
Before Isabelle could interject, before her father could react, George hauled back a fist and delivered a devastating blow to the older man’s jaw. Father’s head jerked back before he crumpled to the floor.
George pushed past her without a word of acknowledgment. His booted feet echoed down the corridor, the thuds growing fainter as he neared the foyer. Just like that, he was once again gone from her life. Only this time, she hadn’t sent him away.
Her father raised himself on his elbow and shook his head like a dog emerging from a pond.
Some deeply engrained sense of filial duty pressed her forward. “Are you all right?”
Her father probed at a reddening knot just behind his chin. “My teeth seem to be all in their proper places.” He lowered his hand and eyed her closely. “And what is he to you?”
“Nothing.” Isabelle swallowed and cast a swift glance over her shoulder, as if somehow George might reappear to put the lie to her reply. “What on earth would give you the idea I had any connection to him?”
“He said he wants to send your boy to Eton.”
She backed up a step. “What?”
“You heard me. He wants to send that boy to Eton of all places. Where would he get such a notion if he wasn’t the boy’s real father?”
“He is most certainly not Jack’s father.” If only. “I told you years ago who Jack’s father was. I didn’t lie about that.” She wasn’t sure how she managed to spit out that reply. Her throat had gone oddly tight.
Jack at Eton. She couldn’t fathom such an idea. How generous of George, but at the same time how presumptuous. As if h
e could blithely waltz in and take her son from her. The nerve!
“Jack. Such a common name.”
Isabelle ignored the gibe. She’d purposely chosen the name for its commonness. When her son was born, she’d wanted nothing to do with the polite society that had spurned her—that spurned her yet.
“I came to see you about Jack, as it happens. I won’t tolerate Eastwicke’s treatment of him.”
Her father pushed to his feet. “I knew it. You can’t stand by and let him learn his place. If you coddle him—”
“Eastwicke beat his hand with a stick,” Isabelle shouted over him. Manners be damned. “How do you expect him to perform his duties with a sore hand? I will not tolerate it. In fact, I’ve come to a decision. As of this moment, Jack is no longer in your employ.”
“You shall not leave. I forbid it.”
Right. She’d expected as much. He’d only called her home to ensure she caused the family no more embarrassment. Doubtless Emily had told him where he could find his wayward daughter. “You cannot stop me. I shall pack our things, and we’ll be gone within the hour.”
As to where they would go after that, somehow she’d find the means to take Jack back to Kent. If Mrs. Weston insisted on barring her from the village, she’d appeal to Julia’s sense of fairness. But before she left Mayfair, she had a call to pay.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
IT WAS over. George slumped in his study, fingering the brandy decanter. He might have been halfway through it by now—in celebration, naturally—but the mere thought of drink turned his stomach. In the end, he’d accomplished nothing. Redditch wasn’t about to change his ways, and Isabelle …
A discreet cough cut into his thoughts. “George, I think you’d better come to the foyer.”
He glanced up to find Henrietta standing before him. How had she entered his inner sanctum so soundlessly? “What now?”
His mood had not improved a whit since his return from Redditch’s. Seeing Jack—seeing Isabelle—treated like servants in what should have been their home. Good Christ! Although he shouldn’t be surprised. Redditch was a right bastard.
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