Mary Jo Putney (25 page)

Gervase cast his mind back twenty years. "I never felt anything during the actual seizure—it was like being asleep. But I remember that when one began, it felt like... like someone had tied a strap around my forehead and was pulling it backward."

"That's it exactly!" the boy exclaimed. "Like a giant, tugging at me. Sometimes I fight him off and don't have a fit."

Diana stared at her son in surprise. "Sometimes you can stop the seizure from starting? You never told me that."

He fidgeted, glancing askance. "It doesn't work very often."

Shaking her head, she straightened and said, "I guess a mother is the last to know." She still wouldn't look at Gervase.

Another memory surfaced now, and the viscount said abruptly, "The worst of it was the eyes. I'd blank out, then the next thing I knew I was lying on the ground. People would be gathered around, staring at me. All those eyes..."

He stopped speaking as he saw that Geoffrey's face was very still, and etched with more knowledge than a child should have. Any epileptic knew those stares, the eyes avid with curiosity, or fear, or disgust, or perhaps the worst of all, pity. Geoffrey knew, but would not speak of it in front of his mother.

Instead the boy said after a brief hesitation, "Did you learn to ride even though you had fits?"

"Of course."

Geoffrey gave his mother a speaking glance. Diana headed off the "I told you so" hovering on her son's tongue by saying briskly, "Isn't it time you got to sleep, young man?"

"No! Not tired at all." His remark was undercut by a wide yawn. As if it were a signal, a young tabby cat jumped on the bed. Geoffrey lifted the little animal in his hands. "When I had the seizure, Tiger was frightened and jumped off. I've only had her a few weeks, and she's already learned to sleep on my bed."

"Clever cat," the viscount said, suppressing a smile.

"It wouldn't be a bad idea if you tried sleeping on the bed too, young man," Diana said firmly as she pressed her son back, then tucked the blankets around boy and cat. "This is not the right time for a lengthy discussion. Lord St. Aubyn must be getting home himself."

The blue eyes flew open. "He's a real lord?"

Gervase almost laughed out loud; he couldn't remember when he'd impressed someone with so little effort. "Yes, a real lord. A viscount, to be exact."

The boy eyed him doubtfully. "Where's your purple robe?"

"I only wear that on special occasions, when I can't avoid it. Usually it's a nuisance, always getting stepped on and knocking vases off tables," Gervase said gravely. He stood and proffered his hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lindsay."

This time Geoffrey's grip was a good deal less firm, but he still had the energy left to offer the kitten's paw for shaking.

Gervase accepted the thin striped forepaw with fair aplomb. The cat appeared to have no opinion. Then the viscount looked more closely and said in surprise, "Good Lord, the cat has thumbs." Tiger had a long extra toe that projected almost exactly the same as a human thumb, though it was less flexible.

Geoffrey smiled mischievously as he fought a losing battle to keep his eyes open. "Mama says that it is scary to think what cats will get into once they've developed the opposable thumb."

Gervase gave Diana an amused glance but she was looking down at her son, her expression obscured. Even with his eyes closed, Geoffrey was unready to call it a night. His voice blurred with fatigue, he asked, "Will you tell me about the army sometime?"

"If you wish."

Diana glanced up sharply, then thought better of what she had intended saying. As she leaned over to kiss her son's cheek, Gervase withdrew and waited outside. In spite of the lateness of the hour, he had a great many things to say to his mistress.

Chapter 10

Diana felt the door panels digging into her rigid shoulder blades as the anger she had suppressed in front of Geoffrey emerged as a glare. Her temper was not improved by the glint of amusement in Gervase's eyes. Her voice low and hard, she said, "Clearly the rumors of your spying activities were accurate."

Unalarmed by her expression, the viscount said, "I admit I was curious where you were going at such an odd hour. If he's been ill, I suppose that explains why you look tired tonight."

"It's time you left."

"It
is
very late," he agreed, "but not yet quite time to leave. If we're going to fight, let's do it downstairs. This corridor is freezing and you must be too."

The blasted man was right; her shivering was as much from cold as from anger. Taking the candlestick from her hand, he wrapped one warm arm around her unyielding shoulders and led her back to the bedroom. A few minutes later she was ensconced in a wing chair by the fire, a cashmere shawl wrapped around her and a glass of brandy in her hand. Pampering was a novel and pleasant experience, but she refused to let herself be mollified.

Gervase knelt by the hearth, stirring up the fire and adding more coal until it was burning bright and hot. He had already poured himself a brandy and now he took the opposite chair, lounging back and crossing his long legs at the ankles. In the dim light it was impossible to read his expression; his face was a collection of elegant shadows, hawklike and distant.

She didn't want to be affected by how he looked, and she certainly didn't want to think of what they had been doing with such pleasure earlier in the evening, so she stared into the heart of the fire. If he wanted to talk, let him say something.

He regarded her thoughtfully. "Why are you so angry?"

"Need you ask?" she said. "Following me upstairs was an unforgivable intrusion. I have been very careful to keep Geoffrey in ignorance of what I do. Until tonight, I have been successful. Now..."

It would have been much easier if he had met anger with anger. Instead, he said after a moment, "You're quite right. I've always had more curiosity than is good for me. It didn't occur to me that I was putting you in an untenable position, and I'm sorry if that has happened. Still, I doubt any damage was done. He's young enough to accept my story without questions."

"He believed it now, but when he's older, he'll remember and wonder." She pulled her legs up under her in the chair, her body tight as strung wire. "How do you think it will make him feel if he deduces that his mother was a whore?"

"Since my mother was one, I know exactly how he would feel." His bitterness was unmistakable, and she glanced at him, startled. Gervase never spoke of his life before India.

With obvious effort, he said in a milder tone, "Actually, it would be more accurate to say that whoring was her pleasure, not her vocation. No, I don't suppose Geoffrey would be happy to think that of you. Boys have very high standards for their mothers. But you must know that he is bound to learn the truth eventually, unless you send him away."

She said tightly, "I don't intend to do this forever. In a few years my... market value will have diminished considerably. By the time he is old enough to start wondering, this life should be behind me. One reason I prefer to live quietly is so there will be few people to connect me with my disreputable past."

He felt a sharp sense of loss to think she might not always be there in the future. It would be very easy to carry on with her like this forever. Though her spectacular beauty would fade with time, there would still be passion and comfort.

But this was not the time to discuss her future. "I doubt that one night's encounter will make Geoffrey think the worse of you. If you don't want me to see him again, I won't."

She gave a brittle laugh. "You don't know much about children, do you?"

"No, I don't," he agreed. "Enlighten me."

She wearily leaned her head against the back of the chair; "The first thing he will do tomorrow is ask when you'll call next. Then he'll chatter about how you had seizures, too. It's a great event in his life to meet someone who had a similar affliction. He will also rehearse, in excruciating detail, all the questions he wants to ask about the army, and he will end by telling everyone how you shook Tiger's paw."

Gervase laughed out loud. "As bad as that?"

Diana had to smile. In spite of her motherly qualms, the situation was not without humor. Trying to maintain her righteous indignation, she said ruefully, "It may seem funny to you, but you don't have to deal with the consequences. Pandora's box has been opened."

"You're right, I don't know much about children," he admitted, "but he's a fine boy. You must be proud of him."

He had found the perfect way to disarm her, and for a man unused to children, he had done a surprisingly good job of conversing with one. It was getting harder to maintain her irritation, so she changed the subject. "The seizures—I gather you don't have them anymore?"

"Not since I was twelve or thirteen." He shrugged, his shoulders wide in the firelight. "While seizures were a feature of my childhood, they were rare, most of them when I was under six. One physician told my father that fits are not uncommon in small children and often go away as they grow up, which was what happened to me. I gather that your son's problem is more severe."

She nodded, staring into the glowing coals. "He has fewer
grand mal
seizures than when he was an infant, not even one a week unless he's ill, but they seem to last longer. He also has
petit mal
seizures, the staring spells, and they occur more often. They last only a few seconds and aren't usually a problem, but if he were doing something dangerous..." Her voice broke. "I've asked physicians, but no one can say what will happen to him in the future."

Almost against her will, she found herself speaking her worst fear. "If he gets worse..." She swallowed, then finished almost inaudibly, "They put dangerous epileptics in madhouses."

"Geoffrey is unlikely to end up in a madhouse." The calmness of his tone was a balm. "There is obviously nothing wrong with his mind. While it is possible that his condition will worsen, he is likely to stay the same or even improve. It's a hard uncertainty to live with, but all life is uncertain. An accident can turn the healthiest of men into an invalid in an instant. Geoffrey will have to live within limits, but not intolerable ones."

Gervase swirled his brandy as he mused half to himself, "I remember how ghastly it was, knowing my own mind was betraying me, but Geoffrey seems to have adjusted to it. There is no reason to assume that he can't have a satisfying life. They say that Napoleon himself has seizures."

"I'm not sure Bonaparte is the best example of a successful life, but I take your point." Diana sighed. His words were nothing she hadn't thought a thousand times, but it was good to be reminded by someone more detached. Her son's lively mind and good nature had gained him acceptance in his school. Surely he could do as well in the wider world as he grew. "I know I worry too much. I try not to flutter over Geoffrey, but I'm not always successful. Fortunately he has Madeline and Edith as well."

"Edith?"

"The older woman who was in his room when you came in. She takes care of Geoffrey, the household, and everyone in it. I suppose she is rather like his grandmother, and Madeline his favorite aunt." She examined the amber depths of her brandy as she voiced one of her secret concerns. "We all adore him, but there aren't enough men in his life. That's one reason he was so interested in you."

"Is his father alive?"

He knew immediately that it was the wrong question to ask. In a voice that could have cut glass, Diana said, "I do not wish to discuss Geoffrey's father."

Gervase certainly had his secrets and she had a right to hers, but he was intensely curious about the boy's father. Diana might be a widow. More likely Geoffrey was illegitimate, which would explain why Diana was a member of the oldest profession rather than respectably married.

In a vague, general way, Gervase had resented all the anonymous other men in her life, but now Geoffrey gave him a more specific focus of jealousy. The boy was a link to his mother's earlier lover. Every time she looked at her son, she must think of the man who had seduced her. She would have been scarcely more than a child herself.

Gervase was very good at extrapolating a whole picture from scattered fragments of information. His previous observations plus what he had learned tonight suggested that Diana had been raised the protected daughter of some prosperous merchant or was even of the minor gentry. Then she had fallen in love with some handsome, smooth-talking scoundrel who had casually impregnated and abandoned her, and her family had cast her off.