Heaven Sent the Wrong One (26 page)

Allayne smiled at the thought. He and Alexandra had a great
deal of important matters to discuss. But first and foremost in his agenda—he wanted to ask for her hand in marriage—the proper way, this time around. An interview in the morning would suffice—after all, they loved each other and their reunion, as a family was long overdue. It was time to put everything to rights and claim his son and Alexandra. A meeting with Jeremy and her father, the Earl of Weston, to finalize the settlements would follow soon after.

Allayne planted a kiss on top of Gabriel's head. For
the first time since that agonizing day in Bath, a kind of peace descended over him. As the shadows in the room grew and darkness began to creep in, his lids got heavier. He had never felt so content—relieved, as if a vise had been removed from his chest. Ah—he never thought he would be so happy—finally.

Allayne closed his eyes and drifted off to his first restful sleep in years.

Truth or Consequence

A
lexandra woke up early, after a restless night of sleep. Her decision to attend the soiree had been a disaster. After the incident in the library, Allayne and his fiancée had mysteriously disappeared, which added to her angst. Then, for the rest of the night, she'd had to endure her cousin Jeremy's watchful eye, while the Duke of Grandstone escorted her wherever she went, casting anyone who dared stare or whisper behind her back with a sharp blue gaze, cold enough to freeze the entire ballroom. Meanwhile, Jeremy's wife Cassie, together with the Duchess of Grandstone, Viscount Rose, and Lady Carlyle (who had miraculously recovered after swooning in her husband's arms) and of all people—Lord Bhramby, had seen to it that the guests had enough diversions to keep wagging tongues at bay. When at last the soiree had come to an end at close to three in the morning, she had breathed a long, heavy sigh of relief, saying her farewell to everyone as quickly as she could, with the reassurance that she was fine and they need not worry.

Well
—that was a big, glaring lie.

She had barely reached her carriage before her legs felt so wobbly she thought they would give out. And, as soon as she sat inside on the soft velvet squabs, she had burst into tears and couldn't stop weeping, which
upset her maid so much she'd offered to sleep on the sofa by her bedside—a kind gesture she'd declined. So, she had lain alone in her bedchamber, thinking about Allayne, about how much she missed him and how much she loved him, and how hopeless everything was as she'd cried herself into a fitful slumber.

Alexandra shook away the events from the soiree and rose from her bed, washing her face and brushing her hair as best as she could without summoning her maid. She had been so distraught when she'd arrived l
ast night that she failed to check on Gabriel for the first time in years. Donning a wrap over her shift, she padded towards the side door adjoining the large sitting room that was situated between the duke's and duchess' chambers to check on her son.

The
first thing she saw was the open window. Alexandra frowned at the slight chill in the room. She really ought to have the housekeeper call someone to put a new lock on it. The old one was so loose that the barest gust of wind could unhinge the latch and push the panes open. She ambled towards the gaping windowpanes and pulled both of the glass panels shut. A soft shaft of sunlight signaled the first light of morning and Alexandra stood back to admire it, watching the glass sparkle and turn opaque as the sun's rays shone through.

And that's when she noticed the reflection of Gabriel's bed a few yards behind her.

Alexandra swiveled around with a gasp—and laid eyes on the most beautiful sight she had ever seen.

Two honey-blond heads lay snuggled together, Gabri
el sleeping soundly on Allayne's chest, a little arm and leg curled over his father's midriff. Allayne's long hair fell over his cheek and brow, a muscular arm curved possessively around his son. Gabriel's favorite book was spread face-down by his booted feet. A sudden urge to remind him about ruining the book's spine, the same thing he used to nag her about in Bath, put a smile on her lips.

Alexandra quietly moved closer towards the sleeping pair. Dear God, how had Allayne gotten in here? Then, she rememb
ered—the window. It must have been the window. Her heart filled with tenderness at the scene before her, the two people she loved the most, finally together. Tears prickled behind her lids. Was there a more precious moment than this? She leaned over and pressed a kiss on Gabriel's cheek, then, unable to resist temptation, she very carefully, ever so gently, touched her lips to Allayne's enticing mouth.

Neither of them stirred. She gazed at Allayne's countenance, mesmerized by how beautiful he was, how stro
ng the resemblance was, between him and Gabriel, before her thoughts spiraled to the inevitable problem at hand. What was she going to do now? What was she going to say to him? A nervous shiver slithered down her spine as she slowly straightened and began to turn away. She must think this over, formulate a way to dissuade…

A strong hand curled on her wrist.

She darted a startled glance over her shoulder and found half-closed green eyes trained at her.

"Don't go," Allayne's low, sleep-laced voice rumbled.

Fear clutched her in a choke-hold. Apprehension must have shown in her eyes because Allayne's grip tightened on her wrist.

"Why do you look at me so?" He slid his hand down, intertwining his fingers with hers. "Are you afraid I will be angry at you?"

"Yes," she said in a voice, guilty and rueful. After all, she had deliberately hidden from him the fact that they had a son.

Allayne kissed the top of Gabriel's head. "He's beautiful," he said softly, a trace of a dimple appearing on one cheek. "I'm happy, Alex.
"

A breath of fresh air banished the hysteria that had blossomed in her gut upon hearing his words. He was not disgusted with her
—at least, not yet—because he didn't know the half of it. Tears skittered down her cheeks. Blast it. She mopped her face with the back of her free hand, flushing with embarrassment. She could not seem to stop crying these days, like some stupid, overflowing watering pot—

"Come here." He tugged at her hand.

Alexandra stared at their joined hands. Oh, Lord, how could she possibly resist? With a stifled sob, she threw herself alongside him on the bed, burying her face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar clean scent of his that reminded her of springtime and sunshine.

"I love you." He brought her fingers to his lips
. "Will you marry me?"

His sweet declaration made her cry even worse. Now she was bawling, because she knew she would soon hurt him. How could she make him understand the dilemma she was caught in? Now that he had found out about Gabriel
—would he try to take him away from her? The fear returned and slammed into her chest with a force that took her breath away.

"What's the matter, love?" Allayne tilted her chin with his thumb and forefinger.

Alexandra could not bear to look at him, to watch the joy flee from his eyes, so she averted her gaze. God help her—but she won't try to wheedle her way out of this confrontation again. The truth had to be told, and there's no one on the face of the earth that could do it except her.

"If
—" she swallowed the coarse lump in her throat. "If we marry—what would happen to Gabriel?"

Allayne regarded her with a puzzled expression. "I will claim him, of course. His proper birthright will be legally restored and his surname will revert to mine. And, if there are challenges to his
heritage, they can be easily managed by the powerful connections we have in the system. "

"A-and what about the Dukedom?"

"You will retain all the un-entailed monies and properties bequeathed onto you by the Duke, but the Dukedom itself and all its holdings shall revert to the crown if the bloodline has become extinct—or pass on to the next rightful heir."

The next rightful heir
—a Mr. Blake Norton. By God, his reputation as a gambler and a wastrel preceded him everywhere he went. He had a long line of creditors chasing after him and according to rumors, he was a few weeks away from getting hauled into debtors' prison. Henry's voice echoed at the back of Alexandra's mind. "Don't allow Blake Norton to plunge the Dukedom into perdition," he'd said on his deathbed. "Ensure that Gabriel becomes the Eighth Duke of Redfellow. I put my trust in you."

The lump in Alexandra's throat swelled and she remembered all the people relying upon her
—the duke's faithful butler—Mr. Walters, Mrs. Wigsley—the housekeeper, the pensioners, and every single person in the Duke's employ, the tenants—their children. All of them would be compromised at the hands of Blake Norton, who would surely usurp the ducal coffers and drain the funds to the last shilling.

The horror must have registe
red on her face, because Allayne regarded her with narrowed eyes. "Tell me what's bothering you," he said in a tone that told her, he expected nothing less than the truth.

Oh God, oh God, please don't let him be angry, Alexandra's anxiety climbed another n
otch. Nothing could aid her now—she owed him the truth. She knew he was going to hate her, but no one could hate her more than she hated herself at this moment.

"Allayne
—" she choked on a sob, "Oh, Allayne—Gabriel—Henry claimed him as his own. A-and I gave him my blessing."

Alexandra waited for his temper to flare, to rile and call her names, but he became pensive and quiet instead. The tensed silence stretched and so did the strain on her nerves. She could feel the rise and fall of his chest, and hear the
gust of his breath on her ear. The hand that had cupped her chin fell to his side in a rigid fist.

She knew then, that he'd realized the damage she had done. The repercussion of a deed made long ago, that seemed right at that time. Alexandra could almost
read the expressions that travelled across his face, could almost discern his thoughts as he pondered and debated with himself, weighing the situation, his options, the right decision to be made. She knew—he knew—it would become the biggest scandal in all of England—if he pressed his suit to claim his own son.

"I had to do it.”
She related the dire circumstances surrounding the dukedom and her promise to the duke. “I-I'm so sorry," she said, at last, when she finished her account.

Allayne did not respond.

At his continued silence, Alexandra pushed herself upright and slid off the bed. Fresh tears streamed down her cheeks as she took the few steps towards the adjoining door, but she did not care. She felt helpless and ashamed. Allayne could do what he wanted to do, now. She had given the choice to him. Whatever he decided on, she would have to accept—and face the consequences.

The rustle of sheets brought her attention back to the four-poster bed. Allayne had tucked Gabriel underne
ath the counterpane with a kiss and swung his legs off the bed.

His eyes met hers as he perched on the edge of the mattress. Alexandra wanted to flinch from the intensity of that green gaze, and at the same time, longed to run into his embrace. Dear God, h
ow she loved him—and how she hurt him so. She could see it all in those expressive eyes of his—the disappointment, the anguish—the disgust. And, she could not bear it.

Allayne stood up and walked towards the door leading to the hallway. As his hand alight
ed on the doorknob, he paused and leaned his forehead on the door frame. "I need time to think," he said without looking back at her.

"I understand," she replied quietly, lowering her gaze to the floor, incapable to watch him leave in such a troubled state
. Her heart broke for him, for Gabriel—for the dream that was so close, yet so impossible to reach in the end. A strange sense of surrender enveloped her. She was emotionally exhausted, numbed—drained. There was nothing more she could do, but wait.

She mus
t have stood there for a while, her mind blank, her eyes transfixed on the intricate pattern of leaves and vines on the carpet. Because, when she finally looked up—Allayne Carlyle was gone.

The Perfect Shot

A
llayne propped his elbows on the mahogany desk and scrubbed his face with his hands. He had been doing extensive research in the library for the past few days and had found nothing that could solve his predicament. His frustration had built to such an appalling state, it made him irritable and unsociable. None of the servants would approach him and his latest valet, the one his mother had hired barely a week ago, had tendered his resignation just yesterday—after he'd snarled and put a bullet through the window when the poor man tried to fuss over his clothes.

Thankfully, his friends and family knew better
—and had elected to leave him alone in his doldrums. Which had been a good choice—because after seven whole days of thumbing through thousands of pages—hell and damnation—his mood had become even worse. Day after day, hour after hour, every goddamn book of law provided nothing, but rigid declarations. Even the family barrister, who was a confidante and a well-known expert of the law, could not provide a solution for him. It had become quite clear that it would be extremely difficult to locate a legal loophole.

Allayne rubbed his bleary eyes and rested his forehead on the heel
s of his hands. How long had it been since he'd eaten? He really should stop and take his repast, and perhaps get some much-needed rest. His sleep had been erratic as of late—he'd missed Alexandra and Gabriel, but he fought his desire to go and see them, because he could not let his attachment to Gabriel grow to a proportion large enough to distract his objectivity in finding a resolution to the enormous problem his paternity presented.

"Allayne?" His mother called from the partially open doorway, carrying a tray of supper with both hands. "May I come in?"

"Of course, Mama," Allayne replied, with a resigned sigh. He should have known that his mother would not let him get away much longer from missing his meals.

The Viscountess placed the tray on the mahogany table and sat across from him. "I wish you'd tell me what's troubling you, dearie."
She searched his face with a concerned look in her eyes, and then glanced at the books scattered around the table.

Allayne shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose. He could feel the beginning of a headache coming on.

"Our butler—Morton, had very reluctantly mentioned something he heard from the servants," the Viscountess ventured. "He said there have been rumors of a child—."

"What child?" Allayne interjected abruptly, straightening in his chair. Oh, no. This could not be happening right now
—not when he was still unprepared to deal with the situation at hand!

"Morton said his cousin, Barton, had heard from the Waterford House staff, that they'd heard from their cousin, Gordon and the Grandstone house staff, who in turn heard from the Redfellow hous
e staff, that the Duchess has a son who looks remarkably like—" the Viscountess cleared her throat before adding, "a Carlyle."

Allayne stared at his mother.

"The last time I checked, I only have one son—you—unless I conceived by Immaculate Conception, gave birth without my knowledge and handed the babe to the Duchess for adoption three years ago." The Viscountess crossed her arms on her chest and regarded him with shrewd eyes. "Either that—or your father had dipped his cucumber into the wrong gravy boat and produced a spawn under my nose."

Allayne propped his elbows back on the mahogany table and caught his head in his hands.

"Unless of course," his mother prattled on, "someone else in this family had bedded and impregnated Her Grace long ago—and refuses to discuss the fruit of his labor with his loved ones, who only wanted what's best for his welfare!”

"Mother
—" Allayne massaged his temples in a circular motion with his fingers. "May we please discuss this in the morning?"

"No, we may not." The Viscountess
placed her hands on her hips. "Everyone in this household may be afraid of you, Allayne Carlyle, but I am your mother and I can box your ears whenever I like. And, if you dare point a pistol at me, I swear—I'll shoot your forefinger off before you can even pull that trigger!" She patted the bulge of her pistol in her skirt pocket. "Don't forget which parent you inherited that perfect shot from."

"I'm glad I did not inherit the perfect swoon too," Allayne muttered, under his breath.

"I heard that," his mother snapped.

"Mama
—" Allayne exhaled heavily, and met his mother's questioning eyes. "What am I to do?"

"Just as I suspected." The Viscountess stood up and paced the floor. "The boy is yours."

"Yes." Allayne waited for another lecture—and readied himself to catch his mother in case she might swoon, but she simply kept on walking back and forth in front of his desk in deep thought.

After a long while, she paused to look at him. "My God
—I have another grandson." She gushed with a small laugh.

"That's just it." Allayne sat back in his chair. "Claiming him as a Carlyle might not be that easy."

"Why ever not?" the Viscountess tilted her head, a flummoxed expression crossing her still-beautiful face.

"According to these records," Allayne gestu
red at the leather-bound books on his desk, "The Duke of Redfellow claimed him and presented him to the King as his own blood and heir. Alexandra gave the Duke her blessing. She and I—had an affair in Bath and parted ways. Gabriel was the son I never knew she had. She thought I was a valet and did not discover who I truly was, until we met again at the soiree."

"A valet?" His mother's eyebrows shot upwards.

"It's a long story." Allayne plowed his fingers through his hair and craned his neck left and right, to ease the tension building at his nape.

"Dinner can wait." The Viscountess sat down on her chair and settled her hands on her lap, with a pointed glare.

Too tired to argue and knowing his mother would never let him get away without an explanation, Allayne began to tell her the details. After several minutes of incredulous exclamations and mutterings of the Lord's name from the Viscountess, a long silence ensued at the end of his tale.

"Allow me to wrap my brain around what you've just told me
—" she finally said, with a deep furrow on her brow. "After all that whining and grumbling about my sending you to Bath to meet—in your own words—"another one of my mother's friends' silly, insipid chits"—you pretended to be a valet and decided to tup the silly, insipid, chit—whom you thought was a maid, but turned out to be the Earl of Weston's daughter, who was the very same "silly, insipid chit" I matched you with in the first place, who later became the Duchess of Redfellow, and birthed your illegitimate son without your knowledge, who is now the Eighth Duke of Redfellow, whom you discovered existed a week ago, and now wanted to claim as your own." The Viscountess wiped her brow and made an exaggerated show of catching her breath after her long narration.

"Yes, that
about sums it up." Allayne watched his mother's expression as it went from discombobulated to exasperated, to plain hysterical.

"Oh, Lord, Allayne! How could you even fathom tupping the Earl's daughter? You're too randy for your own good! I should have h
ad you gelded when you turned twelve! This is all your father's fault! If he had not conjured this grand idea of matching you with Weston's daughter in the first place, none of this would have happened! Where is he, anyway?" The Viscountess swiveled towards the open doorway. "George? George? George!" She yelled loud enough to cause the servants to come running and investigate.

"Calm down, Mama." Allayne waved the servants away and reached for his mother's hand across the table. "Papa left for White's an hou
r ago—although at the rate you're screaming, he'll probably hear you even if he is in Cornwall."

"Don't turn insolent on me, Allayne Cassius Carlyle!" She glowered at him. "My poor grandson
—what are we going to do now?"

"Claiming him as my son is not the
real problem, Mama. It's the repercussions after the fact that are not favorable."

"Whatever do you mean?" The Viscountess visibly stiffened.

"If I force my paternity, Gabriel will lose the dukedom and Alexandra will face the gallows for deceiving the crown."

"Oh, Lord
—you are probably right. She did implicate herself as an accomplice by supporting the Duke’s ruse. And, not just that—even if you succeeded in giving Gabriel your name, you cannot have him as your heir. He was born while the Duchess was married to the duke. He could only inherit the Viscountcy if he was born within a marriage between you and the Duchess. If you claim him, he will lose not just the Dukedom, but also the legacy of the Viscountcy. In short—Gabriel will lose everything."

"Shit!" A
llayne slammed his hand on the table. "Everything is so goddamn complicated."

Another awkward silence ensued, both of them lapsing into their own private cogitation, before the Viscountess said, "No
—it's all quite simple, really."

"Pardon me?" Allayne turn
ed his gaze from the flickering flames in the fireplace to his mother.

"Allayne
—sooner than later, Gabriel's true paternity will become apparent to everyone. You don't need to lay claim on him to prove he's your son. That's all you want, isn't it?—to be recognized as your son's father? Well—if the servants could notice the resemblance as early as now, when Gabriel is but a wee boy, then the stamp of your countenance on him will only become stronger as he grows. There will be talk, no doubt—and some people will question his right to the Dukedom. But, who in his rational mind would dare insult him or challenge you—the most feared marksman in the Kingdom?"

"No one, I'm sure
—" Allayne shook his head with a shrug. "But, that doesn't solve my predicament."

"Let m
e ask you this—" the Viscountess looked him in the eyes. "Do you love the duchess and your son?"

"Of course, I do, Mama. I wouldn't be so adamant in resolving this issue if I did not care for them so."

"Then do what's best for both of them," his mother said in a gentle voice and a kind smile. "Leave your own interest behind. Think of them first and put yourself last. Accept what you cannot change. Marry the Duchess and let Gabriel become one of the most powerful peers in the land. The Viscountcy can wait for another heir—it's not impossible for you and Alexandra to have more sons. And in the event you are blessed with daughters instead, the title can pass on to your cousin, Albert, who is a commendable young man." The Viscountess rounded the table, went to his side, and brushed his tousled hair away from his face. "A real, strong man—like your father—will do everything for the sake of his loved ones," her voice rang with a twinge of pride. "You are your father's son. You may have inherited your aim from me, but I see the rest of your father's qualities in you. Choose the selfless alternative—both you and Alexandra have learned your lessons. What was done, was done. It's time to forgive, forget, and move on with your lives—together."

Allayne closed his eyes and
leaned his head on his mother's shoulder.

"Keep your eye on the most important target." The Viscountess gave him a hug and kissed the top of his head
—much like the way Allayne did with Gabriel. "Don't let the mundane things distract your sight from the perfect shot."

Allayne returned his mother's embrace. "Thank you, Mama," he said, kissing her cheek.

"Now eat your supper and get some rest," his mother said, as she walked towards the doorway. "I want to meet my grandson as soon as you can make arrangements—and also my new daughter."

And with that said, the Viscountess left in an elegant flourish of silk skirts, loudly humming Mendelssohn's Wedding March from Shakespeare
’s, 'A Midsummer Night's Dream,' as she disappeared into the long hallway."

**This author has chosen to use Felix Mendelssohn's Wedding March in C Major, 12 years ahead of its composition. It was actually written in 1842 and became one of the most popular incidental music pieces from Shakespeare’s 'A Midsummer Night's Dream,' c. 1590-1596.