If the Viscount Falls (19 page)

Lisette carved some roast beef. “What did you think made us all so chummy?”

“I don't know. Dom's championing of you, I suppose. I just . . . I never put it together until now.” She ventured a look at Dom, who watched her with a hooded expression. “Have the three of you known each other since birth?”

“Pretty much.” Dom smiled at Lisette. “I first met Mrs. Bonnaud when I was five and Father took me to the cottage to see my new baby sister.”

Lisette eyed him askance. “He didn't call me that, did he?”

“Not yet, no. I was too young.” Dom let the footman serve him some beef. “That didn't keep me from being curious, though. Tristan was toddling about, and Father and Mrs. Bonnaud were clearly very friendly, so I asked where Mrs. Bonnaud's husband was. Father, evasive as usual, said he was helping her get on without one.”

Lisette snorted. “Helping her? That's what he called it?”

“You know Father. Never wanted to state the truth outright. And being a nosy little fellow, I persisted in my interrogation. I asked him if Mr. Bonnaud had died, like my mother.”

With a sidelong smile at Jane, Lisette said, “Leave it to Dom to pose the hard questions.”

“For all the good it did me,” Dom said. “He brushed off that particular detail. He never liked to
answer
the hard questions.” His face seemed to ice over. “Of course, George was more than happy to answer them on his leave from school. That was when I first heard the words
whore
and
bastard
.”

“I can only imagine what he told you.” Lisette looked over at Jane. “George was never as happy about the arrangement as the rest of us.”

“So he wasn't part of those jolly family get-togethers where you performed operas?” Jane said.

“He could have been, when he was on holiday,” Dom answered in a hard voice. “Father invited him. And when Father was off on one of his trips, Mrs. Bonnaud invited George over.
I
invited George over. He always said it was beneath him to associate with them. And once he got old enough to spend holidays with friends, he preferred that. So did we, quite frankly.”

“I can understand why.” Jane shook her head. “The way he used to talk about Tristan and Lisette made even my blood boil. But I dared not voice my opinions. I never wanted to make things harder for Nancy by rousing his anger.”

“I don't know how you were even able to tolerate him,” Lisette said incredulously.

Jane shrugged. “I didn't spend much time with him. He was fairly easy to avoid whenever I was in the country visiting Nancy; he was always hunting or going to some horse race. And in London, when I dined with them, he and Nancy just spent the meal relating whatever gossip they'd heard.” She grimaced. “That was one thing they had in common. Both of them loved to gossip about the
ton
.”

“I'll admit we did our share of gossiping, too,” Lisette said, a bit shamefacedly. “When he was home, Papa would read us the papers and make fun of the people in
them. Perhaps that's who George got it from.”

“When he was home?” Jane echoed, eager for more stories of their odd upbringing that might shed light on Dom's character. “What happened to Dom when your father was gone?”

“Well, though I don't remember it myself,” ­Lisette said, “Maman told me that Dom was left with an indifferent nurse back then. So when he was about six, Maman complained about that situation to Papa and won the right to have Dom visit us whenever he wished.”

“Which was pretty much all the time.” Dom swallowed some wine. “Rathmoor Park was large and rather scary for a boy alone with ‘an indifferent nurse.' ”

A lump stuck in Jane's throat. “It must have been lonely, too.”

He nodded tersely. “Even after Father hired me a tutor, I preferred to spend my spare moments at the cottage.”

“And we had such grand times, the four of us, even without Papa,” Lisette said cheerily. “Our own footraces and readings and musicales. Dom, do you remember . . .”

For the remainder of the dinner, Jane listened in fascination as Dom and Lisette traversed the years of memories that had ended abruptly when Dom turned nineteen and their close-knit family was shattered. As they talked, Jane realigned and reconstructed her assumptions about Dom and the Bonnauds.

How she wished she'd known some of this years ago.
It would have explained a few things, softened a few blows. Though it did leave her with questions for Dom. Unfortunately, this was neither the time nor the place to ask them.

As they finished dessert, Lisette said, “After the
bousine
incident, Papa gave Maman a harpsichord he found in their attic. But she could never master it.”

“Because she never practiced,” Dom said with a laugh. “And neither did you.”

Lisette gave her characteristically Gallic shrug. “What would have been the point? I have two left thumbs when it comes to any sort of instrument.” She slanted a glance at her husband. “But did you know that
Jane
plays? And quite well, too.”

“Oh? When did you hear her play?” Max asked, eyeing Jane with surprise.

“At her engagement party to Dom, of course. He insisted upon it.”

Dom regarded Jane with a warm gaze. “She played Mozart's Nineteenth Piano Sonata. Even though she prefers Beethoven. She did it for me.”

The fact that he remembered what she played, coupled with the way he was looking at her, made Jane's breath catch in her throat. With some difficulty, she tore her gaze from his and lied, “I only did it because Beethoven's sonatas are all too long.”

“Right,” was all he said. With his extensive knowledge of Beethoven, he could challenge the lie easily. Thankfully, he didn't.

But she could feel his eyes on her, feel the very air
crackle between them.

“Well, the Mozart was lovely,” Lisette said. “I know! You should play it for us now!”

Jane blinked. The last thing she needed was to rouse her bittersweet memories of their engagement party. “I-I don't have the music.”

“Oh, I'm sure we must have a copy somewhere in the music room,” Lisette persisted. “Max's mother loved playing the pianoforte. Max, do you think—”

“Lisette,” Dom broke in with that firm tone that brooked no argument, “can't you see that Jane is tired? She couldn't have had more than two or three hours of sleep last night, and her nap this afternoon couldn't have made up for that. We've already spent most of dinner boring her with tales of our childhood. Let her be.”

Jane's gaze shot to him, and the compassion and understanding she saw in his face made her heart constrict. Just when she thought there was only one Dom—the stiff and controlling one who worried her with his similarity to Papa—he showed glimpses of that other side to remind her of the man she'd once loved.

Once.
That was the important part. Though sometimes she had trouble remembering it.

“I really am exhausted,” she said, flashing him a grateful smile. “We have a long journey ahead of us tomorrow, and I would very much like to retire.”

“Oh, of course, my dear,” Lisette said readily. “I wasn't thinking.”

“We should all probably retire,” Max said. “Lisette,
why don't you and Jane go on up now that dinner's finished? Dom and I will have our glass of port and be along shortly.”

“Excellent idea.” Lisette rose and held out her hand. “Come, Jane, let me show you to your room. This house can be impossible to navigate when you're not familiar with it.”

With a nod, Jane joined her. But as they climbed the stairs, the earlier conversation at dinner rose to haunt her.

She looked over at Lisette. “I know that Dom's mother died in childbirth. Was that before your mother became your father's mistress, or after? Dom never said.” And she'd never asked.

Lisette tensed. “After. We recently learned that, much like Nancy, the previous Lady Rathmoor had some difficulties bearing children. The doctor had told her after George's birth that she mustn't get pregnant again.”

“So your father turned to your mother.”

Lisette nodded. They climbed a few more steps in silence.

Then Jane ventured another question. “You said that your mother ‘won the right to have Dom visit us whenever he wished.' So she
wanted
him there, right? Even though he was son to the woman who'd first had your father's heart?”

“I'm not sure anyone ever had Papa's heart,” Lisette said dryly. “In case you hadn't guessed, he was a rather selfish man.”

“But he did let Dom spend time with all of you. So he must have believed that your mother really cared about him.”

“We
all
really cared about him,” Lisette said fiercely. “He was big brother to Tristan and me, and he played the dutiful son to Maman. I missed Dom terribly during the years we were in France. He came to visit a couple of times on business, but other than that, we didn't see him.”

That raised more of Jane's questions, but these were ones that only Dom could answer. And she wouldn't be able to sleep unless she asked them.

“Um, I think I left my handkerchief on the table,” Jane said. “I'll just run down and fetch it. There's no need to wait for me—you go on to bed.”

Lisette stopped to stare at her in bewilderment. “Your handkerchief will be perfectly fine where it is. A footman will find it and give it to you in the morning.”

“No, I dare not leave it or I'll forget about it in the confusion of our departure.” She was already turning to descend the stairs. “And it's my favorite.”

Jane didn't stop to see if Lisette believed that nonsense. She just hastened down, trying to figure out how to get Dom alone.

Fortunately, just as she approached the dining room, she heard the duke say from inside, “Sorry to be a wet blanket, old chap, but I shall turn in, too. Lisette and I don't usually rise as early as we did this morning.”

“So I've noticed.” Then Dom added hastily, “Not that it matters, mind you. Everyone has his own habits.”

“Yes, that's true.” The duke's puzzled tone showed he was unaware of what his wife had said yesterday about his “habits.”

“Don't forget that we must leave as early tomorrow as possible.”

“Of course.”

“I'm hoping Tristan will have arrived by then, but if not, we'll press on without him.”

“Certainly,” Max said, rather stiffly now. He probably wasn't used to being ordered about by anyone, even his brother-in-law. “Well, good night, then.”

Hearing footsteps approaching, Jane darted quickly into an alcove and waited with heart pounding as the duke emerged from the dining room. He strode, with a surprisingly quick step for a man who claimed to be tired, in the direction his wife had gone.

Only after he'd disappeared up the stairs did Jane relax. This was her chance.

♦ ♦ ♦

D
OM SWALLOWED THE
last of his port, glad that Max had retired. He was in no mood for company right now.

Had he really never told Jane what Lisette and Tristan and their mother had meant to him? He supposed not. Though he probably shouldn't have let ­Lisette go on and on about their early years at Rathmoor Park—Jane must have found the stories deadly dull. Still, they had to have been better than hearing Lisette speak of the engagement party.

He groaned. The look of panic on Jane's face when Lisette had proposed having Jane play the Mozart sonata again had thrust a knife into his chest. He recognized that look. Jane had worn it when she'd found him and Nancy together.

Feeling the servants watching for him to leave so they could clear the dining room, he rose from the table and walked out into the hall. He and Jane still hadn't talked much about that night in the library beyond settling the fact that he'd arranged the encounter. Now he wondered if a tiny part of her still believed what she'd seen.

“Dom, may I speak to you a moment?”

He started, his blood quickening as he whirled around to find Jane standing in the hall. Good God, was she some sprite he conjured up whenever he thought of her?

Sadly, no, or she would have shown up in his bedchamber at least once a night in the past twelve years.

Voices sounded in the dining room as the servants stacked up dishes. They would soon emerge into the hall. Without a word, he drew Jane through the nearest open doorway, then shut the door to give them more privacy.

A low fire burned in the hearth, and one lamp was lit as if someone had expected to use this room. Belatedly he realized this was the music room Lisette had mentioned earlier.

Jane didn't seem to notice. She stood there anxiously, her gaze fixed on him.

“What is it you wish to discuss?” he prodded. Watching indecision play over her face, Dom braced himself for anything.

Then Jane steadied her shoulders. “You loved her very much, didn't you?”

His heart dropped into his stomach. “Who?”

“Mrs. Bonnaud.”

Oh, thank God. For half a moment, he'd thought she was talking about Nancy. “Yes, I did. She was the closest thing I ever had to a mother.”

Jane wouldn't meet his eyes, and her hands were a veritable flurry of smoothing and straightening her skirts. “At least that explains why you chose her and her children over me.”

That flummoxed him. “I didn't choose them over you, Jane.”

“Not directly,” she said hastily. “But the result was the same. You chose to help them, and George punished you for it by refusing to give you any money or support. Which kept you and me from being able to marry. So, in a way, you did choose them. I mean, you probably didn't think of it that way at the time but—”

“No, I didn't.” He had to make her understand. “And I didn't have any choice, either. George demanded that I hand Tristan over to him and his men to be hanged. What else was I to do?”