The Duke of Morewether’s Secret (23 page)

Anna sat on the sofa with a huff. “I love you as much as I’d love an actual brother of my own, so I trust you’ll take this in the spirit in which it’s intended. I don’t have as much hope of that as you do.”

Christian bowed as ironically as a duke was able, low and with an extensive arm flourish. “Thank you so very much. You’re the epitome of graciousness.”

“Children.” his mother chided. She was forever running intermediary. “Let’s not waste time quarreling.”

Anna rolled her eyes. “He doesn’t have any idea what’s going on here.”

“How is that possible? For God’s sake, she’s my wife. It was my wedding and my marriage. Of course I know what’s going on.”

The mean little sprite smirked at him. “It was your wedding and your marriage and your ex-lover and your child.”

Francesca rubbed her forehead. His mother paced.

“Your point?” Was it too early to start drinking?

Anna straightened her spine. She loved being the center of attention. Her lectures made Christian want to scream. “Do you have any inkling why Thea left?”

“She would never speak to me.”

Francesca tilted her head and gave him a pitying look. “Thomas told me you sat out there for two days. That’s very romantic.”

He pursed his lips. “Well, that didn’t score me any points in the battle either.”

Anna waved her hands furiously. “I know why Thea left. Do
you
want to know?”

Drinking was definitely in order. Christian turned towards the sideboard. He didn’t need to plead for Anna’s insight. She’d tell him regardless of his wishes.

“It’s your child.”

“More than the actress?” Francesca asked.

“Well, she certainly didn’t help.”

Christian took a long drink and watched them discuss his disaster of a life.

“You know how she feels about her brothers. How could you keep a child secret from her?” Anna stood and marched herself at him.

“It’s appalling,” his mother chastised. “Your father would have been so disappointed.”

“I don’t need to answer to any one of you.” He launched into his own attack.

Francesca nodded. “Of course not. Still, very poorly done. I can’t believe you never said a word to any of us about this.”

He straightened to his full height and tucked one hand into his pocket, assuming his most cavalier attitude. “I dare say, the three of you would be astounded by the number of things I don’t disclose to you about my sexual conquests.”

A chorus of gasps filled the room. Good. It served them right.

He barreled on, fueled by the righteous fury that had consumed him since Thea left. “Veronica and I have been apart for years. We weren’t even together when Lucy was born. Thea left that morning before I had a chance to explain, and she never gave me the chance before she ran away.” He paused for a dramatic breath. “But what’s even worse is that all of you are willing to think the worst of me. It never occurred to you that there may be more to the story than what you think?”

His mother reached for him. “I don’t want to know about your affairs, but it would be reasonable for you to tell someone, anyone, about something so monumental.”

“And yet, I think my wife needs to hear my story before any one of you does.” He looked to each of the women in turn. They each seemed properly contrite. Francesca wouldn’t even look at him. “Lucy is my daughter. That is a fact. I expect each of you to take my concerns about my child into account from this point forward.”

Anna spoke in a subdued voice. “Thea’s father refused to recognize his bastard sons, and since his death, she has been working relentlessly to make amends for his treatment.”

“Of course. I assisted her in clearing their way for school.” He’d thought his wife was unfailingly altruistic to use her inheritance to fund her half-brothers’ educations when the boys’ own father didn’t bother.

Francesca leaned forward. “She does understand no member of the peerage recognizes children conceived on the wrong side of the blanket, doesn’t she?”

Christian contemplated his sister’s question. Maybe Thea knew that in theory. Obviously her father had never done such a thing. “I have every intention of recognizing Lucy.”

His mother’s expression softened, the worry gone to be replaced by the suggestion of a smile. “I’m sure you’ll do what’s best.”

Anna pushed herself away from the sofa and came towards him. “I do want you to succeed in winning Thea back. I really do.” She patted him on the arm.

“Me, too. My advice to you,” Francesca told him with a kiss on the opposite cheek, “is to listen to her carefully and agree to whatever she says.”

He suspected that was the best advice he was ever going to get in this war.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Lucy swung the door closed and waited until she heard the soft snick of the catch engaging before she let go of the handle. Watching her father sleep again did not hold any appeal. So what to do with herself now?

She wandered down the long hall, aimless. She’d already investigated all the bedrooms on that floor and not found much of interest. Actually, she’d not been in the Dowager’s suite. Those rooms intimidated her. She slipped down the back stairs so she could avoid the tenacious Miss Honeysett if she was looking for her. On the next floor she wandered through the gallery.

She’d heard that galleries in great houses had portraits of ancestors, but that this one did not. Miss Honeysett had told her that the paintings on these walls were by old masters. Lucy really liked the one by the chap called Rembrandt. The face of the man in the picture looked like Cedric Gill from the butcher shop in her old neighborhood. The painting by the man called Titian made her giggle every time she looked at it. There were naked babies flying all over the thing. It was really very silly.

When she arrived at the one by Rubens, she sat on the floor and gazed at it. This one was her favorite. The enormous canvas depicted a village fair with bright colors and deep browns and greens. She was reminded of a fair she had gone to once with the theater troupe. There had been dancing and food booths where her mother had allowed her sugared fruit. The artist’s vision was so vivid, Lucy almost smelled the grass and crowds. As much as she loved meeting her father and the rest of his family — her family — the picture made her sad and a little bit lonely for her theater friends. This huge townhouse was too quiet.

She climbed to her feet and wandered back towards the big staircase. That’s how she thought about it. She measured it yesterday and she was certain six people could walk abreast the entire way. Five if one of them was fat like Rose, the wardrobe mistress.

Peeking around the corner, she didn’t see Miss Honeysett in the foyer. Her governess wanted to paint today. Lucy shuddered. No one was in the foyer, which was unusual. There was always a maid or the butler or housekeeper milling around. She counted to ten and still no one appeared. Dare she? She counted again, to twenty this time and put the word hippopotamus between each number. When there was still no one there she figured it must be destiny. The poets were always talking about destiny. She hadn’t really understood what they meant before, but this must be what they were talking about.

She approached the banister and swiped her hand along the varnished surface. Biting her lip, she swung her leg over the top and pulled herself up until she was straddling the wood. She lay on her stomach and clutched the railing. A quick look over her shoulder, and she let go. The high polish on the oak and the cotton of her dress allowed for no friction and she veritably sailed down the entire length, following the curve until she arrived at the end and flew across the room landing hard on the carpet.

“Ow!” Her chin smarted and that was the pain she focused on until she realized there was blood in her mouth. Panic welled in her chest. Where could she spit it out?

“Don’t you dare spit in my vase.” The dowager duchess pronounced the word with a strange “a,” sounding upper crust.

Lucy tried her best not to cry because then the blood would come out of her mouth and ruin the pretty dress her father bought her. She hiccupped instead, but that made the blood come out anyway.

Her grandmother strode towards her with a handkerchief in her hand. “Here,” she said as she tucked the material under Lucy’s chin, catching the blood as it dribbled out. “Open and let me see.”

The old lady frightened her. Her grandmother was pretty, for someone so old, and dressed fancy all the time. She’d never been mean to Lucy necessarily, but she hadn’t been especially nice either, not like the lady her father had married. Still, it didn’t seem like she would tolerate any misbehavior, so Lucy opened her mouth so she could look inside.

“Oh, you bit your tongue, is all. It’s not bad. You’ll heal. Maybe a glass of milk will help and it’ll wash away the taste of blood.” Her grandmother released her chin and strode to the nearest of the bell pulls, yanking hard. When one of the maids immediately hustled into the room, a glass of milk was requested along with a pot of tea to be taken to her morning room.

“It’th thore,” Lucy told her when the woman turned back around to face her.

“I imagine it is.” Cautious eyes looked her up and down and Lucy felt properly inspected by the time the woman’s eyes returned to meet hers. “You shouldn’t be sliding down the banister, you know. It’s not proper.”

Lucy cast her gaze to the carpet. “I’m thorry. I won’t do it again.” It would not do to annoy the old lady. After all, she was her grandmother and Lucy was not so young and naïve to realize her position in the house, and in her father’s life, was tenuous.

The woman stepped closer. “Besides, you know where you went wrong, don’t you?”

Lucy flashed her eyes back to the old woman, and for the first time since meeting her grandmother, there was a look in the woman’s eyes that was something more than annoyance. “Umm,” Lucy stammered. “I gueth not.”

“You were going too fast there at the bottom. You need to control your speed with your legs. If you squeeze the wood between your thighs you’re able to control your descent much better.”

Lucy gawked at her, mouth hanging open and surprise rendering her mute.

Then her grandmother smiled and her green eyes twinkled. “You don’t believe me?”

Before Lucy could respond, the woman took her by the elbow and moved her back up the stairs. Her grip was gentle as she directed her back into the family’s apartments, and into the woman’s own bedroom suite. They took a right turn and, instead of going into her bedroom, they entered a pale yellow sitting room.

The windows were draped in sheer white fabric letting in the soft morning light. The furniture was covered in flowery material, yellow and pink and blue. There were books piled around various tables and a giant basket full of sewing things. The biggest, fattest orange cat Lucy had ever seen lay on the floor in the middle of a long sunbeam, basking in the warmth. The tea and milk had arrived before them and had been placed on the table in front of the sofa. The servants moved fast in this house.

“Sit,” her grandmother told her.

Lucy wanted to touch the cat. His thick fur nearly screamed to be stroked, but she did what the woman bid her. She took the glass when it was offered and swallowed a big gulp. Already her mouth felt better. “You were right.”

“That nasty taste is gone?”

Lucy nodded and looked back at the cat. He’d sensed their presence and rolled over onto his back, all four feet in the air, and raised his drowsy head to inspect the intruders. He eyed Lucy with an interested feline gaze then turned back over and rose to his feet. His belly nearly grazed the floor as he waddled over to where they sat.

“That absurd animal is Ferdinand.”

Ferdinand sat at Lucy’s feet and lifted his head, looking at her as if he was saying
Pick me up
. She heard him purring an invitation all the way down on the floor.

“Go ahead.” Her grandmother encouraged her with a wiggle of heavily ringed fingers. “He’s a terribly lazy beast and won’t jump up there on his own if you’re there to do it for him.”

Lucy tucked her hands under his legs and hoisted him onto her lap. He was as heavy as he looked. “Oooof.”

“I spoil him,” the lady explained. “He eats too much cream and too much fish. He never gets any exercise.” She said the words like she was embarrassed by the animal except the look on her face expressed complete and total adoration.

“I thought he might be all fluff, but he’s … big under all that hair.”

The lady laughed. “You can say it. He’s fat.”

Ferdinand extended his neck, and Lucy scratched under his chin and around behind his ears. Every time her fingers stilled, the cat pushed hard against her hand, forcing her to stroke him. “He’s so pretty.”

“The handsomest cat in all of London. I dare anyone to say any different.”

After several minutes of silence punctuated by Ferdinand’s rumbling purr, her grandmother spoke again. “Do you miss your mother?”

She spoke gently which surprised Lucy. She didn’t know why exactly. After all, she’d never heard the older woman raise her voice. Maybe because she’d never really heard her speak much at all before today. For some reason Lucy couldn’t fathom, she’d imagined the woman would be like Lady Macbeth, controlling and mean, but she didn’t seem to be at all.

“Not really. She was gone a lot in different plays or with gentlemen. I do miss Jane though. She was my friend, and I stayed with her sometimes when Mother was away. But Jane had babies, and Joe said I was too much to handle with the new little ones.”

Her grandmother nodded. Ferdinand settled on her lap, his huge body spilling over her legs and taking up much of the chair they were in.

“Did you travel much with the theater troupe?”

“Sometimes. I got to go with them to Paris once.”

Her grandmother smiled. “Did you like it?”

Lucy nodded. “It was really pretty. I still think I like London better though. I know my way around London, and I kept getting lost in Paris.”

“Do you speak French?”

“No. That was the problem.”

“I see.” Still her voice was soft. “Do you like it here?”