Fanning the Flame (22 page)

It was later in the afternoon when she answered his summons and joined him in his study, nervous as to what he might want. It was merely a report from Peter Fraser, rather elaborately informing them he had discovered nothing new. She was heartsick when Reggie rapped on the study door, afraid it was more disturbing news.

"Ye've visitors, milord," he said to the earl. "A Vicar Donnellson and a lad he called Christopher Derry. I've shown 'em into the Green Drawing Room."

Adam glanced at Jillian. "I don't know anyone by that name." He reached over and took her hand. "Why don't you come with me? We'll see what business they have."

Just the two of them were left again in the house. Earlier that morning, Maggie and her lady's maid had returned to her aunt Sophie's. Jillian had grown fond of Adam's spirited younger sister, and the thought of being alone with the earl left her nerves on edge.

Trying to ignore the warm dark hand encircling her fingers, she let him lead her down the corridor into the Green Drawing Room, one of the more lavish salons in the manor.

Vicar Donnellson and the boy, Christopher Derry, stood near the mullioned windows. The vicar made an appropriate bow when the earl walked in.

"I'm sorry to inconvenience you, my lord. But there is a matter of some importance we need to discuss."

Adam introduced Jillian as a friend of the family, then suggested they make themselves comfortable around the fire. "Our visitors will need some refreshments, Reggie," he told the butler.

"I'll see to it meself; Maj—milord." Reggie was doing his best to reform, but old habits died hard.

"That won't be necessary, my lord," the vicar said, still standing next to the child. "But perhaps, while we speak, Christopher might enjoy a chance to see the garden."

Adam's gaze sharpened on the boy. He was slender to the point of thin, but his shoulders were straight, and very wide for the rest of him. Wavy, dark brown hair hung over his eyes, which were a lovely shade of green in a face that would have been almost pretty if it hadn't been for his straight nose and sharply carved features.

"The garden is beautiful this time of year," Adam said to the child. "Reggie will show you the way."

The butler's thick paw wrapped around the boy's thin hand. Christopher Derry said nothing but he seemed relieved at the prospect of escaping the house.

Adam turned his attention to the vicar, a nondescript man perhaps in his forties with dark hair silvered at the temples and an air of solidarity that commanded respect.

"What can I do for you, Vicar Donnellson?"

"The matter is personal, my lord. Are you certain you wish your friend, Miss Whitney, to remain?"

"Personal in what way?"

"It involves a rather delicate matter between you and your former betrothed."

The muscles in his jaw went taut. "If this involves Caroline, it is hardly private. In fact, I should be glad for Miss Whitney to remain."

A little surprised, Jillian sat down beside him on the sofa while the vicar took a seat in a dark green brocade chair.

The older man nervously cleared his throat. "I've come to speak to you about the child."

Adam casually leaned back against the sofa. "What about him?"

"First, let me say that Christopher is not the usual sort of boy. He is intelligent, and though he is often rather too serious, there is a kindness in him that is rare among children. Chris is—"

"That is all well and good," Adam interrupted, "but what has the child's disposition to do with me?"

The vicar frowned at being cut short in his speech, probably not a common occurrence in his line of work.

"Derry is not the lad's real name. It's the name of his adoptive parents in Borough Green. The child's real mother is Lady Caroline Harding—your former betrothed."

Adam leaned forward. "The boy is Caroline's?"

"That is correct. Christopher is your son."

The skin over Adam's cheekbones went pale as he surged to his feet. "That's insane."

"The night Christopher was born, he was given to a couple in Borough Green, Silas Derry and his wife Nancy. Nancy wanted a child and couldn't have one. When Silas agreed to take the boy, Caroline's father, the marquess, arranged it. She lived with a cousin in Sussex during her pregnancy. Almost no one knew about the birth."

Adam paced over to the hearth. "Even if the boy is Caroline's, what makes you think he is mine? And why have you come to me now, after all these years?"

"The child's adoptive parents both died, the father several years back, the mother just last week. Before she passed away, Nan Derry told me the truth about the boy. She asked me to bring him to you."

"I don't believe any of this. If Caroline had been carrying my child she would have told me. She would have come to me for help."

"She might have," he said. "But the two of you had parted badly and at the time you were soldiering on the Continent. Six months after the birth, she married Ashley Bingham, Lord Durnst. They have a family of their own now."

Adam raked a hand through his hair, shoving it back from his forehead. "How old is the boy?"

"He'll be eight the first of next month. He was born on May third in the year seventeen hundred and ninety-eight."

Jillian could almost see Adam's mind spinning, adding up the dates.

"I'll concede the boy might be Caroline's. He has her same green eyes. And they tilt up a little at the corners, just as hers did. But his hair is brown, not black like mine. Around the time the child would have been conceived, Caroline had an affair with my cousin Robert. It's obvious, the child belongs to him and not to me."

"But you were bedding her as well. As a matter of fact, as I understand it, she was a virgin when she came to you."

"I planned to marry her," Adam said defensively. "I'm not normally the sort to compromise an innocent young woman." For an instant, his gaze sliced toward Jillian and she thought she caught a flash of guilt.

"Mrs. Derry was very specific," Donnellson went on. "She said the child was yours and I believe she was telling the truth. Whether you wish to deny his parentage is a matter between you and God, but I won't thrust him onto your cousin because of what you refuse to believe. If you won't have him, I'll take him back to the parsonage with me. Chris is a very good worker. His father saw to that. I'm sure I can find someone who will take him in."

"What do you mean, his father saw to that? Was the boy mistreated?"

The vicar sighed. "I’m afraid the boy's circumstances weren't the best. Nancy wanted a child. Silas wanted a servant. The lad worked from dusk till dawn from the moment he was old enough to stay on his feet."

Adam's expression grew grim. It was obvious he believed the boy was his cousin's bastard son, yet his conscience couldn't stand the thought of the child being raised by strangers who might again mistreat him. Jillian's heart went out to him.

"Whatever the truth, the boy is apparently a Hawthorne," Adam said. "As I am the earl, that makes him my responsibility. Christopher may remain at Blackwood Manor."

The breath Jillian hadn't realized she was holding slowly seeped from her lungs.

The vicar nodded. "Thank you, my lord." He took his cue to leave and rose from his seat. "The boy knows nothing of his parentage. He believes he is the orphan son of Silas and Nancy Derry. Whatever you decide to tell him from here on out will be up to you."

The vicar took his leave, heading for the garden to make his farewells to Christopher and give him
whatever few possessions he had brought with him. Jillian watched Adam make his way to the sideboard, pour himself a brandy, and take a hefty drink.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"No." He tossed back the brandy and refilled his glass. "I've taken in my cousin's bastard. Every time I look at him, I'll think of the two of them the day I found them together in the cottage."

"The boy might be yours," Jillian softly reminded him. "He looks a great deal like you." It was true.

Tall for his age, with the same lean, broad-shouldered build. He was a beautiful child, just as Adam must have been.

"Robert is my cousin. We look somewhat alike."

As all of the Hawthorne men seemed to do, Jillian thought, remembering the portraits she had seen in the long gallery.

"I'll need to hire a governess," Adam went on, as if he spoke more to himself than to her. "He's going to need tutors as well. I'll look into it when we get back to London."

"I'm very good with children. Perhaps I can help with the boy until you have time to work things out."

He nodded, looked a little relieved. "I don't know much about children." Adam stared off toward the garden and it was obvious his thoughts were on Christopher Derry.

Jillian wondered if the boy could possibly be Adam's son, and if Adam's thoughts ran along the same lines.

The nursery at Blackwood Manor sat on the third floor of the huge stone house just below the servants' quarters. According to Fanny Dickens, the cook, all three Hawthorne offspring had occupied rooms up there from the time they were born, along with their governess and various nursemaids and tutors. The atmosphere had been warm and friendly, filled with the laughter of the siblings.

This evening as Jillian made her way along the dimly lit hall, she heard only the echoes of silence. Even as she paused in front of the door to Christopher Derry's room, she heard nothing but quiet.

Her heart squeezed. This wasn't the place for a child. Not when the small boy who had come into the house just hours before must be feeling lonely and frightened. She made a mental note to speak to Adam, see if he would consent to moving the boy to a room downstairs, then determinedly rapped on the door.

When Christopher didn't respond, she rapped again. Still no reply. Worried now, she turned the knob and slowly shoved it open.

Christopher Derry stood with his feet braced apart and his fists knotted, facing the door as if he were prepared to take on some unknown enemy. He relaxed when he saw who it was.

"Why didn't you answer?" Jillian asked gently.

"I was afraid it was a haunt. I thought I heard one on the stairs."

"A ghost?"

He nodded. Her heart ached at the relief on his face as she walked toward him, a woman of real flesh and blood.

"I'm not a ghost, I promise you. My name is Miss Whitney. We met briefly in the drawing room downstairs."

He nodded but still looked uncertain and she was very glad she had come. The child was bound to be frightened. He was in a strange place, with strange people, and no family or friends. The house itself was huge and intimidating, a maze of corridors and empty rooms, and he was only a little boy.

"Do you really think you might have heard a ghost?" she asked. "That sounds rather exciting. So far, I haven't seen a thing. I keep hoping, but I guess I just haven't been lucky."

His eyes sought hers and interest sparkled in them. "You wouldn't be afraid if you saw one?"

She shook her head. "I don't think so. I've heard a lot of stories about them. I think I should like very much to see one."

He seemed surprised and not a little intrigued. "I wonder what they look like."

"I'm not sure. I've heard you can see right through them, rather like a foggy windowpane." She glanced round the room, which was pleasant enough, decorated in pale blue and peach, the countess' touch evident here as it was in the rest of the house. And yet a chill pervaded the air, and the fabrics smelled musty, as if the place hadn't been used in years, which of course it hadn't.

Again she thought of Adam and hoped he would move the boy downstairs.

"How are you settling in? Did Reggie bring you something to eat?"

She knew the older man would have seen to it. One look at Christopher Derry and Reggie's bulldog face seemed to soften. It was obvious Reginald Sanderstead, formerly a sergeant of the Royal Artillery, melted like taffy at the sight of a child's trembling lips.

"He brought me up a tray, but I wasn't hungry."

Jillian walked over to the big silver tray on the dresser, covered by a white linen cloth. "You know, I think I could use a bite of something. Why don't we see what Cook sent up?"

She lifted the napkin and inhaled the pungent odors of cheese, roast lamb, fresh baked bread, and assorted other goodies chosen with a child in mind. She picked up a silver spoon and took a bite of the custard, making a sound of delight as she swallowed. "This is delicious. Want to try some?"

He eyed her for a moment, then walked over and took the spoon she held out to him. He ate for a while in silence.

"I never had custard with gooseberries in it before."

Jillian imagined there were lots of things Christopher Derry never had. His plain brown twill breeches and homespun shirt reflected the simple life he had lived, yet the clothes were clean and he spoke fairly well.

In minutes the food had disappeared and Christopher gave her a shy, grateful smile that somehow made her think of Adam. Dear God, could the man really be so certain the boy wasn't his?

Just the thought of her own child being raised by strangers, mistreated, then orphaned made her stomach roll. And yet, if he were Robert Hawthorne's son, as Adam firmly believed, the reminder of what his cousin and beloved had done would be torture of the very worst sort.

Jillian spent the next half hour talking to the boy, assuring him the Earl of Blackwood wasn't the hard man he must have first seemed.

"Everything's going to be all right, Christopher. In time, this will all work out."

But the boy didn't look convinced.

And Jillian wasn't either.

The hour was late by the time Jillian left the nursery and went in search of Adam, determined to discuss the child she had left upstairs. She found the earl leaning back on the sofa in his study, his gaze focused on the flickering red and yellow flames in the hearth.

"How is the boy?" he said without glancing in her direction. Long dark fingers cradled a half-full snifter of brandy, and she wondered if memories of Caroline had etched the harsh lines into his face.

"The child's all right, I suppose . . . considering . . ."

He turned toward her, arched a sleek black eyebrow. "Considering?"

"Considering he is up there on the third floor all by himself. Christopher is lonely and frightened, terrified there might be ghosts up there to haunt him."

Adam scoffed as he came to his feet. "There aren't any ghosts." He took a sip of his brandy and his heavy-lidded gaze said he had drunk more than he usually did. "At least not in that part of the house."

She cast him a glance he ignored.

"The room he is in was Carter's. It's a very nice room and
considering
the circumstances, he ought to be damned grateful for it."

Irritation trickled through her. "I'm sure he is. It's only . . . I just thought that until you are able to hire someone to watch over him, you might give him a room on the second floor where there are other people about."

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because, dammit, I don't want to look at him. I don't want to think of Caroline and Robert and what a fool they made of me."

"That's a little selfish, don't you think? Whether the child is yours or Robert's, he is just a little boy. He shouldn't be punished for what they did to you."

Dark blue eyes assessed her. He swirled the brandy in his glass, tilted back his head, and took a long swallow. "I'll think about it."

"Thank you."

She watched him walk over to the sideboard and refill his glass. "Drink?"

She shook her head. "Since we're on the subject, there is something I've been wanting to speak to you about." It was probably bad timing, but she had already waited longer than she should have.

"The subject being children."

"In a round-about manner, yes. I was hoping that once this is over, you might help me find a position. I realize the scandal will hurt my chances of securing employment, but if by some miracle my name is cleared, surely I'll be able to find some kind of suitable work. I thought perhaps a governess—"

He laughed. It had a bitter ring. She knew he was still upset about the boy. She should have listened to her instincts and picked a better time to broach the subject.

"You're not serious. You want to be a governess?"

Her chin angled up. "What's wrong with that? As I said, I've tutored children before. I think I'd make a very good governess."

His gaze ran over the expensive plum silk gown that dear Lord Fenwick had purchased for her. "Governesses don't wear fancy dresses and fine silk stockings, Jillian."

She stiffened. "You think I need those things to be happy?"

He took a sip of his brandy. "It isn't a matter of need. You weren't raised to be a governess. You deserve better than that. Once this is over, I'll find a place for you in London, someplace discreet where we can be together. I'll see you have a carriage, fashionable clothes, anything you need. I'll take care of you, Jillian. You won't have to worry about a thing."

Her chest constricted into a knot so tight, for an instant she couldn't breathe. "You're . . . you're not suggesting that I become your mistress?"

He smiled but there was something hard-edged about it. "You're already my mistress, sweeting. We'll simply clarify the arrangement."

She was appalled. So aghast she actually felt dizzy. She swallowed, forced out the words. "Becoming your mistress was never . . . never my intention. I gave myself to you because I . . . because I desired you. I wanted to know what it was like to make love with you."

"Whatever your reasons, the result is the same. We have a very satisfying physical relationship— brief as it has been. We might as well make the most of it."

Jillian shook her head, feeling sick to her stomach. "I have no intention of becoming your mistress, Adam. Not now or any time in the future."

"Try to be realistic, sweetheart. You've got no family, no friends. What other choice do you have?"

Her throat ached. She had
chosen
to make love to him. She had given herself to him because she desired him.
Because she was in love with him.
She didn't expect anything in return and especially not the sordid financial arrangement he was proposing.

God, unless she got out of there now, this very minute, she was going to cry, and she refused to do that in front of him.