His Sinful Secret (31 page)

It was true, apparently, for after the first shock had passed, there had been tentative joy, and if the sudden choked sound of his father’s voice was an indication, both his parents were accepting of the little girl.

They were in the ducal study, the thickening afternoon clouds obscuring the light, but there was a warm fire and the rich scent of fine liquor hung in the air. “Then you agree Julianne handled the matter correctly?”

Michael watched his father contemplate the question. After a moment he sighed heavily. “It is incredible that a nineteen-year-old woman should be forced into a position where she is blackmailed for the support of her fiancée’s bastard child. I agree that compassion for us ruled her actions, and I am still astounded she used her own funds to pay this woman to keep my dead son’s secret, at some significant personal sacrifice. I commend her selflessness.”

Michael smiled. He couldn’t help it. “She’s remarkable in many ways.”

“I forced the marriage on you, but I admit you don’t seem displeased.” There was keen-eyed assessment in his father’s gaze.

“I’m a grown man. You didn’t force anything on me.”

“On the contrary, emotional extortion is as viable as monetary pressure.” His father shook his head and sipped from his crystal glass before continuing. “I owe you a deep apology. When I approached you about marrying Julianne, I knew what I was doing. I am just grateful it has not worked out in such a way that you are unhappy.”

Discussing his emotions was not his forte. Michael deflected having to make a comment by returning to the subject at hand. “How do you wish to handle this?”

“I personally think the country is the place for a child. It is certainly more wholesome than London.”

“Julianne will want to accompany her.”

“That is, of course, up to you.”

At one time Michael would have embraced being able to send his wife off to Southbrook Manor, but now he found himself resistant to the idea of a prolonged separation. Still, in light of the attempts on his life, he probably should get her out of London.

With resignation, he sighed. “Julianne will want to keep her close. It’s clear through all of this she has grown extremely attached to Chloe, and it is obvious the child needs her.” Michael paused and then said frankly, “I told her we could raise her as our own.”

“You indulge your wife. A good sign.” A chuckle followed the words.

“The smugness is unappreciated. I believe you just apologized for coercing me into marrying her.” Michael dangled his glass from his fingers, his smile wry.

“It meant so much to your mother, and to me also. I apologize for my methods, not my motives.”

“And you would give her anything.” It wasn’t a question, but a statement. He’d seen other
ton
marriages. His parents had a unique, deep relationship.

“I would.”

“No conditions?” Michael didn’t often ask for advice; it just wasn’t in his nature. He approached problems in an analytical way based on his own experiences, and made snap decisions that had at times risked his life. But then again, he was used to danger.

Julianne and his marriage—not to mention unexpected surrogate fatherhood—was a bit different. His father knew about lifetime commitment . . . and love.

Was Michael in love? It was becoming clearer by the moment that in some way he was out of his depth with his young, beguiling wife. She’d said earlier she cared about his happiness. He found he also cared about hers.

His father transferred his gaze to the crackling fire, the leaping flames welcome in the chill of the gloomy afternoon. He gently smoothed his fingers down the side of his glass in a contemplative gesture. “There are some conditions. Life is always a compromise. I would never tolerate infidelity, though many men I know care very little about the personal lives of their wives once they have produced the heir needed for their titles and fortune. Those same men are promiscuous themselves, so they view the lack of hypocrisy as being indulgent, but I can’t—and never could—see marriage that way.”

“Though I am hardly beyond reproach, the lack of morality among the privileged class has always given me pause.”

“I’m glad to hear your sensibilities match mine in that regard.”

Michael cocked a brow. “So there is no objection to my wife and me taking charge of Chloe?”

“None, as long as your mother agrees, and she will. The role of grandparent is different from that of a mother and father, and this child in particular has been deprived of both of the latter.”

Indeed she had. “I will ask Rutgers, then, if he has any recommendations for a temporary nursemaid among the staff and to contact an agency to begin a search for a permanent one.”

“He’s most efficient.”

Michael was pleased the issue was settled in a way that would make Julianne happy, the lighthearted emotion incongruous to the lurking threat of his mysterious, murderous opponent out there. “I’ll approach Julianne about going to Kent.” Fitzhugh could continue to do his duty guarding her, but it would hardly do to tell his father that Michael’s service to the Crown had put his wife in danger.

“Your mother will like that. She’s been talking about returning to the country.”

Michael finished his drink and rose. “I’ve an appointment that can’t wait.”

“That seems to be a constant excuse.”

He must be slipping. He’d thought he’d balanced his life more effectively. “I’m not quite done with my duties to Wellington and the War Office.”

“What happened to your arm?”

Now he knew he definitely
was
slipping.

“A minor injury,” he said with a negligent shrug. Truth was, with all the distraction, he’d all but forgotten about the graze, but he must be visibly favoring it. “It’s nothing.”

“If you say so, I must take your word on it. But perhaps a little more caution is in order, son.”

It was easier to choose to not address the speculation in that statement. Michael left his father’s study to find Fitzhugh hovering out in the hallway. “What is it?” he asked sharply as his valet handed him his greatcoat.

“The devil’s own business, sir.”

“What particular devil are we discussing?” Michael slipped on the garment.

“You,” Fitzhugh said serenely.

 

At least it all had gone well and the maid Rutgers had selected as Chloe’s temporary nurse was a young, fresh-faced woman named Bryn from Wales with a soft accent and gentle manner. Considering the dramatic change in her circumstances, the huge house, the multitude of people when Chloe was used to much more meager contact with strange adults, Julianne thought the little girl did quite well. She didn’t leave her until after luncheon, the shared meal with the maid at her insistence, for she cared very little about rank and title anyway, and, quite frankly, all she wanted was for Chloe to get used to the young woman.

When an assortment of blocks that made the ones she’d given the little girl seem quite humble were discovered in the nursery, the child’s attention was absorbed. Julianne was finally able to sneak away as the smiling maid provided supervision. Someone—she suspected it was Michael, for he never failed to surprise her—had ordered it cleaned and opened. With the dust cloths removed and the shutters pulled back from the windows, it was a much more welcoming place, and a cheerful fire burned in the grate. Also, the picture books she’d wanted sat on the low table in the middle of the room.

The thoughtfulness of it all moved her.

Once downstairs, she found that her husband was not at home, but she had a caller who had been waiting. The woman had not left a calling card or given her name but insisted, Rutgers informed her in his genteel delivery, that she would wait as long as necessary for her ladyship to receive her.

It admittedly made her curious. Very few of her friends would refuse to identify themselves, nor would many be willing to wait indefinitely either. “Very well,” she said, smoothing her gown. “Thank you.”

“She is in the informal salon, my lady.”

That surprised her, and evidently it showed. His expression said he knew exactly where to put each caliber of visitor, and had for decades before she was born, but he was infinitely too well-bred to mention it.

Informal
was telling. This was not a typical social visit, then. Nor was it a typical visitor.

Julianne walked down the marble hallway and found the room in question, the more comfortable surroundings of scattered chairs and tables a contrast to the silk-covered walls and priceless paintings of the public rooms where the Duke of Southbrook received his visitors. When she saw the woman seated on one of the settees, there was no sense of recognition.

But she did recognize, with a small shock, that the visitor had flamboyant red hair that clashed with her somewhat shabby pink gown.

“Good afternoon,” she murmured, advancing into the room in a state of confusion. “I’m Lady Longhaven. I understand you wish to see me.”

“So you’re her.” The woman stood, her eyes narrowed. “I expected something just like you. Pretty as a porcelain doll. Well, I suppose Harry wouldn’t want to marry a hag, now, would he?”

“And you are?” Julianne said pointedly, not sure she wanted to sit down and entertain this particular guest.

“Leah McDermont.”

“No,” Julianne argued, shaking her head, wondering what was going on. She’d met with Chloe’s mother every week over the better part of the past six months. This was not the same woman.

“You think I don’t know my own name?”

It was difficult to answer when the world seemed to have spun off its axis. Yet, oddly enough, the sneering attitude was familiar. “I know Miss McDermont.”

“The hell you do, my fine lady. You just think as you know her.”

“What does that mean?” Julianne demanded, still only a few feet in the door, reluctant to go in any farther in the face of such blatant hostility.

“It means I’m tired of waiting on someone else to get me what I deserve. Tell me where your Harry’s precious daughter is, or I’ll go to a magistrate.”

That didn’t exactly clarify anything, and she blinked, at a loss. “She was left alone in a deserted house. Naturally, I brought her here.”

“I didn’t leave her alone;
she
did.” The other woman sniffed. “I knew all along you wanted her. Always bringing presents . . . pretty things . . . Well, if you don’t want me takin’ her away right now, you’ll pay up like she always said you would.”

“Who is
she
?”

Julianne needn’t have worried about not understanding. Her visitor had sufficient purpose to make sure her objectives were crystalline. In a mannerism she’d seen before—or at least had been mimicked very well by the woman she’d thought was Leah—she tossed her head and declared, “I want money. If you don’t give me what’s due I’ll go to the bloody
Times
and give them every detail of how the Marquess of Longhaven tupped a barmaid and gave her a full belly.”

“Go ahead.”

The contained voice made them both swivel toward the doorway. The duke stood there, his usual affable manner absent, his normally pleasant expression taking on some of his son’s inscrutable purpose. “I do not know precisely who you are,” he said, strolling in and coming to Julianne’s rescue with such ducal aplomb that she was sure the prince regent couldn’t have had more presence. “But rest assured, I do not appreciate you threatening my daughter-in-law. You do realize a timely word from me would prevent any damaging gossip from being printed about my dead son by any publication on English soil. But even if you stood on the rooftop of every house in London and shouted your story far and wide, the Hepburn family is far above caring for such a minor scandal.”

This Leah—Julianne did not know now who to believe was really Chloe’s mother—had her mouth hanging half open unattractively at the arrival of the duke himself.

Bewilderment didn’t even describe her reaction.

The duke then turned to Julianne with a small, humorless smile. “You have done more than enough for our family already, my dear. I will deal with this unpleasant situation.”

As a dismissal, it was neatly done and with regal confidence. Truthfully, she was so confounded that she was only too happy to comply with the inferred order.

What motive would someone have,
she wondered as she left the room,
to impersonate a young, impoverished barmaid who’d given birth to an illegitimate child?

T
he Hare and Bottle was hardly reputable,but it wasn’t one of the blacker establishments either. Clad in a worn coat, his oldest boots splashed with mud from the street and his cravat removed, Michael alighted from the hired hack and entered the building. He found it half full of patrons, and the proprietor himself served ale to the modest crowd. A low cloud of tobacco smoke mingled with an ill-lit fireplace gave the interior of the taproom the look of a foggy morning.

He rather doubted he’d find out anything helpful, but one never knew. Parts of his job were actually tedious. He’d been meeting with informants ever since the second attack and learned nothing.

Of course, he’d been looking for Roget, but he now suspected he’d been asking the wrong questions about the wrong opponent.

Michael chose a chair in a corner, and when the man came over, he said succinctly, “I’ll take a tankard, but I came for a bit of advice.”

The owner was a burly man in middle age, with a bristling black beard and deep-set, sharp eyes. He scowled. “The ale I can provide, but as for the advice—”

“I’ve heard if I need someone to do me certain favors, this is the place to come,” Michael interrupted smoothly. “You know to what I am referring, I’m sure.”