Mistress: Hired for the Billionaire's Pleasure (19 page)

‘S
O THIS
is the heir of Easton?’

Orlando gave a wry smile. There was perhaps good reason for that—as Arabella had maliciously revealed in one of their final arguments, before she’d left for her new home in Dubai with her oil executive fiancé. Orlando was indifferent; all that mattered was that Felix was staying with
him.
The oil executive didn’t like children, apparently.

‘So…’ Reluctantly, Andrew stopped blowing raspberries at Felix and cleared his throat self-consciously. At six months, Felix was distractingly sweet. ‘How are you?’

Orlando shrugged. ‘No change. My sight hasn’t deteriorated any further. I can still get around fine. I can change the odd nappy, if I have to, though don’t tell the nanny that.’

Andrew Parkes nodded. ‘Excellent.’ Though that didn’t explain why Orlando Winterton still had the look of a man who had just been released from the torturer’s cell. ‘And how are you finding the…er…adjustment, mentally.’

Orlando sighed impatiently. ‘I’m doing all right, Andrew. People know now. I don’t hide it any more.’

Or hide behind it.

‘That’s a huge step forward.’

Orlando stood up, deftly holding Felix against his body with one hand, and the little boy regarded Andrew with clear Winterton eyes while Orlando stared fixedly ahead. ‘It’s one thing coming to terms with it for myself, but I need to know what the chances are that Felix will have inherited this too.’

Andrew looked thoughtful. ‘Slim, I’d say. It’s a very rare disease, and for a child to get it both parents need to be carriers of a recessive gene. We can’t test for the gene yet, but obviously Felix will be very closely monitored.’

Orlando’s face was dark. ‘Would it make any difference if I wasn’t his father but my brother was? Would that make it less likely?’

‘Probably not…’ Andrew replied carefully. ‘I assume you ask that for a reason?’

Orlando gave a wintry smile. ‘My brother was apparently devastated by my diagnosis, and Arabella very generously offered him solace,’ he said sardonically. ‘Naturally it’s all my fault. As is Felix’s death. According to Arabella, he was too upset by the prospective bleakness of my life to be able to fly safely.’

‘Ah…’ Frowning, Andrew rested his elbows on the desk and steepled his fingers. ‘I think, Orlando, I should mention something at this point that might ease your conscience a little. I can’t say too much, but Felix had also been referred to me, as you were, following a routine sight test. His appointment was the week following yours. He telephoned my secretary to cancel it. He didn’t book an alternative date.’

Blood drummed in Orlando’s ears as the implications of what Andrew was saying hit him. ‘You’re saying that maybe Felix…?’

Andrew held up a hand to stop him. ‘I’m saying nothing, because that would be in direct contravention of the Hippocratic Oath. No, I am merely letting you know of your brother’s change of plans. From that,’ he said emphatically, ‘you may draw your own conclusions, and if they lead you to the realisation that you are in no way to blame for what happened to him that’s only fair. As for this little chap—Felix the second—he’s no more and no less likely to inherit the condition whichever of the two of you were responsible for his arrival in the world.’

‘Thank you, Andrew.’

As Orlando carried Felix carefully down the steps to the street, he thought about what Andrew had just told him. He’d discovered a lot about himself in the last four months. Mostly things that Rachel had seemed to know right from the start. Like the fact that courage wasn’t only measured by medals and military honours, and heroism wasn’t about wearing a uniform and dying in a far-flung place.

What Andrew Parkes had just said only served to reinforce that.

He’d been so quick to assume that Felix was the brave one, that while he had been falling apart at home his brother had been out there protecting his country, upholding the family name. But maybe, just maybe, Felix had been the cowardly one. Faced with the same challenge, Felix had opted for the easy way out. Orlando had chosen to fight.

Though at times it was a bleak and bitter struggle.

Outside, the polluted city air was warm, and the afternoon sun slanted down between the buildings onto the acid-green leaves of the trees outside Andrew’s consulting rooms. Automatically Orlando’s imperfect gaze sought out the place where he’d first seen Rachel’s picture over a year ago, on that dark, hopeless day of his first diagnosis.

At first he thought it was his mind and his sight playing tricks on him—another instance of the brain supplying the image that it wanted to see. He blinked and rubbed a hand across his face, hardly daring to look at it again.

But it was there again. Another picture. Blurred. Only visible to him in tantalisingly small pieces. But the date on the poster was today’s.

The latter statement was the only thing that had brought a faint smile to her lips in months. She had paid a high price for that courage. It was a legacy of her time with Orlando.

Another was that Carlos had kept a hostile but merciful distance since the night Orlando had threatened him. Her mother, who had a much less rosy opinion of Carlos since he had tried to replace Rachel with a stand-in, was now much more of an ally, and while Rachel would never forgive Elizabeth for all the years when discipline had replaced love, at least she understood better now. Love was so very, very sore.

Glancing up at the clock, Rachel steeled herself for the knock at the door. Tonight was the last date of the tour, and though she was tired, she was also dreading life beyond the final encore. She was afraid that without this nightly exorcism, the demons inside her would slowly smother her.

The door opened and Elizabeth put her head round it. ‘All set, darling?’ she enquired brightly. Rachel nodded. ‘Take off that dreadful old sweater, then, sweetie, and I’ll see you afterwards.’ Blowing a kiss, she disappeared.

Reluctantly Rachel got to her feet and peeled the sweater over her head, then stood for a moment looking at her reflection in the mirror. She was wearing another dress in her signature dark ivy-green, made of satin this time. Its neckline plunged down to a narrow band of beading beneath the bust, from where the fabric fell with bias-cut fluidity, artfully skimming the new roundness of her belly.

The other lasting reminder of her time with Orlando.

Following the rave reviews, tickets to the concert had sold out with lightning speed, but tonight there were a few unclaimed seats as, swayed by the sudden spell of good weather, people had taken off to the country or to Ascot. Therefore it hadn’t been difficult for Orlando to arrange a last-minute seat at the back of the hall.

What had been more problematic was persuading the girl on the door to let him take Felix in.

In the end she had been powerless to resist the old magic formula of devastatingly good-looking man with small baby and, muttering anxiously about losing her job, had let him slip through the doors when the lights were dimmed. She’d been rewarded with a kiss on the cheek, which more than made up for the worry of being found out.

With Felix fast asleep in his arms, Orlando slumped into his seat and steeled himself, as an eruption of applause told him that Rachel had just walked onto the platform. Tipping his head back against the seat, he could just make out her vivid hair, shining beneath the bright spotlights like flame.

For a second there was silence as the audience settled, and then the opening bars of a Debussy prelude floated through the warm evening air.

An audible breath of collective contentment rose from the audience. Until that moment Orlando hadn’t given a thought to the music, but as the sound filled the rafters and ran in rippling currents over his tautly stretched nerves he was transfixed. It reminded him so poignantly of when Rachel had been at Easton, and all the nights he’d sat at his desk, wrestling with life and death issues on the other side of the world, and she’d reached out to him through the cold blackness and reminded him of his own humanity. The irony was so perfect: he’d been handling a defence crisis, and all the time his own defences had been being stealthily undermined. And he hadn’t even realised until it was too late.

Far too late.

Could there be any words more poignant than those?

Time ceased to exist as he sat there, hovering in a state of blissful painlessness, suspended between having her and not having her. He had grown so used to waking up alone, as yet another dazzling dream of Rachel faded, leaving him with his monochrome and lonely reality, that just breathing the same air as her for a couple of hours was, he realised desolately, better than being without her altogether. And, after so many months of firmly steering his thoughts away from Rachel, it was the greatest relief to just give in.

At length he was aware of the piece coming to an end, and for a moment there was absolute silence in the cavernous hall as everyone sat, still spellbound. Then there was an explosion of clapping.

In his arms Felix gave a start, raising his head and whimpering slightly before settling again. Orlando held his breath. Then below, on the rostrum, Carlos cued the orchestra into a Scarlatti sonata, and Felix, roused a second time, gave a loud, indignant wail.

Carlos made a vicious slashing motion with his baton and whirled imperiously around. Instantly the orchestra ground to a ragged halt.

‘A
baby
?’ said Carlos in outrage. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

Orlando got abruptly to his feet. Felix was crying in earnest now, the sound drifting up into the roofspace, thin and plaintive. In the audience curious muttering broke out as heads turned and feet shuffled, and then there was a collective gasp as the pianist herself got up and peered out into the crowd.

The murmuring was hushed again as everyone held their breath and waited for her reaction. Straining forward in their comfortable cherry-red seats, they eagerly anticipated a display of diva rage to complement the glowering indignation on Carlos Vincente’s face. But instead they saw a look of naked hope and longing as Rachel Campion shielded her eyes against the bright lights that were directed on her, straining past them to look into the darkness beyond.

‘Felix?’

It was no more than a whisper, but the microphone above the piano picked it up and amplified it so that above the crying of the baby everyone heard the low note of yearning in her voice.

‘
Orlando?
’

As if operated by a central remote control, every head turned to the back of the hall. The man who stood in the central aisle, holding a crying baby in his arms, was tall, romantically dark and breathtakingly handsome. He also looked as if he had been struck by lightning.

The atmosphere in the hall was suddenly charged with electrifying tension. No one moved, and the only sound was the heart-wrenching cries of the baby.

Rachel sat down at the piano again. Softly, and with infinite tenderness, she began to play.

Chopin’s
Nocturne in E Minor
rippled from her fingers in a magical, shimmering rainbow of sound, every note vibrating with love and longing. Even though the conductor had now left the rostrum, one by one the members of the orchestra joined in, until the hall was filled with the purest sound.

It was as if angels hovered in the rafters.

In the spotlights Rachel’s tears glistened like falling diamonds. Her face was that of a suffering Madonna—full of pain and adoration and tortured bliss.

The Bankside Hall held one thousand three hundred people. By the time the music melted back into a shivering silence Felix was amongst the few who weren’t crying. For a moment there was an absolute absence of sound. And then the muffled thud of a door shutting at the back of the hall.

When everyone turned to look, the man with the baby had gone.

And when they turned back so had the pianist.