Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman (2 page)

BOOK: Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman
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“Damnation. I hate it when you call me that.” It always made him feel as though he were the youngest—which he knew was Ainsley’s intent. He was always admonishing Stephen to grow up. It grew quite tedious after a while, especially as Stephen had no plans to change his self-indulgent behavior.

Ainsley nodded to signify it was the very reason he used the term, squeezed Stephen’s hand, and slapped him hard on the shoulder. “Get back here as soon as you can.”

“This is nothing to worry over. I’ll be home in time for pheasant season.”

The train whistle sounded, harsh and loud.

“I must be off.” He hugged his mother fiercely one last time, before rushing to board the train that would carry him toward his destiny.

Chapter 1

Northamptonshire

November 1855

M
ercy Dawson thought she’d prepared herself for the shame she’d endure at this precise moment.

She’d been wrong.

It hit her with a force so strong that she almost regretted her decision to return to England. She’d often heard that love was blind and fully capable of transforming even the wise into fools. Apparently, she was no exception. Love—so deep and profound that it had the power to overwhelm and bring her to tears at the most unexpected moments—had driven her here. Well, love and her father’s carriage.

In spite of her conviction to the path she traveled upon, she was quite surprised that she was finding it so blasted difficult to hold her head high and meet the gaze of the Duke of Ainsley. With his black hair and sharp features, he looked nothing at all like his half-brother, Stephen Lyons. While Ainsley was the youngest of the three brothers, he wore the mantle of responsibility on his shoulders and wore it well, as though it were a second skin. He understood the influence of his title and gave the impression he wasn’t one with whom a person should trifle. Within his dazzling green eyes, she saw evidence of a calculating mind while he studied her as though he’d just pinned her to a board for bugs and, after careful scrutiny, determined her to be little more than a maggot.

Obviously, he doubted the veracity of the incredible tale upon which her father had just expounded.

She was the first to look away, in the pretense of admiring her surroundings. They were in the front parlor of Ainsley’s country estate, Grantwood Manor. The room, almost as large as her father’s house, had more than one sitting area. White, yellow, and orange dominated the fabrics, giving the room a cheerfulness that would have welcomed her and made her smile if she were here under different circumstances. She imagined that on the coldest day of winter one could find warmth within these walls. She was presently sitting on a sofa nearest to the massive fireplace. Still, the heat from the writhing flames failed to ease the chill in her bones that had settled in while she and her father had traveled here. A chill that had intensified as Ainsley raked his gaze over her.

“Well?” her father bellowed, standing behind her as though he could no longer stomach the sight of her face. She jumped, but Ainsley’s steady gaze never left her or faltered. She suspected he’d have been as courageous on the battlefield as his brother. Stephen Lyons had arrived in the Crimea as a captain, but his daring exploits during battle had seen him rise with surprising swiftness to the rank of major. “Your boy got my girl with babe. You’d damned well better do right by her.”

The aforementioned babe was presently having his cheek stroked by Ainsley’s mother. The duchess looked up at her son. “He very much reminds me of Stephen at this age.”

“All babies look the same, Mother.”

“Not to a mother.”

The duchess’s formidable gaze came to bear on the new mother, and Mercy fought not to wither beneath it. She couldn’t imagine possessing the confidence that these people had. She’d been forced to shore up her own courage for this encounter. She’d known it wouldn’t be pleasant, but she also knew her only hope for happiness resided here. So she would stand her ground until the final bastion had fallen.

“Or to a grandmother, I suppose,” the duchess added.

Mercy’s original plan had been to simply leave the child here, within his relatives’ safekeeping, but in the end, she’d not been able to give him up. It was astonishing, how much she’d come to love the babe in the three months since his birth. She would do anything at all to protect him, to remain with him. Sell what remained of her soul to the devil if need be.

“What did you name him?” the duchess asked.

“John.”

“A strong name.”

She nodded. These were good people. She shouldn’t have brought her father into the matter. She should have come here first, only she hadn’t known where to begin to find this family, and she couldn’t very well live on the streets while she’d made inquiries. After all she’d seen and suffered during her months serving as a nurse, she’d thought her father would be as grateful to have her home as she was to have arrived. She’d known him well enough, though, to suspect he’d not look upon a new life as something to be cherished, regardless of how it had come about. Her father had not watched as hundreds of men died. He was landed gentry, and by arriving on his doorstep with a babe in her arms, she’d brought shame to him and his household.

But she didn’t regret what she’d done. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t.

“Your father mentioned that you met Stephen during the time he served in the Crimea,” the duchess said, but her voice also held a question. The East was far away, not a place to which a gentle lady should travel.

“Yes, Your Grace. I was serving as a nurse in Scutari.” She’d discovered that few people truly understood the geography of the area. Although the duchess may have been an exception. In a corner of the room stood a globe, the portion of the world that had caused so much turmoil and heartache clearly in view. Mercy wondered if the duchess had pressed her hand there in an attempt to feel closer to her son, to somehow bridge the endless miles that separated them. “Many of the soldiers were brought there to be tended.”

“Admirable. Then you were one of Miss Nightingale’s ladies?”

Miss
Nightingale.
To the nurses, the doctors, and the patients, she had simply been Miss N. “Yes, ma’am.”

“The newspapers paint a rather gruesome portrait of the war. I do not know how anyone could remain there with the deprivations, the cold, and illness. They say more men die of disease than battle.”

Mercy nodded, forced a tremulous smile. “John is the only good thing to come out of the war as far as I’m concerned.”

The duchess’s brown eyes softened. Stephen had not inherited his eyes from his mother. His were a rich, dark blue. She remembered the concern she’d seen reflected in them just before he’d taken her into his arms. So tenderly. After what she’d endured at the hands of three ruffians, she’d thought she’d be unable to suffer the touch of a man, but he had proved her wrong. How she longed for those powerful arms at this moment. But she would never again know their strength, would never again feel the firm muscles beneath her fingers. He’d been killed in September. Because of the wonder of the telegraph, the names of the fallen were known quickly and reported in the newspapers. She was surprised the duchess wasn’t wearing mourning clothes, but instead wore a dress of deep purple.

“Well?” her father bellowed again. “I want to know what you’re going to do for my girl.”

“I suppose you’re looking for some sort of monetary restitution,” Ainsley said.

“That would be a start. But she’s ruined. No decent man will have her now. She went to do good works and he took advantage.”

“Father—”

“Shut up, girl. The last thing I expected was for you to come home with some bastard.”

“Don’t call John that.” She would fight to the death to protect John. How could her father not see beyond the child’s illegitimacy to what he meant to Mercy? In a world devoid of joy, he was the only bright spot. “Please, Your Grace, I want only to stay with John. I could serve as his nurse, his nanny. I would require very little.”

“That will not do at all,” her father said. “The shame that has been brought to my household . . . I demand this be made right. You, sir, Your Grace, you should step in where your brother didn’t.”

Ainsley’s mouth twitched, and he looked as though he might burst into laughter. It was the first sign he’d given that he might not be as blasted serious as she’d assumed. “Are you suggesting I marry your daughter, sir?”

“I am indeed.”

“Father, no!”

“She needs a husband,” he continued as though she hadn’t objected. “I’m washing my hands of her.”

Madness was surrounding her. She didn’t know how to stop it. “Your Grace, this is not why I brought John to you. You are his family. I expect nothing.”

“Miss Dawson, do you swear that the child to whom you gave birth is my brother’s son?” Ainsley asked, a kindness in his voice that had been lacking before, as though he was beginning to understand that regardless of the unconscionable position in which she found herself, she placed the child first and that her father only added to the difficulties of her situation. She was grateful that the print of his hand was no longer visible on her face. He’d slapped her for her foolishness, then slapped her for her sins.

“I swear to you, Your Grace, by all that is holy, that John is Stephen’s son.”

“I do not doubt it,” the duchess said succinctly, her opinion obviously carrying a great deal of weight with the duke.

Ainsley nodded slowly, and then in long strides, he crossed the room and opened the door. “Find Major Lyons and inform him that I need to have a word.”

Mercy was on her feet before Ainsley had finished shutting the door. Dizziness assailed her. Her heart pounded with such force that she was certain they all could hear it. Her throat knotted up and it was all she could do to force out the words. “He’s here? He can’t be. He’s dead.”

Ainsley seemed quite surprised by her outburst. As was she. She wasn’t prone to histrionics, but this turn of events was not at all expected. Relief danced with fear. This changed everything.
Everything
. Her legs weakened, but she forced herself to remain standing. Better to face the devil on her feet.

“Yes, the initial reports were that he’d died,” Ainsley said, studying her. Did he have to continually examine every blasted inch of her? What the devil was he searching for, what did he hope to find? Evidence of her deception? “Considering what I’ve since learned of the carnage that was Sevastopol, I’m not surprised mistakes were made. He
was
gravely wounded and not expected to survive. But those who doubted his will don’t know my brother. He is as stubborn as the day is long. He arrived home only a month ago. He’s not quite up to snuff, still recovering.”

Gladness at the news almost replaced every ounce of her common sense. Once Major Lyons strode through that door, everything would change. He would laugh at her claims, if he even remembered her. Chaos reigned on the battlefields and in the hospitals. Like thieves in the night, soldiers, doctors, nurses had stolen moments of happiness wherever, whenever, they could. Hoarded the memories away for the exhausting, dreary days when there was nothing except the blight of suffering.

Her time with Major Lyons had been brief, all too brief. But her feelings for him had still managed to blossom into an emotion she didn’t understand but that frightened her with its intensity.

She jerked her gaze to John, held securely in the duchess’s arms. John. Her son. Her joy. She wished she’d never handed him over. She should dart across to where he gurgled, snatch him up, and dash from the room. Only he belonged here. She couldn’t whisk him away from where he belonged. He was her one opportunity for redemption, but the thought of losing him was like a knife twisting through her heart. She’d never expected he would become her salvation.

Good Lord, everything would come to light now. Everything. When Major Lyons saw her—

What if his first words revolved around her shame and suffering? But he’d promised, promised to never tell a soul. While he held her—

The door opened, the
click
echoing through the room like a rifle report. Imminent disaster loomed, but still she hungrily took in every beloved facet of him. Only he was a far cry from the man she’d come to admire, the man with whom she’d become ridiculously infatuated.

Shock reverberated through the very core of her being. He limped in, using a walking stick to steady his stride, which was not nearly as long or as confident as it had once been. He was not wearing the scarlet uniform that had made him such a dashing figure. Instead, he was dressed in a white shirt and cravat. Black waistcoat and jacket. Black trousers. As though he were in mourning.

Perhaps he was. How many of his comrades had he watched fall? How many had he held while they died on the field?

He was so thin that he barely resembled the robust young man who had exhibited such enviable self-assurance when he’d been discharged from the hospital that first month after she’d arrived with Miss Nightingale. Then he still spoke of routing out the enemy, sending them to perdition. He urged those not yet well enough to be released to recover quickly, to get the job done so they could all go home. They were not yet defeated. She overheard him delivering rousing words to so many that he strengthened her own resolve, made her determined to see them all recovered.

BOOK: Pleasures of a Notorious Gentleman
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