The Bridegroom and the Baby

by Marcy Stewart

  “I’ll think of something when the time comes. The first order of business is to find the identity of the infant’s mother.”

  “This could ruin everything. Miss Murrow is charming, utterly charming—"

  “It’s not necessary to tell me that,” he said, resentfully. Closer acquaintance had already begun to mend his first impression of her, and now he found himself looking forward to knowing her better.

  “But her father is old-fashioned and as protective as a bear. If he discovers you’ve fathered a bastard, your last best hope will be gone. What do you plan? How will you proceed?”

  “We continue as best we can—what else? Now leave me. Your hand-wringing is making me jumpy; I expect next you will be frothing at the mouth.”

  By the time Lord Ambrose had tied his cravat into a semblance of neatness—how he missed his valet, long lost as a measure of economy—Betsy had returned with Janice Marshall, a young mother of a five-month-old boy. As her husband had left home to seek work in London, she agreed to stay on the premises provided she could care for her babe as well. The viscount saw to it that she and her boy, Clyde, were tucked safely away in the attic nursery with Dorrie, who was crying to be suckled as he hastily left.

  Dorrie Hall Burnside. Not a bad nomenclature for a second’s notice, he told himself as he walked downstairs for luncheon, even if he did have to use a few visual helps. He had never in his life claimed to be creative.

  As he descended, he could hear the Murrows conversing in the library. Were they early for everything? If so, that could prove deuced annoying. But then he detected Scott’s voice as well. What a good friend he was, always there to assist, as watchful of the diminishing Ambrose fortune as Ethan himself. Although that was not total altruism on his part; Brandt’s livelihood was pinned to his own.

  But if Scott didn’t take care, he would harm more than help by making Ethan appear bad by comparison. Scott was such a good man; always first with the soothing word, the correct gesture, the gallant response. He was almost as perfect as Lucan; mayhap that explained why he had been more Lucan’s friend than Ethan’s.

  At the bottom of the stairs, the viscount’s hand tightened on the newel post. He closed his eyes. No one was as perfect as his brother. No one.

  He forced his lids to open. Time to be charming, he counseled himself, and wondered if that was possible.

  It had better be possible. Contrary to his first thoughts, Madeleine Murrow would have to be courted to be won. She was not the insipid female he remembered from the weekend at Lord Tate’s. In truth, be began to doubt all his initial impressions of her. He had been drinking deep that weekend, as he recalled—not the best method for making good judgments. Thus, last evening he had been surprised to scent a whiff of humor from his future intended; today he’d seen unmistakable signs of intelligence in her eyes as she tried—yes, he was sure of it—tried to swallow his unlikely tale of Dorrie’s arrival. But what else could she do, she or her skeptical father? The truth was unbelievable. Unimaginable. And worst of all, if he truly was the father, unforgivable.

  He pasted a smile on his face, tugged his waistcoat straight, and entered. Scott was seated on the settee beside Mrs. Murrow, who had occupied her hands with needlepoint; and Mr. Murrow stood with one leg propped on the hearth, prodding the flames with a poker. Miss Murrow sat next to the fire, an open book in her lap. He thought he spied a spark of admiration in her eyes when she looked at him, but it disappeared so quickly be could not be certain. He decided to take encouragement from the possibility.

  “How fares little Dorrie?” Mrs. Murrow asked after greetings were renewed.

  “Happy to be fed,” he answered. “As I’m sure we’ll all be in a moment.” He certainly would be, having had no time for breakfast. He rang for the butler, who responded promptly, and asked if luncheon was ready.

  Burns bowed. “I’ve only now returned from the kitchen, milord. The meal will be delayed for about a half hour.”

  Ethan’s smile became strained. “Thank you, Burns.” When the butler reversed direction, the viscount walked to the threshold with him, saying under his breath, “What’s wrong now?”

  “The maid bought a spoiled chicken and had to get another,” the butler returned in a rumbly whisper.

  “Betsy again.” When Burns nodded, the viscount added, “I thought we had another pair of hands coming from the village today.”

  “Yes, milord, the greengrocer’s daughter, but she took ill yesterday.”

  The viscount glanced at the company in the library. Scott was conversing with the Murrows, but Miss Murrow wasn’t attending very well; she was watching Burns and himself. Caught, she moved her eyes away, her cheeks pinkening. Feeling a hint of amusement, he moved closer to the butler and softened his voice further.

  “You did tell her we’d pay.”

  “Yes, milord. She was willing, but her illness came on suddenly. According to her father, she wishes to work— very much wishes to work he said—and will come as soon as she recovers her strength.”

  “Let’s hope that happens quickly.” Lord Ambrose moved as if to return to his guests, then pivoted back to Burns. “This greengrocer’s daughter; is she the plump young one with yellow hair?”

  “Annie Farlanger’s not so young anymore, milord. Thirty if she’s a day.”

  Young enough. “Does she have beaux?”

  The butler straightened, giving him a severe look. What had he done this time—did Burns think he was interested in the chit? “I wouldn’t know, milord. I do not indulge in village gossip.”

  For a moment Ethan felt himself back in the nursery, the formidable servant’s disapproval slitting through him like splinters of glass. Shaking himself mentally, he met the man’s eyes. He was the master of the house now, whether he wanted to be or not, and no mere servant could intimidate him.

  “Did you have enough interest to ascertain the nature of her illness?” He invested as much contempt as he could into his whisper.

  “Her father didn’t say, and I did not ask.”

  “I’d like you to find out what’s wrong with her.”

  Doubt entered the butler’s expression. “Farlanger did mention she wasn’t contagious, if you’re worried about your guests.”

  It had not occurred to Ethan to concern himself with contagion, but he seized upon the opportunity. “Yes, I am. Mrs. Murrow is not strong, and we can’t risk bringing a disease on the premises. Yes, tell Farlanger that and bring me his answer.”

  After an instant’s hesitation, the servant said, “Is this falsehood, milord? I don’t like being caught as I was this morning in the matter of your”—he cleared his throat— “cousin.”

  The viscount felt himself grow warm. “You see that lady over there? Half the time she’s so weak she cannot walk. Now do as I say, Burns, as soon as you’ve finished helping in the kitchen. I’m famished.”

  The butler stared resentfully beneath bushy eyebrows, then bowed and walked from the room. Ethan forced brightness into his face and returned to his guests.

  Mrs. Murrow smiled at him and set her needlepoint aside. “Lord Ambrose, I was just remarking to Mr. Brandt about how attractive the tapestries in the hall are. Did members of your family make them?”

  “My grandmother, yes; a lifetime’s work. There are more in the withdrawing room; would you care to see? We could tour the downstairs rooms while we wait for luncheon if you like.”

  Such a perfect host he was, he thought as the Murrows moved to their feet, Scott hurrying to assist the older lady. The strain of maintaining civility for the next two weeks loomed before him like the entire range of the Alps waiting to be crossed. He could not deny feeling a touch of interest when Miss Murrow passed beneath his eyes, however. She looked more attractive than he remembered. Perhaps it was the pink of her gown that softened her.

  Ordinarily, he preferred fair-skinned women with rosy cheeks, but Miss Murrow’s Mediterranean coloring suited her well, especially as her skin was as smooth as porcelain.
He began to think she possessed the kind of beauty that grew on one rather than dazzled at first sight. Had her hair been black, then she would have caused every eye in a room to fasten upon her entrance; her features were excellent enough. It was the brown hair that, while clean and pretty in its own right, saved her from that fate. Judging from the vain and shallow beauties he had known, Ethan thought her fortunate.

  At that moment, Miss Murrow was feeling considerably less than fortunate. As she trooped from withdrawing room to music room to dining room, she wondered what the architect of the manse had been thinking. Surely the ceilings were at least fifteen feet tall, a thing that might be elegant in vast rooms. However, Westhall’s chambers, although proportioned comfortably, were none of them large.

  She felt like a toy moving inside a box. A gray, drafty box filled with old furniture and worn cloth. This house could not begin to compare with their comfortable manse in Kent with its flower-filled gardens, rose trellis, white latticework pavilion; and inside, tastefully furnished and proportioned rooms with the charming servants’ stair leading to an attic filled with mysterious shadows, dusty corners, and treasure trunks where two sisters had whiled away their childhood. Only a few days had passed since she last saw it, but how she missed that home and its low ceilings.

  On the other hand, there were no memories of Bettina tied to Westhall to haunt her. This place had that at least in its favor.

  While they explored, Lord Ambrose kept up a running commentary about the history of this, the legacy of that; Chinese vases, fan collections, and a hideous old pot reputed to be from ancient Rome. She could not help thinking it was no wonder they buried it in the dirt.

  Sometimes Mr. Brandt would add a sentence or two, all of it favorable to the Ambrose history. When he did, the viscount attended him with a display of politeness she saw through like glass. Mr. Brandt taxed his patience for some reason; why, she could not tell, for the gentleman seemed all that was proper to her.

  As for Lord Ambrose himself, she sensed he tried very hard to be pleasant as he guided them through the rooms. She liked listening to his raspy voice; it compelled attention. His behavior made a nice change from last night, but she remembered well the scent of liquor on his breath and would not soon forget it.

  One of her friends from school had married a man too fond of his drink. He gambled and drank away her entire fortune in the space of a year. No one had heard from her in a long time, although there were rumors the couple had moved to Ireland and become potato farmers.

  She knew enough to be cautious when choosing a mate; yet studying Lord Ambrose as one would consider making a purchase—this quality goes into the in favor of column; that behavior belongs in the against—made her uncomfortable. She had not expected her visit to be easy, but that was when she didn’t think of him as a living, breathing person with a character and history all his own. Now that she was beginning to, it was worse; much worse.

  After viewing the last ground-floor chamber, the morning room—a room that managed to depress despite its yellow-and-white color scheme—the group filed past the stairs and seemed destined to return to the library.

  “Won’t you show us your study?” Madeleine asked impulsively, when it became apparent he was going to neglect what she most wanted to see.

  A silence fell. The animation on the viscount’s face smoothed over, as though a hand had wiped it away.

  “There’s nothing of interest in there,” he said.

  He sounded harsh enough to draw a sharp look from Madeleine’s father. Her expression, too, must have reflected how taken aback she was, for Mr. Brandt gave her arm a soothing squeeze.

  “Ethan’s study is not the place to visit before a meal,” he said in jesting tones. “He gets so angry when a piece of paper is moved that the servants dare not clean anything. You can imagine what a rubbish trap it is.”

  “Come, my dear,” said Antonia. “We don’t want to intrude on our host’s privacy, and to say truth, I had best sit down awhile.” Thomas immediately offered his arm, and her parents turned to enter the library. “It’s been a long time since I’ve been on my feet this much, hasn’t it, Thomas? Perhaps I grow stronger.”

  “I am certain of it,” Thomas said in a solicitous voice.

  Instead of following her parents’ lead, Madeleine kept her eyes upon the viscount, willing him to change his mind. She didn’t care a fig for the room’s tidiness but was dying to get a closer look at the portrait.

  Slowly, the viscount moved his gaze from Mr. Brandt to her. After a moment, he shrugged slightly and gestured for her to proceed toward his study. She walked eagerly forward, the two gentlemen following.

  She allowed herself a quick glance at the portrait above the fireplace and then, so as not to seem too taken with it, moved on to examine the rest of the room. The study was small and lined with bookshelves on two walls. A massive desk sat before the window; it struck her as odd until she realized it was designed for two, one person to each side. A glance at the titles on the nearest shelf revealed a taste for horse breeding, astronomy, theology, and philosophy. My goodness, what an eclectic collection, she thought, then dismissed the books for her true objective.

  Standing beneath the painting, she saw that the two young men appeared to be on the verge of adulthood, yet there was enough boyishness in their faces to make her uncertain if one of them could be Lord Ambrose. One stood, the other sat. The standing boy rested his hand on the back of the chair; she could not determine if the gesture was proprietary, protective, or simply the command of the artist. Both boys looked outward.

  Now that she had a moment to study their faces, she began to note subtle differences. Although both subjects looked pleasant, the sitting boy’s expression was slightly more serious, his cheeks fuller and his eyes more round.

  She had the impression of an inner gravity, or perhaps a placidity that bespoke knowing one’s place in the world. The second fellow looked ... innocent, she thought; but in a strange way, for the spark in his eye promised devilment.

  With an enthusiasm that could not be restrained, she whirled on the viscount, who had come to stand at her left elbow. “Is that you in the portrait?”

  “Which?” he asked, his gaze nailed to hers.

  From his expression, she had the sense that her answer was inordinately important to him. For an instant she was afraid to answer but then thought, how absurd.

  “The one standing, of course.”

  From the smile in his eyes, she guessed she had chosen rightly.

  “Are you certain?” he quizzed, confusing her for a moment.

  “I can only be certain if you tell me.”

  “Alas, I cannot. My brother and I promised never to disclose the secret.”

  Mr. Brandt stepped into her line of vision, startling her; she had forgotten he was here. “My guess is you’re correct. Normally, the elder would stand, taking the preeminent position, but the twins liked to twist minds by changing places. You cannot imagine the disasters they caused.”

  Lord Ambrose smiled at him. “Scott, would you be so good as to see to the status of our meal? Perhaps you could light a fire beneath Burns.”

  “Start a fire beneath Burns, Ethan? You always did have a knack with words.” If Mr. Brandt took offense at being ordered from the room, he gave no sign as he disappeared into the hall.

  “I didn’t realize you have a twin,” she said.

  “Had, Miss Murrow. My brother died six months ago.”

  “Oh. I am truly sorry!”

  “I believe you are. When I visited Lord Tate, your father told me your family had experienced a similar tragedy in the death of your sister.”

  She nodded, instantly flooding with the old sorrow. “But you did not mention your own loss to him.”

  “I hope you’ll forgive me for that. The injury was too fresh. Even now I find it difficult to speak about it.”

  “I understand.” She wanted to ask him a thousand questions but dared not. “My sister died nearly four
years ago. She ... drowned. Did my father tell you?”

  “Yes. It must have been terrible for all of you.”

  “Terrible does not begin to describe it, Lord Ambrose. She died in a pond on our property. It was on our property, that is; Papa had it filled in.” More than that she could not tell him; a family must be permitted its secrets. “My mother’s decline began at that time. Sometimes I fear the grief will never lessen for any of us.” She dashed a look at him. His eyes rested softly on her, and she felt her heart turn over. “My sister and I were very close, but a twin ... I have heard there is a special bond.”

  “What you’ve heard is true.” His gaze drifted to the portrait, and she felt him drawing inward. His pain was so tangible she wanted to weep. “A very special bond.” His jaw tightened. “We’d better join your parents, Miss Murrow.”

  Reluctantly, she moved to follow him, but her eyes lingered on the painting. She felt as if she could study it forever. She sensed there was much to be learned here about the viscount and his brother, but she feared she would not be granted the opportunity. Lord Ambrose seemed strangely possessive of the portrait, else he would surely display it in a more public place.

  “How did your brother die?” she asked, then could have bitten her tongue for its impulsiveness. “I’m sorry; I shouldn’t have asked that. I’m too inquisitive; Papa is always telling me so.”

  “Lucan was shot.”

  The words came so swiftly and with such hostility that she recoiled. “Shot?”

  “A hunting accident.”

  “How awful!”

  He leaned against the door frame. A casual pose, but the flames in his eyes belied it. Like the force of a strong wind, his anger swept around her. Here lay the viscount’s true personality, she was certain; gone was the smiling, tightly controlled man of the morning. She recalled his display of temper the night before. Yes, this was the real Lord Ambrose, and she could hardly contain her disappointment.

  “Allow me to satisfy your curiosity by explaining all of it, and then we’ll be quit of the subject, shall we?” His tone was acidic. “Imagine if you will, a field of men and dogs hunting grouse; a stray bullet is fired, and my brother falls. After several hours of struggling for life, he succumbs. Does that satisfy you, Miss Murrow?”