The Bastard (2 page)

His mother grimaced. “Forever the gentleman, aren’t you? Tell me, has anyone the power to penetrate that cool reserve?”

“You already know the answer to that.”

Her eyes narrowed. “So you still blame me. Tell me, what else could a woman in my position have done with a bastard son? Have you forgotten that my first duty is to my husband?”

Treynor shrugged. She’d managed to take excellent care of herself along the way, but he wasn’t willing to argue. “Certainly you didn’t ask me here to dredge up the past.”

“No.” Her pale blue eyes held a cynical gleam that seemed to pierce right through him. “But that is why you finally came, is it not? Hoping I would do just that?”

Tensing, Treynor studied the delicate clutter that surrounded them. He wanted to appear aloof and unconcerned, as if his manner could deny the hammering of his heart. “You’ve kept your secret for twenty-eight years. I would not expect you to part with it now.”

“How thoughtful.”

He ignored the icy undercurrent, refused to let her bait him as she had in years past. “What brings you to Plymouth?” he asked, idly stroking the wing of a porcelain bird sitting on a table nearby.

The verbal feint made her laugh. “A wedding.” She stood and glided to the bell pull. “Lord Percival Borden, the Baron St. Ives, married this afternoon.”

“Did he now?”

“He did. Will you at least sit? And have tea?” She arched an eyebrow at him, making her invitation a challenge.

Treynor decided a few more minutes in her company couldn’t hurt. He strode to the chair across from her and paused before taking a seat. “Are the wedding festivities over? I hope I’m not keeping you.”

Chuckling without mirth, she moved back to her own seat. “Sit down. My headache would detain me even if you didn’t. Besides, I have decided to tell you.”

The bald statement plucked Treynor’s breath away. “About my father? I’m waiting.”

She waved the question aside and, still smiling, changed the subject. “At the wedding I met the family of another officer who serves on your ship. They mentioned that their son was in port and would be attending the ball tonight. That’s how I knew you were in Plymouth.”

The hope that she might actually provide him with the information he’d craved since his youth held Treynor prisoner, as she knew it would. “And who were they?”

“The Viscount Lounsbury and his wife, Eleanor.”

“Ah. Cunnington’s parents.” He didn’t bother to conceal his dislike for the lieutenant he served under, but neither did he elaborate on it. Miles Cunnington was a sadistic bastard. Not that his mother would care. Titles and privileges meant far more to her than character.

“You don’t like him?”

She’d heard the underlying disdain in his response. But before he could answer, a sallow-faced butler knocked and entered the room pushing a cart bearing an elaborate tea service. He stopped at his lady’s side and, at her gesture, poured two cups.

“You can go now, Godfrey. See that you close the door tightly on your way out.”

Although Godfrey had been with the family for years, even traveled with his mother on this and every other trip, he bowed with brittle formality, scarcely acknowledging Treynor’s presence, and withdrew without a sound.

“Back to Cunnington,” she said. “What is it you hold against him?”

“Besides his arrogance? And the fact that his father’s title is the only reason he is where he is today?”

“Do I detect a bit of jealousy? Surely you don’t hate the entire aristocracy.”

“I pride myself on hating only those who merit such emotion,” he responded. “The rest inspire little more than contempt.”

This time her laughter sounded genuine. “My son is a champion of the common man, then? Sugar? Milk?”

“Neither.” Although he longed to head back to Plymouth and the pub where his mates awaited him, Treynor accepted the cup she offered. That he felt obligated to take tea when he had no desire to remain in the room tested his patience. But he had to allow his mother time to show her hand. Perhaps, at last...

“How long are you in town?” she asked.

“Weather permitting, we sail tomorrow.” He drank his tea in almost one gulp and leaned forward to put his cup on the tray. “Where is the marquess?”

She shrugged. “I’m sure he will be along presently.”

“Does he know I am here?”

“I told him you might come.”

“And he doesn’t mind? How odd. Now that I am an adult, he becomes generous.”

“He’s getting old. Sometimes power shifts in a marriage, something you might learn for yourself someday.”

“I doubt it. I don’t plan to marry.”

His mother blinked in surprise. “Ever?”

Again, he shrugged, but the tinge of bitterness he heard in his own voice betrayed the depth of his conviction. “I think I have learned enough about the fairer sex to prefer my bachelorhood.”

“Don’t tell me Mrs. Abbott beat you as often as her husband did.”

Treynor flinched at his mother’s casual acceptance of the abuse he had suffered as a boy. She cared no more now than she had then. “Since you have asked, Mrs. Abbott was more than kind. She was so desperate for any crumb of masculine attention, I was terrified to be left alone with her.” He fixed her with an unswerving gaze. “And her daughter Millicent became singularly determined to seduce me. When I refused her, she told her father I tried to rape her.” He tacked a smile to his lips. “Of course Cayle had something to say about that. He got good and drunk and came after me. And I believe you know the rest of the story.”

“Yes. You were fourteen when you broke his jaw and left the Abbott farm for good...to join the navy.” She sipped her tea, watching him over the rim. “Then there’s me, of course. You already alluded to the fact that you think me less than a credit to womankind.”

“Evidently you feel you had good reason for doing what you did. Whether or not I agree makes little difference now.” He tucked the strand of hair that had fallen from the cord holding the rest back behind his ear. “Why not tell me about my father and be done with it?”

Her movements calm and fluid, she took another sip of tea. “Would you like something else?” She motioned to the tray that held scones, clotted cream, and gooseberry preserves.

“No. I believe it’s time to go.” Coming to his feet, Treynor sketched a formal bow. “Keep your secret, Mother. The possession of it seems to agree with you.”

He was nearly clear of the portal when her voice rose behind him. “If you must know, he was the stable master. William was in America for nearly two years, and I enjoyed the attentions of our stable master. He had a fine physique, he was kind, and he was loyal to a fault, even if he wasn’t always right in the head.”

He whipped around to face her. “You’re lying.”

“Am I? William didn’t return when he said he would, not soon enough to claim you were legitimate. I had no choice but to give you up. Certainly even you can see that. Are you happy now, my dear?”

Treynor felt as though someone had opened a trap door beneath him. He’d waited his whole life to learn that he was the spawn of a man who’d started having fits and eventually lost his mind?

Once again, his mother had drawn blood. Whether she spoke the truth or a lie didn’t matter. Her mocking words proved how little she cared about him.

His hands curled into fists as he fought to tamp down the pain he couldn’t believe he still felt. “Good night,” he managed through clenched teeth.

A shrill laugh answered him, one that echoed off the walls as he closed the door.

The ball was every bit as lavish as Jeannette had expected. A tantalizing display of elaborate fare rested on dark, walnut tables. Servants shuttled to and from the kitchen, carrying empty platters or returning with full ones. A fountain held court in the center of the room, spewing champagne from the heads of silver gargoyles. And sprays of fresh-cut flowers adorned every open space and the center of each table, overwhelming the perfume and perspiration of the bodies packed inside until the air smelled more like a funeral than a wedding.

Although Jeannette cared little for such a show of pomp and grandeur, her parents seemed to enjoy it. It was no more than what they’d been accustomed to. For her own part, she could only wait nervously for the hour of doom: the moment, fast approaching, when her husband would lead her away to their bridal chamber.

Maman had attempted to explain all that was expected of a wife. But the few ambiguous kernels of knowledge she had imparted did nothing to quell Jeannette’s fear. Duty, patience, and long-suffering had much to do with her mother’s message, rather than what, specifically, a bride was supposed to do. Jeannette had never experienced so much as a passion-filled kiss. The idea of allowing Percival Borden complete access to her body was beyond repulsive. Just the thought of what he might look like without his clothes made her ill.

Yet tolerate him she must.
Think of what it will mean for my family....

It was growing late and the guests were starting to leave. Those who remained seemed singularly determined to make the revelry last as long as possible, and for that Jeannette was grateful. Drunken voices tripped over words, creating a steady chorus punctuated by an occasional staccato laugh. Men gorged themselves on what was left of the food and wiped their mouths with their sleeves while those who danced wobbled beneath the effects of the champagne.

Lord St. Ives had brought Jeannette a glass when they first arrived, then spent the remainder of his time with his friends—political allies, her father attempted to explain when it began to appear strange that his son-in-law would abandon her so easily. But Jeannette didn’t mind. She had no more desire for St. Ives’s company than for a cobra in her bed.

The English gentry and lords and ladies that had surrounded her for most of the evening appeared more formal than their French counterparts, but in Jeannette’s eyes they were not so different. As the daughter of a count, she had grown up in aristocratic circles. The bloodlines of France and England were so intertwined that one could scarcely stand without the other. But English sympathy for the plight of titled yet homeless Parisian refugees probably had more to do with fear than with loyalty. The seeds of revolution had been sown so close to home, no one really knew what might be reaped—or when such harvest would come.

“Have you been enjoying yourself,
ma petite
?”

She looked up to see her mother studying her with worry-filled eyes.

“You look pale.
Es-tu malade?
”

Jeannette glanced around the room, searching for her husband in his brass-buttoned coat, shiny blue-and-gold breeches, light blue stockings, and black, buckled shoes. Despite his lack of height, he was easy to spot because of his conspicuous apparel. “Just a headache,” she admitted with her best imitation of a smile. “It must be nerves. A girl does not marry every day.”

“A girl does not marry
so well
every day,” her mother reminded her, going along with Jeannette’s attempt to be cheerful. “But if it is your wifely duties you fear, do not worry. It will all be over quickly enough. The baron is a childless widower. No doubt he will leave you to yourself once you conceive, eh?”

Inwardly alarmed by her mother’s words, Jeannette nodded. Of course the baron would want an heir, but the thought of bearing his babe was as abhorrent as the notion of lying with him in the first place.

“Give him sons, and he will be generous with you your whole life.”

“I can only pray that I am so favored by God,” Jeannette whispered.

A man wearing a dark green waistcoat, white ruff shirt, and black coat approached. “Allow me to introduce myself,” he said. “I am Sir Thomas Villard, a close personal friend of your husband.”