by Shana Galen
It was a splendid day. The last remnants of rain sparkled and dried in the warm, spring sunshine, and everywhere around him budding flowers opened one eye and considered showing their colors.
The town house of the Earl of Winthorpe looked every bit as peaceful as its surroundings. Its gray, stately exterior was flanked by large flower boxes, whose blooms dared not wait until the other blossoms of London decided to flower. Color spilled from the boxes just as dignity emanated from the large edifice.
Warrick had many memories here. He could remember standing outside, as he was now, as a boy, eating his ices with nothing more important on his mind than whether he should play with his toy soldiers or his ball that afternoon. He could also remember standing here as a man about to leave for the Peninsular Wars, stealing a last glimpse of home over his shoulder, feeling the bleak coldness of the house and his dismissal as much as he felt it in the chill, damp air around him.
This town house had been home, as much as Embrey Abbey in Cardiff, the ancestral homes of the earls of Winthorpe. He and his brothers and sisters had grown up here, and as he stood outside now, he could not help but feel the tug of nostalgia.
But he was here with a duty in mind, and he must not be swayed from his purpose. It was almost two o’clock, which was perfect, as his mother would be all but done receiving calls for the day. He climbed the steps to the door and knocked on the brass knocker three times. Dalton, the butler who had been in residence for as long as Warrick could remember, opened the door. If he was surprised to see the Winthorpe’s prodigal son returned, he did not indicate such. He merely nodded and said, “Mr. Fitzhugh.” He opened the door wide, and Warrick stepped inside. He handed his walking stick, greatcoat, and hat to a waiting footman then said, “I’m here to see my mother, Dalton.”
“Of course, sir.” The butler must have been ancient, but he hadn’t aged so much as a day in Warrick’s estimation. He still had the same unsmiling countenance, the same drooping jowls, the same steely gray hair and steely gray eyes. “Your calling card, please.” He held out a hand.
Warrick refrained from rolling his eyes. “I haven’t one with me.” He couldn’t have said if he had one at all. He was not in the habit of making calls. He supposed his own butler could have unearthed them for him, but he hadn’t thought to ask when he’d stopped home for a quick change. His valet had fussed when he said he didn’t have time for a shave, and Dalton’s gaze on him now made Warrick wish he had listened to his valet. His day’s growth of beard made his cheeks burn under Dalton’s critical eye.
“I see. If you will wait here a moment.” Dalton and the footman disappeared, the footman in one direction and Dalton toward the drawing room. Warrick shoved his hands into his pockets and studied the house. Little had changed since he had last been here. The ceilings were still soaring, the art still classical, the potted plants still green and perfectly tended. The silence of the house was familiar, as well. He had remembered being chastised more than once as a child for stomping up and down the stairs when he should walk like a young gentleman. Suddenly, there was a shriek followed by a laugh. Warrick started then turned as a young boy scampered by, chasing a battered ball. Another boy followed, and in their haste to retrieve the ball, they tangled legs and fell in a heap at Warrick’s feet. Giggles erupted as the boys rose to their knees and then abruptly ceased as they glanced up at Warrick.
“Good day,” he said.
Both boys gave him grins so reminiscent of his older brothers, Warrick could not fail to know their identities. One of these boys was Henry and the other must have been Charles. These were his nephews, but how could they be so big? He had last seen them as babies.
“Good day,” the boys said, as they rose.
“And who are you?” the taller one with a mop of thick black hair asked. This one must be his eldest brother Richard’s boy. No one but a future heir would presume to speak so to a stranger.
“I’m your uncle, and you must be Charles.” He pointed to the boy with the black hair. “And you,” he nodded at the shorter boy, “must be Henry.”
Henry grinned, but Charles’s brow furrowed. Good God, the boy was the spitting image of his father. “Uncle? But Uncle Anthony is here already.”
“I’m your Uncle Warrick.” He leaned down and whispered, “The one they don’t talk about.”
Henry giggled, and Charles shot him a warning look.
“It’s all right,” Warrick said. “I’m here to see your grandmother.”
“Charles!” Warrick recognized the voice immediately. It was his brother Richard. A moment later Richard strode into the vestibule, stopping short when he spotted Warrick. He recovered himself quickly. “Warrick, this is a surprise.”
“I’m sure,” Warrick said. “I didn’t realize I was interrupting a family gathering.”
“You’re not.” With a wave, Richard sent Charles and Henry back into the parlor from whence they’d emerged. Charles went readily, but Henry dragged his feet and glanced over his shoulder. The boy reminded Warrick of himself at that age.
“The ladies are going shopping with Mama, and Anthony and I thought the boys could play together in the park.” He gestured to the square.
“I’m certain they will enjoy that. The weather is splendid today.”
“Yes, it is.”
Anthony, in his vicar’s garb, emerged from the parlor, a young boy following him closely. “Charles said Uncle Warrick was here, but I didn’t believe it until I saw it.” He swept the boy into his arms in one motion then gave Warrick a hard hug in the next. Anthony and Warrick were the closest in age and had always been boon companions. Now, as Anthony hugged him, Warrick caught the scent of the child he held, something sticky and sweet and perfectly innocent. His heart wrenched.
Anthony stood back. “Have you met George?”
“I don’t think I have.” Warrick smiled at the child. “I thought you had a daughter.”
Anthony nodded. “Mary couldn’t leave her lessons. She has a very strict governess.” He grinned, and Warrick grinned as well.
“It’s a surprise seeing you here,” Richard said.
“I came to see Mother.”
“Didn’t think you were welcome,” Anthony said. “That’s how we treat war heroes, you know.”
Warrick smiled. “I don’t have an invitation, but I wanted to speak to Mother about the ball tomorrow night.”
“Are you attending?” Anthony asked. “Mama will be thrilled.”
Richard put his hands on his hips. “She’ll be thrilled you are here now. Lady Edith is with Anne and Frances in the drawing room.”
It took Warrick a moment to place Anne and Frances. They were his sisters-in-law, but he could not immediately remember which was married to Anthony and which to Richard.
“Mr. Fitzhugh,” Dalton said, appearing again. “Shall I take you to the countess?”
“By all means.” He nodded to his brothers and started up the steps. How many times had he climbed these steps as a child? How many times had he and Anthony charged down them, playing Henry V and the Battle of Agincourt? Would his own children ever know this place? Would they ever play with their cousins or face the withering glances of Dalton?
Dalton opened the drawing room doors and announced Warrick. He entered, and three ladies turned to study him. One was his mother, and the others must be Anne and Frances. He remembered them now, the blond was Anne, and she was married to Anthony. The brunette was Frances, Richard’s wife. She looked as though she wore a rod in her gown.
“Ladies.” He bowed. Warrick heard a commotion behind him and Anthony and Richard, along with the boys entered. The boys immediately ran to their mothers, who smiled at them indulgently. Anne took George upon her lap.
“Warrick,” his mother said, “this is a surprise. You remember Lady Edith, do you not?” She gestured, and he turned to see a woman standing behind him. She wa
s more beautiful than he remembered, and Fallon’s opposite in almost every way. She was tall and thin, stately in her demeanor. Her wheat-colored hair fell in charming curls about her face and neck. Her eyes were light, a green or blue, and sparkled with laughter. She looked young and fresh and innocent.
She came forward, holding her hand out to him. “Mr. Fitzhugh, so good to see you again.”
He took her hand and bowed. “Lady Edith, it’s been far too long.”
“Indeed, it has.” She gave him a mischievous smile and then retreated to the couch beside Frances. Henry climbed onto her lap, unbidden, and she accepted him happily, apparently unconcerned that he might wrinkle her pale pink gown.
“To what do we owe the pleasure of your company?” his mother asked. “I do hope it is to confirm your attendance at the ball tomorrow. As I’m certain you noticed, the frenzy of preparations has begun.”
Warrick had noticed no such thing. If the servants were in a frenzy to prepare, they were masking it well. “I will be at the ball.”
“Oh, good!” Frances said. “Lady Edith has been saving a waltz for you.”
Well, that was nicely done, Warrick thought. Frances was going to make one hell of a countess one day. With little choice but to oblige, Warrick said, “I look forward to it, Lady Edith.” She smiled, exchanging a look with Frances. Warrick was struck by how comfortable she seemed surrounded by his family. She fit in, whereas he had always felt like an outsider.
“Your father will be pleased to see you,” his mother said.
“Will he?” Warrick asked, looking away from Lady Edith.
“I daresay he will,” Richard answered. “He’s become nostalgic of late.”
Anthony laughed. “Which is Richard’s way of saying he regrets banishing you.” Anthony was standing next to his pretty wife, and he put a hand on her shoulder. She covered it and gave him a warm look. “You should come to the ball,” Anthony said, “and the two of you can make amends.”
Warrick studied the small, happy group. The scene was so heartachingly domestic he could barely make himself stay rooted in place. This was what he wanted. This was what he had dreamed of through all those months of war. Only the thought of returning to London, marrying, and having his own children had kept him going through the worst of it. He looked at his brothers, with their wives and their sons, and he envied them. He had never envied them before, but now they had something he wanted.
His gaze strayed to Lady Edith, who would be the perfect addition to his family. She gave him a knowing smile. He looked at his mother, who nodded at him. She would not be so pleased when he arrived with Fallon on his arm tomorrow night.
He tried to imagine Fallon sitting with this group and found it difficult. She was at ease with the men of the ton but had little experience with the ladies. And in Warrick’s experience, it was generally the ladies who determined whether or not one was accepted into Society. When he did marry Fallon, would he be dooming her to a lonely life of rejection? She knew her place now. She would have no defined place as his wife and a former courtesan.
“I will attend the ball,” Warrick said, looking at his mother. “And I was hoping I might take a look at the guest list.”
His mother frowned. “Whatever for?”
“It’s state business, so I’m not at liberty to say.”
His mother straightened. “I am sure you can have no reason to investigate any of my guests.”
“Nevertheless, I was hoping to peruse the list.”
His mother sighed. “I suppose that would be all right.” She rose, excused herself, and led him to a small parlor on the first floor, where she completed all of her correspondence. She took several sheets of vellum from the drawer of a dainty rosewood desk and handed them to him. “Is this the real reason for your visit today?”
“I’m pleased I was able to see Richard and Anthony.”
She held her hand up. “Say no more. You’ve answered my question.” She started for the door, then paused. “You are coming to the ball alone, are you not?”
Warrick kept his gaze on the vellum.
“I see.” His mother shook her head. “Warrick, do think what you are doing.” She gestured toward the stairs. “Think what you are throwing away.”
“I’ve thought of little else, Mama.”
With a huff, she left him alone to peruse the long lists of lords and sirs. None of the names stood out, though. All of the guests were exactly the men and women he would expect to appear on a guest list for a ball given by an earl. He replaced the vellum and turned toward the door to see his father standing within its frame. Warrick had not seen the man, except from across his club, for several years now, and he was surprised at how much the earl had aged. Hair that had once been dark brown was now peppered with gray. His strong face and bold features appeared slightly shrunken and lined. He’d put on a stone or more as well, and Warrick noticed his father leaned heavily on a walking stick. Realizing he had been staring, Warrick recovered himself quickly and bowed. “My lord.”
“I did not expect to see you here, sir.”
“I needed to speak to Mother.”
“You will be attending the ball tomorrow night?” his father asked.
“Yes, my lord.”
“Capital. We can speak more then.”
Warrick nodded. He supposed this was as close as his father got to welcoming him back. “Yes, my lord.”
His father moved aside, and Warrick took the gesture to indicate a dismissal. He exited the parlor, nodding at Dalton, who stood guard at the door. But before the butler could open it, the earl spoke again. “Your mother tells me you have taken up with a courtesan.”
Warrick halted and glanced at Dalton. Dalton kept his gaze focused on the nothing in front of him. Warrick attempted to imagine how his mother might have broached the subject of their youngest son and a notorious courtesan and decided he did not want to think too hard about the more intimate aspects of his parents’ relationship.
“Her name is Fallon,” Warrick said, turning.
“That matters not. I was a young man once,” the earl said. “I understand the lure of pretty women, but there is a time in a man’s life when he must put all of the frivolities of youth aside. You are one and thirty, sir. Your mother and I would like to see you settled.”
Warrick clenched his fists. He remembered his father calling his work for the Foreign Office a frivolity years ago. It appeared now he was to be forgiven for that folly and chastised for another. “Fallon is not a passing fancy, my lord,” Warrick said. “When you meet her—”
His father shook his head. “Do not be so bold, sir, as to think you will introduce me to a common trollop. What you do with her on your own time is your affair, but you will not sully this house by bringing a whore into it.”
Warrick contained the rage that exploded within him but just barely. “You mean a whore who is not titled, I think. I saw the guest list, my lord, and I do not believe most of the women on it can claim they have not strayed at one time or another from their marriage bed.”
“I will not dignify that comment by acknowledging it.”
Warrick nodded and started for the door again. So many years had passed, and yet so little had changed. He and his father would never make amends, it appeared. Dalton moved slightly, then stilled when the earl spoke again. “Warrick, one question.”
If the earl hadn’t used his Christian name, Warrick would not have stopped. But there was something about hearing his father refer to him so familiarly that tugged at a part inside him—a place dangerously close to the center of his chest.
“You can’t think to marry this woman, can you? You must know that would be disastrous for both of you.”
“The Duke of Pelham—”
“Yes, yes, I know all about that fiasco, but you are not a duke, nor are you one of the wealthiest men in the country. Mon
ey and status often buy forgiveness, not to mention that the duke had a somewhat eccentric father and an impeccable reputation before his fall. Society will overlook one transgression from a man of Pelham’s character. You will not be afforded the same courtesy.”
“That is a price I am willing to pay.” He started for the door again, but his father caught his arm. Warrick all but jumped at the earl’s action. He could not remember the last time his father had touched him.
“I am only going to say this once,” the earl hissed in Warrick’s ear, his voice so low even Dalton, who stood a few feet away, could not have made out the words. “Do not throw your life away. If you marry this woman, you will be dead to me and to your mother. I am trying to make amends for our past, but you must meet me part of the way.”
Their gazes met, and Warrick stared at the tears in his father’s eyes. The urge to embrace his father all but overcame him. It had been so long since he’d felt he had a father at all.
“Give me another chance, son,” his father whispered. “Let’s begin again tomorrow.” The earl squeezed Warrick’s arm and released him. Slowly, he withdrew until Warrick was standing in the vestibule alone with Dalton. Warrick looked at Dalton, but the servant stared straight ahead. Warrick shook his head. Had he imagined what had just happened?
He moved toward the door and Dalton opened it. With a nod, Warrick passed through it and walked back toward the park. He had intended to return to Fallon’s town house after his visit with his mother, but now something held him back. He told himself he would not be good company at the moment, and he started for home. Well aware his residence was probably being watched, he took a back way and entered the gardens through a locked, hidden door only he knew about. He locked it again behind him, entered the town house cautiously, and made a cursory search. He startled several of his servants, but otherwise everything appeared to be in order. A quick discussion with his butler told him no one had come to call and nothing suspicious had occurred in his absence.
