* * *
Harry let Pen lead him across another field toward a line of trees, surprised at how relieved he felt that they weren’t going to the main house. He’d moved easily among peasants and princes when he’d worked for the Crown. Why would visiting a houseful of women put him on edge?
Because it wasn’t the women—it was the fact that he was about to meet his daughter that was jangling his nerves. And this time they would both know of their connection.
He suddenly wished he’d been able to spend more time with his nieces. He had no notion of how to go on with a young girl.
“What is the problem with Verity?” he asked.
Silence.
He looked over. Pen’s lips were pressed together. She was obviously struggling for control.
“There are always a few issues when a new girl arrives,” she finally said. The words were measured. Reasonable. But her voice was tight.
Then she stopped and faced him, her expression twisted with worry and anger, control abandoned. “Verity has been torturing Harriet, Harry. She’s eleven and has turned all the other girls against her. No one will play with Harriet any longer.”
Zeus! He was shocked by the fury that exploded through him at Pen’s words. He wanted to find this girl and wreak some dreadful punishment on her.
What is the matter with me? I can’t attack a child. The notion’s revolting.
But, God, in that moment he wanted to.
He schooled his emotions. Pen lived here. She must know how best to address the issue. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
She looked at him, an arrested expression on her face. Didn’t she expect him to want to help?
“I’m Harriet’s father, Pen. It’s my duty to protect her.”
She blinked, and then sighed and shook her head. “Thank you. I’m so used to dealing with matters by myself, I didn’t think . . .” She shrugged, smiling briefly. “I’m sure I’ll come up with a solution eventually. Jo says to give it time, and she’s usually right.”
Pen started walking again, but Harry stood where he was for a moment. He watched her stride away. Her shoulders were back, her head high. She looked confident and determined—now.
I hate that I’ve caused her so much heartache.
He’d try to persuade her to move into the house at Darrow. That would solve all her problems—and his as well.
Though Pen might not agree. She could be exceedingly pigheaded.
He caught up to her as she reached the trees and started down a narrow path.
It was cooler here in the woods and quieter so that small noises were magnified. Some creature rustled through the underbrush off to their left, and birds called to each other high above their heads. He thought he heard the rush of water somewhere nearby.
And then they rounded a bend, and he got his first look at the cottage. It was larger than he’d expected, built of stone and covered in ivy, with a thatched roof and gothic arches on the porch and windows. It looked very—
“Ahhh!”
That hadn’t come from Pen. He looked at her.
She’d already taken off running down the path past the building.
He ran after her, behind the cottage and up the hill, the sound of rushing water getting louder.
“What is it?” He had to shout to be heard.
She spared him a quick glance. “It sounded like Harriet.”
Harriet? Zeus! He sped up—but Pen grabbed his arm before he could pass her.
“No. You’ll startle her.”
Startle her? That was the least of his worries. There was water up ahead. Harriet might have fallen in.
But if she hadn’t . . .
Blast it, Pen was probably right. Harriet might recognize him from earlier, but having a grown man, even one that hadn’t been threatening before, burst out of the trees unannounced could lead to disaster.
“And we’re almost there. See?”
“Yes.” They’d just rounded another curve. The trees ended about twenty yards ahead. The sound of rushing water was almost deafening.
“Stay back in the shadows.”
“Very well.” He’d always hated taking orders—he far preferred being in charge, which was one reason he’d usually worked alone during the war—but he forced himself to stop. He watched as Pen stepped out to the edge of a wide pool. Water splashed down from a waterfall on her left.
“Hallo, Mama!”
Harry looked up to the top of the waterfall, and his gut clenched. There was Harriet, sitting on what looked to be a very wet, very slick rock. She waved down at Pen.
Pen waved back and shouted, “Was that you I heard a few minutes ago?”
“Yes. I slipped.” Harriet laughed. “I almost fell.”
Good God, how could Harriet be so unconcerned? And she certainly wasn’t safe now. One wrong move and she would tumble over the rocks, perhaps hit her head or break an arm or—
“Come down,” Pen called. “I have someone I want you to meet.”
He held his breath as Harriet got up and scampered over the wet rocks. Her foot slipped again, and his heart jumped into his throat. The relief he felt when she caught her balance made his knees weak.
What is the matter with me? My nerves aren’t usually stretched so thin.
When Harriet was finally, safely standing on the ground next to Pen, Harry stepped out of the trees’ concealing shade. Harriet and Pen turned to look at him—
Zeus, the girl has Pen’s eyes. That’s why she seemed so familiar when I met her by the stream.
“You’re the man I saw with Ajax.”
She was still wearing her bonnet, hiding her hair. He wished he hadn’t darkened his.
He nodded. “Yes.” He looked at Pen. How was he to explain the matter?
“Let’s go to the cottage, Harriet,” Pen said. “I—” She paused and looked at him. “We have something important to tell you.”
Harriet frowned—and then shrugged and walked on down the path ahead of them.
This is my daughter. Mine and Pen’s.
Harry felt an odd mix of wonder, pride, disbelief, and anxiety as he followed Harriet and Pen down the hill. And regret. He’d missed nine years of Harriet’s life.
She’s got Pen’s independence and strength of will as well as her eyes.
She must have something of me, too. Something besides the silver streak.
At least the streak proclaimed her paternity. He didn’t have to grapple with the question of whether or not she was his. He smiled to himself. And risk Pen neutering him as she’d likely do if he raised that issue.
He followed them into the cottage, closing the door behind him, muting the light and the birdsong.
He glanced around. They stood in a simple room—stairs off to his right led to an upper level, likely not much more than a loft. There was a stone fireplace, a wooden table, and several plain wooden chairs. Harriet went to stand by herself near the hearth.
Tension was suddenly thick in the air. It was hard to take a deep breath.
“What is it, Mama?” Her eyes flicked up to Harry’s hair—he’d taken off his hat when he’d come inside—and back to her mother.
Pen hesitated a moment, and then walked across the room to close the gap between her and her—their—daughter.
Harriet dodged behind a chair.
Pen stopped, clearly unhappy at the barrier. “This is the Earl of Darrow, Harriet.” Pen glanced at him. “Your father.”
Of course, Harriet didn’t exclaim with joy and rush toward him. She threw another quick glance at his hair and then looked back at Pen. “No, he’s not. He doesn’t have the silver streak.”
“I darkened it,” he said.
That brought Harriet’s attention back to him, her eyes clouded with suspicion.
“I do that sometimes when I don’t want people to notice me.”
A frown appeared between her brows. “Why wouldn’t you want people to notice you?”
“Because during the war I, er, gath
ered information for the Crown. I often pretended to be French or Spanish to blend into my surroundings. The silver streak would have made me stand out most inconveniently.”
“You were a spy?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Spying was not precisely a noble calling.
Harriet nodded as if she accepted that and then a small smile flitted across her lips, hope flickering in her eyes. “So, did Mama write to you, then?” She looked back at Pen. “Did you, Mama? Am I the reason he’s here?”
“Harriet . . .” Pen looked at him.
He was tempted—so tempted—to lie, but he knew, even without Pen’s worried eyes on him, that lying to Harriet would be a very grave mistake.
And if he did lie, Pen was sure to correct him.
“I wish I could say that’s why I’m here, Harriet, but the truth is I didn’t know about you. When I saw you by the stream, I thought you must be my brother’s child. It wasn’t until I talked to your mother that I realized you were mine.”
Harriet’s look of disappointment tore at his heart, making him add, “But if I had known, I would have come at once.”
Her smile lit her face. He felt absurdly happy. Brilliant, in fact. He—
Oh, blast. Now she was glaring at her mother. Perhaps that had not been such a smart thing to say.
“See? You should have told him about me.”
Pen sighed. Suddenly, she looked tired and a bit defeated. “I explained before, Harriet. I didn’t know how to reach him when he was on the Continent.”
She didn’t mention she hadn’t known how to write.
Then she looked at him, as if seeking his support. He would give it—especially as he had thoughtlessly thrown fuel on this particular fire.
“Your mother is correct, Harriet. It would have been very difficult, if not impossible, for a letter to reach me. And while I would have wanted to hurry home if I’d heard about you, the fact is that I probably couldn’t have got free. I had superiors who were depending on me, and England is a long, time-consuming journey away when one is in Portugal, Spain, France, or Austria.”
Harriet digested that. “But you came home months ago. And you’re an earl now. You can do whatever you please.”
That was not entirely true, but Harriet was right. He could have come earlier had Pen bothered to tell him he had a daughter.
Harriet glared back at her mother. “You should have written him then, Mama.”
Pen’s chin came up. “I wasn’t going to scramble to hang on the earl’s sleeve, Harriet. Imagine how that would have looked.”
Harriet was not sympathetic to that argument. Her chin also came up. “Who cares how it would have looked! I’m his daughter. He should have known about me.”
Which was true—
Oh, hell. Harriet had started to cry. She covered her face with her hands.
“And I didn’t know about him. I thought my father was d-dead.”
Pen reached for their daughter—and Harriet again dodged her.
“We didn’t—we don’t—need the earl, Harriet. We do fine on our own.” Pen’s voice shook with anger or nerves, he couldn’t say.
Harriet uncovered her face long enough to hurl a few words at her mother. “You do f-fine. I don’t. I hate you.”
Pen flinched.
Zeus! He’d best take matters in hand. “Now see here, Harriet—”
Pen’s attention snapped back to him. “Don’t you dare use that tone with her.”
No one spoke to him that way. He opened his mouth to tell Pen exactly that—and paused.
He didn’t know anything about being a father—or at least anything good. His own father had ignored him—he was only the spare, after all. And Walter . . . Harry had left for the Continent around the time his second niece was born, but his brother hadn’t shown any evidence to that point that he was going to be a model father.
For some reason, he remembered a bit of negotiation advice an old diplomat had given him as they’d finished the last of several mugs of ale late one night in Vienna. Don’t dig your heels in if you don’t want to get stuck in the mud.
“Harriet.” He spoke softly this time as he moved closer.
Pen gave him a warning look that said she’d strangle him with his cravat the moment he took a wrong step.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here before, but I’m here now.”
He waited what seemed like an eternity.
Finally, Harriet wiped her face with her hands and looked up at him. “For how long?”
Should I mention the house at Darrow?
No, not before I discuss it with Pen.
It was not at all a certain thing Pen would agree to the move. Best go slowly.
“I don’t know. A few days. Perhaps a week.” He looked at Pen. He didn’t want to leave her right away, either.
Why?
He didn’t care to contemplate the answer to that question.
“I’d like to spend some time getting to know you, if that would be all right with you”—he looked at Pen again—“and with your mother, of course.”
Why is Pen frowning?
“You must be busy,” Pen said.
Does she not want me to stay?
“You’re an earl. You have many responsibilities.” She was speaking faster than normal and looking at his cravat rather than his face. “We really do go on perfectly fine without you.”
That hurt, not that it should. They’d have been in a sorry state if they’d needed him all these years.
“I want you to stay,” Harriet said.
“Harriet!”
Harriet ignored her mother, looking at Harry instead. Her voice held a mixture of defiance and pleading. “Everyone has been so beastly since Verity got here. I want you to come up to the Home so I can show them you—” Her voice broke, but she swallowed and carried on. “So I can show them you ac-accept me.” Her chin went up again. “That I’m not another discarded Graham by-blow.”
He heard Pen suck in a horrified breath as anger surged through him, the depth and intensity of it taking him by surprise. The only time he could remember ever feeling this visceral a reaction was when he’d seen Pen’s father hit her, when she’d been about Harriet’s age. He’d been only a boy then, powerless to do anything.
Well, he was not powerless now. He was an earl and the good friend of the Home’s unwitting benefactor.
But do I really want to wade into the middle of Pen’s life and the lives of the Home’s inhabitants?
It might not be the most sensible thing to do, but he was going to do it. He did not like the idea of anyone treating his daughter cruelly.
And he should make another point clear.
“Is that what they’re saying, Harriet?” Pen was asking. She sounded as if she’d like to lop off a few heads herself.
“Yes, Mama.”
“Harriet,” he said, “my brother was the one who had many, er, by-blows, not me. As far as I know, you’re my only child.”
Pen and Harriet both looked at him doubtfully.
He was almost certain that was true, though he’d admit the risk of pregnancy had never been as much on his mind as it probably should have been. He quickly ran through the list—the relatively short list—of his paramours. None had become mothers in the time he’d, er, known them in the biblical sense.
“I’d be happy to go up to the Home with you. I have to go there anyway, to be honest. The Duke of Grainger asked me to have a look around for him.” He smiled at Harriet. “Perhaps you and your mother can give me a tour.”
Harriet grinned and gave an odd little cross between a skip and a hop. “Yes. Let’s go now, Papa.” She stopped, balancing on one foot. “May I call you Papa?”
Apparently, this was his day for surprising emotions. He couldn’t quite identify the one currently swelling his chest.
He didn’t trust his voice, so he just nodded.
“I don’t know about today, Harriet,” Pen said. “It’s getting late, and the earl has been traveling.”
And fighting, not that the vicar had been much of an opponent. Still, he must be looking more than a little ragged.
And he suddenly realized he was also feeling more than a little ragged. He’d had enough emotional turmoil for one day. The thought of being inspected by a houseful of females . . .
It would be better if he were well rested and properly prepared for that ordeal. And he was here on Grainger’s business, too. He should be alert so he could evaluate matters and give the duke a proper report.
Harriet had turned to him. “It’s not too late, is it, Papa?”
Zeus, he hated to disappoint her. He looked at Pen—who frowned and shook her head.
All right then. He wasn’t foolish enough to think he knew better than Harriet’s mother, and he was looking forward to some time alone to consider all that had happened today—and perhaps drain a pint or two of Widow’s Brew while he did so.
“I’m afraid your mother is correct, Harriet.”
Harriet scowled at Pen.
Fortunately, a compromise popped into his head. “What if I walk you up to the Home now? And then I’ll arrive promptly tomorrow morning”—he looked at Pen—“at whatever the appropriate time might be.”
Harriet drooped a bit, but only for a moment. “You promise?”
“I give you my word.”
Luckily, the word of the Earl of Darrow was good enough for a nine-year-old girl. She headed for the door.
“You’ll come early, won’t you, Papa?”
A warm rush of pleasure made him smile. Would he ever tire of being called “Papa”?
He thought not.
Perhaps this is a sign I really am ready to marry and start my nursery.
“Just give me a time and I’ll be there.”
When he got back to London, he’d do his duty and offer for Lady Susan. There was no point in delaying any longer. As his mother kept pointing out, he needed an heir sooner rather than later, and Lady Susan had the proper breeding to be a countess. She was the daughter of an earl, after all. She would know exactly how to manage his household. And she got on with his mother and sister-in-law. Might as well please his female relatives. Life would be simpler and more harmonious that way.
And Lady Susan was very beautiful.
“Mama will be up with the sun, checking the hops,” Harriet said.
What Ales the Earl Page 9
