A Winter Scandal (6 page)

Carrying a child, she discovered, was not the same as carrying a package weighing the same amount. In one way, it was easier, for Matthew held on to her with a grip like a monkey’s and wrapped his little legs around her. But packages did not squirm and wriggle, nor did they reach up to explore one’s features or spectacles or hair with their hands. The baby soon managed to work his head and shoulders free of the blanket, and no matter how many times Thea tugged it back up to cover him, he knocked it off his head again. He appeared to be fascinated by the glass lenses of her spectacles, and he reached for them time and again, often catching them and trying to jerk them from her head.

She tried pulling up the hood of her cloak to thwart him, but he was happy to grab the hood, as well, dragging it back and forth across her hair. She tried wrapping her cloak around Matthew, too, in an effort to keep him warm since he was so persistent in shrugging off the blanket. But then he was able to grab the front of her frock and the frilled fichu she wore tucked into the neck of the dress to add modesty and warmth. He liked to hold on with both hands and bounce, she discovered. At one point, she decided, he even seemed to be trying to climb up the front of her dress. To add to her difficulties, it began to mist, not heavily but enough to spot the lenses of her spectacles and to cling to her hair, now exposed by the hood that Matthew had finally succeeded in shoving off her head. The cloak ties had come loose as well, so that her cloak was inching back on her shoulders.

Thea finally had to take off her spectacles and thrust them into her pocket because they had become so bedewed that they were more an obstruction to her vision than an aid, but fortunately she was close to the Priory by that time and could make her way to its front door. She brought down the knocker with a force that made Matthew jump in her arms, alarmed, but in the next moment he decided that the noise was simply another fun thing and shouted back a loud sound of his own.

A footman answered the door, and his eyebrows shot up when he saw Thea standing on the doorstep, baby in her arms. “Miss?” He glanced around as if unsure what to do. “Can I, um, help you?”

“Yes, indeed, you can, by letting me inside,” Thea retorted in some irritation, and she stepped into the house, forcing the young man to either physically block her progress or step back.

He chose to step back, spluttering, “But—miss—what—”

“I wish to see Lord Morecombe.”

“I’m sorry, miss, but—”

As he began to speak, a man’s voice shouted, “Bravo! Direct hit, Gabriel!”

Another, indistinguishable shout came in a male voice, as well as the sound of feet stamping and of metal clashing against metal. The noises all came from the room to the right of the entryway.

“Thank you, I can find my own way.” Thea started past the servant, thrusting her rapidly slipping cloak into his hands.

That gesture stopped him for a moment as years of training made him hang the cloak on the stand by the door, but then he scurried after her, saying, “Miss … no, miss.”

Thea ignored the footman as she strode up to the half-closed double doors. Thea stopped abruptly, staring at the scene before her. The large room had obviously once been the great hall of the medieval house. The long rectangle had a vaulted ceiling of heavy, blackened wood beams. A vast fireplace stood at one end of the room. The room was largely empty of furniture, containing only a long table and chairs, as well as a sideboard at the opposite end and a few chairs against the walls. The scarcity of furniture left a lot of empty stone floor, and two men were now moving up and down that emptiness, facing each other and wielding fireplace utensils like swords. Lord Morecombe advanced rapidly on the other man, whom Thea recalled was named Sir Myles something-or-other. Morecombe’s fireplace shovel parried and thrust against the poker the other man used.

The men had taken off their jackets and thrown them across the table, along with their brightly colored waistcoats. Their faces were flushed, and their boots resounded on the floor as they darted back and forth, the metal instruments clanking and scraping against each other. A third man, Morecombe’s other companion at the party, sat in a chair near the sideboard, a large tankard in his hand, cheering the others on. Two more tankards and a punch bowl stood on the sideboard.

“Miss … miss!” The footman came up behind Thea, hissing and wringing his hands. “You mustn’t go in there. It isn’t proper!”

Thea whirled on him, fixing him with a fiery look that stopped his speech immediately. She turned back and shoved on one of the half-open doors. It slammed into the wall with a satisfying crash that brought all movement in the room to an immediate halt. The baby in her arms made a little hiccup of sound and went very still, his hands curled tightly in the front of her dress. All three men swung around to face her. She could not see clearly enough to gauge their expressions, but she suspected with a sense of satisfaction that astonishment was on their features.

“Who the devil are you?” Morecombe asked. He tossed his little shovel carelessly onto the table and came closer to her.

As he came into focus, Thea realized, with a little skip of her pulse, how intensely masculine he was without his jacket, his lawn shirt damp with sweat and sticking to his chest, the sleeves rolled up almost to his elbows. His black hair was mussed from the strenuous activity as well, and it flopped down across his forehead, thick and shining. That she noticed these things—and that they made her breathe a little faster—simply fueled her irritation. This was precisely the sort of reaction this man caused, and that was why some poor woman had gotten into trouble.

“Well?” he asked when Thea did not immediately answer. “What are you doing here?”

“I am here about this child.” Thea’s anger shot the words out of her like bullets, sharp and fierce. “
Your
child. And your duty to him.”

One of Gabriel’s eyebrows rose quizzically, and he ran his gaze down her in a slow, obvious way, rudely taking in every bit of her from the top of her head to the tip of her toes.

“
My
child?” he drawled, his voice thick with amusement. “My dear girl, I have been drinking, I admit, but I am not that befuddled. I am quite certain that I have never lain with you. I would remember it if I had.”

Thea’s cheeks flooded with red as she realized two humiliating things. The first was that he had, once again, entirely forgotten her. He not only had not remembered their kiss ten years ago, he did not recall meeting her just the other evening at the Squire’s ball. She was that forgettable! He was that arrogant!

The second, equally embarrassing realization was that Lord Morecombe thought that the baby was hers, that she was accusing him of having gotten her with child. He thought she was a loose woman. A doxy! A lightskirt! Even worse, it occurred to her exactly how she must look. The baby had tugged and pulled at her so much that her ruffled white cotton fichu was all twisted and half pulled out, leaving more of her chest exposed than was entirely proper, especially at this time of day. Indeed, on the side where the baby sat on her hip, he had gripped her dress so tightly that it was pulled almost off her shoulder. Her face was flushed from the exertion of her walk, and her hair and skin were coated with mist. Several strands of her hair had come tumbling down during the tussle with the baby over her hood and were hanging loose and curling wildly in the moisture. Morecombe could hardly be faulted for assuming the worst about her, she thought, but that did not make her any more inclined to like him.

A lazy smile curved his lips, and he came even closer, stopping right in front of her. She could see his face quite clearly now—the square jaw and chin, stubbled by a day’s growth of beard that for some reason made her feel all warm and loose inside, the dark, intense eyes shadowed by thick, black lashes, the shallow cleft in his chin that made one want to touch it. She remembered how he had moved closer to her that evening ten years ago, his lips coming to rest on hers, and she recalled, too, the shock of pleasure that had run through her at the feel of his mouth. Her knees went a little weak, and she was scared that he might see her trembling.

“Of course,” he said in a low voice, running his knuckles lightly down her cheek, “I would be happy to change that situation at any time.”

Thea felt a sharp, visceral tug at the touch of his skin on hers, and her response appalled her, making her almost as angry at herself as she was at this bold, arrogant man. She jerked her head back, her eyes blazing, and snapped, “You may jest all you wish, but I can assure you that it is no laughing matter for this child, abandoned and cold and hungry.”

His eyes went down to the child, and to Thea’s annoyance Matthew dimpled and smiled at the man and ducked his head down to Thea’s shoulder, looking back up at Morecombe in a charming way. Gabriel chuckled and reached his forefinger out to Matthew, who immediately wrapped one pudgy little fist around it.

“He scarce looks hungry to me. Or cold.” Gabriel cut his eyes toward Thea, glinting with a charm of his own. “Indeed, he seems to be in a sweet place that any man might envy.”

Thea ground her teeth. “Pray do not attempt to ply your wiles on me. I am not this baby’s mother, but you are his father.” She pulled the brooch out of her pocket and held it up to him.

“The devil!” Lord Morecombe stiffened, his eyes widening, and he snatched the piece of jewelry from her hand. He gazed at it for a long moment, then his hand curled around it tightly and he turned back to her, his eyes as hard and dark as the stone in the brooch. He wrapped his hand like iron around her wrist. “Who are you? What kind of game are you playing?”

Thea’s heart pounded, and she tried to jerk her arm away from him, but she could not. She was suddenly, deeply aware of how large and strong he was. But she refused to show any indication of the leap of fear in her chest. “Pray, do not think you can frighten me into silence. It is you who are playing games, not I.”

His fingers tightened, biting into her flesh, as he loomed over her, holding out the brooch in his palm. “What is the meaning of this? Tell me, blast it!” Behind Morecombe, she saw the other two men, who had been lounging at the table and watching the show with amusement, suddenly straighten and take a few steps forward.

Thea swallowed, but she tilted her face up defiantly to him. “Until you change your attitude, I have no intention of telling you anything. You may act like a savage with other women, but I am not going to wilt at your feet.”

“I have no doubt of that. Still, I will have my answer.” He set his jaw.

Thea glared back at him, adopting an equally stony expression. “Let go of me.”

“Not until you tell me what is going on. Where did you get this? Where is Jocelyn? Is it money you’re after?”

“Jocelyn!” Sir Myles exclaimed in astonishment, glancing at his companion, then back at Morecombe.

“Money! No! I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Thea tried once more to pull away from him, then gave up and faced him with haughty contempt. “I am not here seeking money from you. All I want is for you to assume responsibility for your child, and—”

“Blast it, woman! Stop yammering about ‘my child.’ I don’t have a child, and I have never seen this lad before. And do not think that you can slip out of this by flaunting your admittedly tempting wares at me. Tell me how you got this brooch. Did you take it from Jocelyn?”

“Flaunting!” Thea’s cheeks flamed with color, and she was so furious that for a moment she could not speak. Finally she gasped out, “I assure you that ‘tempting’ a man like you is the last thing I wish to do. I do not know anyone named Jocelyn. If she is your paramour, she—”

Morecombe let out a low, harsh noise that was similar to a growl, and Thea’s voice died away.

“Jocelyn is my
sister
.” He leaned forward, his eyes boring into hers, and the cold threat in his voice was more frightening than his earlier anger. “And you are going to tell me how you obtained this brooch if I have to pull it out of you word by word.”

Thea gaped at him, her earlier certainty draining out of her in a rush.

“Tell me.” He dropped her wrist and grasped her shoulder, giving her a little shake. “How did you get my sister’s brooch?”

“I—it was on the baby when I found him. It was pinned to his clothes.”

“Pinned to—” He stopped, his hand falling away from her shoulder. “You
found
him?”

“Yes. He was abandoned. I took him home, and my housekeeper found the brooch when she was changing him.”

Morecombe looked at Matthew. He took a step back, raking his hand back through his hair. “Bloody hell.”

The room was utterly silent. Thea shifted Matthew to her other side. Her anger had evaporated, and indeed, she now felt rather foolish for having jumped to the conclusion that Lord Morecombe was the baby’s father. She thought about the obvious implication of their conversation, that the baby belonged to Morecombe’s sister. That would certainly explain the quality of the child’s clothes and that he had been well cared for, not to mention the resemblance in his cleft chin. Doubtless his sister would have had the money to spend on him. But why would she have abandoned Matthew? Could he have been abducted from her?

No, that made no sense, either. Lord Morecombe had not recognized the child—and while Morecombe was clearly not the best at remembering faces, surely he would know his own nephew. And why had he asked where Jocelyn was? He had acted as if he thought she had done something to his sister, as if Thea were trying to get money from him. Thea would have liked very much to find out more, but every question that came into her head sounded far too prying.

There was the sound of the front door opening and footsteps in the entry. A moment later, an exquisitely dressed, brown-haired man stepped into the doorway. It was her cousin Ian. He came to a dead stop as he saw the scene in front of him.

“What’s going on? Gabriel?” He turned his head to Thea and his eyes widened. “Cousin Althea?” He peered at her more closely. “Is that you?”

Thea blushed, suddenly remembering the state of her clothes and hair. She had, she realized with chilling clarity, just made an utter fool of herself in front of these men. She must look like—and had acted like—not a dull spinster, but a raving shrew. No doubt Ian would now be the butt of rude jests about his “mad cousin Althea.”