Retreat From Love (38 page)

Brett was still trembling. He lay on the bed, Freddy wrapped in his arms. Freddy had taken off his cravat as soon he could get his hands to work after they’d both come.

Freddy had unrepentantly used his ruined shirt to clean them both off, and then he shoved Brett down and crawled in next to him, hugging him.

They hadn’t even bothered to pull up their trousers. Brett felt exposed, the air of the bedroom cold on his cock after the burning heat of Freddy’s passage. The thought of what it had felt like inside Freddy caused Brett to tremble anew.

“What are we going to do?” Freddy asked quietly. “I’m in love with you, and I’m in love with Anne. And she might be my sister. Christ, this sounds like a bad Gothic novel.”

Brett chuckled and rubbed his hand along Freddy’s bare back, just because he could. Because he didn’t have to hide his feelings anymore, his desire. With just that thought his trembling ceased. This was right. What they had done was right, as right as what they’d done with Anne. He wrapped his arms tightly around Freddy. “You are 191

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going to talk to Mrs. Goode.” He kissed the top of Freddy’s head resting on his shoulder. “And I am going to talk to Stephen.”

Freddy sat up and looked at him knowingly. “Yes, I think it’s about time you did.”

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June 19, 1812

Dear Brett,

You stupid, bloody fool. I probably shouldn’t write this letter while I’m angry with you, but
to hell with it.

As I told you yesterday, when we marched into Salamanca two days ago I got a chill down
my back. I don’t believe I will see England again. Those goddamned French will kill me yet. Well,
I guess if you’re reading this they already have. How odd that sounds. This is a letter from the
grave. Whooooooo. All right, I’ll try to be serious.

Since you wouldn’t talk to me yesterday about it, I’ll tell you now. I love you. You are a
brother to me, and I cannot regret coming here to die because I have known you. Don’t be an
arrogant idiot and blame yourself for my death. I am quite capable of getting myself killed, thank
you very much. It is as much as people expected I suppose.

Are you crying yet? I shall work harder then. Take Anne. I know that you are in love with
her, and she is halfway in love with you, I think. We are the only two people she has ever
willingly embroidered for. Certainly that means something. I am serious, Brett. I need to know
that she is all right. There are things…oh hell. Just take care of her. You and Anne are the best
friends I have ever known. You have loved me as I am and have not tried to “improve” me. And I
thank you for it. I am perfect as I am, after all. Or as I was. This is becoming quite confusing.

So, in summation, I love you. Take Anne. I’m dead. That about says it all, I think.

Bertie

Oh, and thank you for the French bayonet. But you could only be expected to save my life so
many times, Brett.

* * * * *

Freddy knocked on the Goodes’ door nervously. He was apprehensive about seeing Anne, though Brett told him this morning that she was refusing to see them. Why?

Freddy was afraid he knew the answer. Because she knew. She knew who her real father was.

Freddy gave a start as the door opened. He hadn’t heard any footsteps

approaching. Mrs. Goode stood there looking so much like Anne his heart cracked and bled a little. She was very solemn.

“Anne is not here, Your Grace.”

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“I did not come to see Anne. I came to see you.” Mrs. Goode did not appear surprised.

“I cannot discuss Anne’s future without Anne present,” she told him.

It took Freddy a moment to understand what she was talking about. He blushed at the misunderstanding. “I would not speak to you before I spoke with Anne about her future,” he said stiffly. “I am here to talk about the past.”

Mrs. Goode’s eyes widened in surprise. And fear, Freddy definitely saw some fear before she turned away. He felt a heavy weight descend on his shoulders. She stepped back and opened the door wider. “Please come in, Your Grace.” She sounded calm but her grip on the doorknob belied the impression.

She closed the door behind him and led the way to the drawing room in silence.

Once in the drawing room she closed the door. Freddy had the rather dramatic thought that she was locking his hopes and dreams out forever. He sighed. He didn’t want to be polite, he didn’t want to speak in vague terms, talking around the issue, so fearful of offending. He just wanted the truth.

He turned to Mrs. Goode who was making her way over to the sofa. “Is Anne my sister?”

She stopped so suddenly she stumbled as she stared at him with shocked eyes.

“What?”

“Is my father Anne’s father?” Freddy barked the question, and then winced at his confrontational tone.

Mrs. Goode’s eyes narrowed. “Is that what she told you? I swear that woman will stop at nothing to get her way.” She sounded perturbed but hardly guilt-stricken. She resumed her sedate walk to the sofa and sat down. “Do sit down, Frederick. It is clear that we have some things to discuss.”

Freddy stayed where he stood, his heart pounding. She hadn’t answered the

question. “Is Anne my sister?”

Mrs. Goode sighed as she rearranged her skirt, smoothing it down. When she looked up at him it was with pity and sympathy. “No, Frederick, Anne is not your sister.”

Freddy stumbled over and sat down in Brett’s chair. Some part of his brain recognized that he and Brett had already taken ownership of this house, of this space.

He sucked in a deep breath as if he’d been drowning and only now reached the surface.

His chest expanded and he could feel his heart pounding. He laughed weakly as he collapsed against the back of the chair. “Thank God.”

“Is that your only question?” Mrs. Goode asked quietly. She was smiling at him, but he sensed she was holding something back. His stomach clenched.

“Is there more? What should I be asking?”

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Emma Goode sighed as she turned to gaze out the window. “What else did she tell you?” She looked at Freddy sternly. “Anne finally told me about their confrontation. In the grand entry, for heaven’s sake. She has no shame.”

Freddy shook his head. “Anne?”

Mrs. Goode snorted derisively. “Your mother.”

Freddy thought back to his own conversation with his mother, and he suddenly knew the question he should be asking. “Were you his mistress? My father’s mistress?”

She sighed again, the sound weary and sad. Her eyes filled with tears and she fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief. None was forthcoming, so Freddy handed her his. She wiped her eyes. “Thank you.” She sniffed and balled the linen in her hand.

“We let everyone think so. It was just easier.”

The answer made no sense. “Easier how? Surely it was difficult letting people believe you were a man’s mistress when indeed you were not.”

She wouldn’t look at Freddy, instead focusing on the handkerchief in her lap, which she began to fold into neat squares. “He was my best friend, you know.”

Freddy shook his head. “No, I had no idea. I mean, I knew he and the Goode Vicar were close friends and he spent a great deal of time here, but honestly, I never thought about what your relationship was with him.”

She gave a watery laugh. “You must be the only one who didn’t.” She carefully unfolded the linen and wiped her eyes again, and then began refolding it. “I met him with Jerome, Mr. Goode, in London at a ball.” She looked up at Freddy then. “I come from a rather good family, you know. It was my first season.”

“Tell me,” Freddy said quietly, encouraging her to go on.

“They were both so handsome.” She smiled dreamily, her eyes unfocused. “Ash was already married. She was with him, in London, but they lived separate lives. So he’d brought Jerome and they were making the rounds. He was trying to find Jerome a wife.” She looked at Freddy with a mischievous smile. “And there I was.”

Freddy smiled back. “You and Mr. Goode always seemed so in love.”

She nodded. “We were. Almost from the first moment we met, actually.” She bit her lip, and then seemed to reach a decision. “But he loved someone before me.” She looked at Freddy, as if hoping he’d understand. He didn’t, and shook his head. Her shoulders drooped.

“Ash and Jerome met in school. They were inseparable.” She sat there staring at him and said nothing more.

Freddy was getting exasperated. What the devil was she trying to tell him?

Everyone knew the duke and the vicar were best friends and had been since their school days. And inseparable? Well, of course. The duke had practically lived at the parsonage…Freddy’s brain stopped. It was as if he hit a wall and couldn’t think any further. He just stared back at Mrs. Goode. His new understanding must have shown in his face. She nodded, satisfied.

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“Yes. Well, they told me, naturally, before Jerome and I married. They thought it only right, of course. But Jerome did love me, very much, as much as he loved Ash.”

Freddy was shocked. His father had lived with the same arrangement he, Brett and Anne were contemplating? “Then you were his mistress?” He fell back to that question, confused.

She shook her head. “Oh no. Not really.” She blushed, and so did Freddy. He didn’t want to know what that “not really” meant. She took a deep breath. “He and Jerome were lovers, a relationship I condoned and supported.”

Freddy was in shock. He was having a very hard time thinking. He went back to the first issue, Anne’s paternity, and he thought of all the reasons why he’d believed the duchess’s claim. Most were answered by the relationship between his father and the vicar, but not all. “Why did Anne and Jerome, my brother Jerome, look alike?”

Mrs. Goode cast her eyes down. “I was rather hoping no one would ever notice that and put it together.” She looked at Freddy. “Only you and Jerome ever did.”

Freddy’s brain might be sluggish, but the implications were clear. “The vicar was Jerome’s father? And Anne’s?” Mrs. Goode bit her lip and nodded stiffly. Freddy was beyond flabbergasted. “But why?” he asked in disbelief. “Did they hope to have,” he was at a loss as to how to phrase it, “a…a relationship among the three of them, the duke, the vicar and the duchess?”

She shook her head. “No. The duke needed an heir.” She stopped, as if there were more to say, but she didn’t wish to say it.

Freddy tried to think. He knew there were men who preferred men, his friend Daniel Steinberg for instance. Daniel never slept with women. But Daniel had told him that if he had to, he supposed he could. Could the duke…not? He shook his head, returning to plain speaking whether Mrs. Goode liked it or not. “Why did he need an heir? Could he not bring himself to impregnate the duchess? He did it two other times.”

Mrs. Goode looked distressed. She bit her lip and leaned over, putting her hand over his on the chair arm. “Oh Frederick, I’m sorry. I wish it wasn’t I telling you these things.”

Freddy shook his head. “Clearly you are the only one left who will,” he stated matter-of-factly. “And I think it is about time I knew.”

She nodded and sat up straight, letting go of his hand. “Yes, yes, you are right, of course.” She took a deep breath and looked him right in the eye. “Your father, the duke, could not have children.”

That took a moment to process. Freddy felt as if he were choking as his throat closed with horror. “But you said Anne was not my sister,” he whispered.

Mrs. Goode looked taken aback, and then rushed to reassure him. “Oh no! Oh no, Frederick, Jerome was not your father. He only…it was just the one time. The first child.

The duchess refused a second time. She hated Jerome. She blamed him for alienating the duke’s affections, for ruining her life.” She shook her head. “Honestly, I’ll never understand her. She didn’t love Ash, you know. It was an arranged marriage. They 196

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hardly knew one another on their wedding day. But he was Ash. He was ready to be her friend, to welcome her into his circle. But she wanted all of him. She wasn’t willing to share her prize. She was the Duchess of Ashland, and she’d been quite sought after in society. For Ash to prefer someone else was intolerable.” She glanced at Freddy out of the corner of her eye. “Anyway, Ash had tried for several years to have children, but it became clear that one of them was at fault. So he asked Jerome, and well, she got pregnant right away. When she refused Jerome a second time, Ash told her that he wanted more children, to secure the title. He didn’t care how, and he didn’t care who, and he wouldn’t ask. She would have anything she desired as long as she gave him children and kept their secrets.”

She paused, giving Freddy time to adjust to the truth. Only one question remained.

“Who is my father?”

She shook her head. “We never knew for sure. We think it was a minor Scottish nobleman, Lord McKittrick. He died many years ago.” She leaned forward and held his hand again. This time Freddy squeezed back. He needed something to hold on to. “I’m sorry, Frederick. But now you know. Ash loved you, he loved all his boys. But he never felt he had a proper claim on you. He let the duchess take you, and he never forgave himself.”

Freddy cleared his throat, overwhelmed. He needed to talk to someone. “Where is Anne?” he asked. “I need to speak with Anne.”

“Oh!” Mrs. Goode exclaimed, leaping to her feet. “Oh dear. Frederick, you had better get going.”

She grabbed his hand and dragged him to his feet. Freddy was once again

confused. He was starting to think he’d be that way for the foreseeable future.

“Anne has gone to Mr. North’s.”

Freddy shook his head. “Mr. North’s?” He really was beginning to feel like an idiot.

Mrs. Goode was dragging him to the front door. “Yes, Mr. Gideon North’s. He was Bertie’s commanding officer during the war. Injured, you know. Anyway, he purchased Blakely House, just the other side of the village, a few months past, after Leah Westridge’s brother vacated the premises.”