The Danice Allen Anthology

by Danice Allen

  Jean-Luc nodded distractedly and slid his hand out from under Sam’s, stood up and walked to the window. Throwing the sash open several inches, he breathed deeply of the cool morning air.

  Sam was concerned. “You’re not coming down with something, are you, Jean-Luc?”

  “I’m afraid I might be,” he admitted in a strange, rueful tone.

  “ ’Tis nothing serious, I hope,” Sam said.

  “’Tis quite serious, but not deadly,” Jean-Luc answered, finally turning to smile at her, but still not looking quite his old, suave self. “It is an affliction I’ve managed to avoid my entire life, but it seems I’m finally about to succumb.”

  Sam frowned. “You’re not making sense. What affliction? Or perhaps you’re teasing me.”

  Jean-Luc nodded. “Indeed, yes. I’m teasing you,” he agreed. “Now we had better go over those details before the morning is quite gone.”

  “Isn’t it fortunate that Priss and Nan won’t be back till this afternoon and Julian’s gone off to visit fusty old Charlotte,” Sam said, smiling determinedly. “In his rush to see his beloved, my guardian quite forgot that I’m completely unguarded this morning! No chaperons! We can talk as long as we want and do anything we please.” She patted the cushion next to her. “Now, come sit down, Jean-Luc, and let’s make our plans to help Ninian.”

  To Sam’s surprise, Jean-Luc eyed the cushion next to her with what appeared to be misgiving, then settled himself in a chair opposite the sofa.

  When she gave him an amused and questioning look, he explained, “It’s nearer the window here. If I sit over here, I’m sure I’ll be much more able to resist succumbing to that … er … affliction I mentioned.”

  Sam shrugged and let it go, perfectly willing to allow Jean-Luc to sit wherever he pleased. Besides, they had lots to talk about, and a long explanatory note to write and send to Ninian, before Sam left that afternoon for the Wentworths and tea.

  When Julian left Sir Humphries’s town house, he walked slowly down the street without a thought about where he was headed. He certainly did not want to return to Montgomery House just yet. He wasn’t ready to face Sam and calmly tell her of her mother’s identity. He didn’t know how she’d feel about it. He wasn’t even sure how he felt about it yet.

  One thing he knew for sure, however. Diaries could not be trusted to contain the truth … and certainly not if the writer of the diary was married to a liar. Poor Clorinda Darlington … Simon Darlington was proving to be the biggest and best liar Julian had ever had the misfortune to meet.

  Well, he hadn’t actually met the hypocritical sod, but he felt as though he had. He just wished old Lucifer could somehow relieve Darlington from the dreadful duties he was undoubtedly performing in Hell, and let him return to cool and lovely England for an hour or two so Julian could land him a few vicious jabs to the nose … and sundry other vital organs.

  Darlington had lied to Clorinda, to Amanda, to Sam, and to Sam’s mother. He’d made up whatever was convenient and appropriate for each victim … and they’d all suffered. Julian only hoped the suffering would not continue on with this latest revelation. But the only way to know for sure was to pay a visit to Sam’s mother.

  Taking a left at the next corner, grateful for the fact that it was a sunny day for a change, Julian walked purposely toward an unfashionable address on Upper Wimpole Street.

  A few moments later, Julian was standing in front of a small but respectable, redbrick town house. He had originally expected the residence of Sam’s mother to be rather grand. And now that he knew who she was, he was still surprised to discover her living so modestly. She certainly had the “means” to command a more affluent lifestyle. He wondered why she did not.

  Presently Julian walked up the steps to the door and knocked. A butler opened the door and gave Julian a look of mild surprise. “Yes, sir. May I help you?”

  “I hope you may,” Julian answered. “I would like to see your mistress. Is she in?”

  “The mistress is in,” replied the butler, “but I don’t think she’ll see you. She sees no one at this hour. She’s abed.”

  Julian reached inside his vest pocket and took out a card. “Give this to her, if you please. I think when she observes my name on the card, she’ll agree to see me.”

  The butler looked at Julian’s calling card and allowed his eyebrows to lift ever so slightly. His gaze shifted to Julian, and there was a spark of interest, of new respect in his expression. Julian often thought that the best thing about being a marquess was the unmerited impression it made on certain people. It was perfectly silly to be treated better simply because of a title one doesn’t earn but simply inherits. However, it was sometimes quite useful.

  “Please come in, my lord,” the butler said, bowing low. “You may wait in the drawing room while I tell the mistress of your arrival.”

  Julian followed the butler inside, settled himself on the couch in the tastefully appointed drawing room, and waited. However, he did not have to wait long. When the door opened, he stood up and watched a slender, delicate-featured woman enter the room in an elegant, sapphire-blue dressing gown. Her golden blond hair was down, as if she’d been sleeping or resting. Julian felt a strange stirring at the sight of her. There was no strong physical resemblance between Sam and this woman, but there was a gracefulness, a certain spirit they both shared.

  “Lord Serling,” she said, extending her fine-boned hand.

  “Madame DuBois,” Julian returned, taking her hand and bowing over it. “How kind of you to see me. I beg your pardon for disturbing your rest. Do you have a play tonight?”

  “Yes, I’m still performing in Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile.” Genevieve DuBois eyed him keenly. “But then I expect you know that. You seem to know everything about me.” She motioned for him to sit down, then sat opposite him in a chair.

  Julian sat down. “I’m surprised at your civility toward me … considering how uncivil your notes were.”

  She smiled tightly, her gaze skittering away to other objects in the room. “You must understand that I was trying to divert you from the truth. I’m not a violent person, or given to threats and such, but I wanted to alarm you and frighten you away from Sir Humphries before he remembered my affair with Simon Darlington nearly twenty years ago. The old gossip remembers everything eventually, even such a minor affair as mine when I was first making a name for myself in the theater. He was part of the Drury Lane group I ran with back then … one of the men who panted after opera dancers and such.” Her gaze rested on him again and he could see in her expression how difficult this interview was for her. She might speak calmly, but she was feeling a lot of pain.

  “How did you know I was seeing Sir Humphries?” Julian asked. “He assured me that he wouldn’t breathe a word about the substance of my visits to anyone, and I believed him.”

  Her forced smile had a bitter edge as she replied, “A man does not consider his mistress as ‘anyone.’ Sharing a bed with someone loosens the tongue considerably.”

  Julian shifted uncomfortably. “You’re not—”

  “No, I’m not Sir Humphries’s mistress,” she said drily. “In fact, it might interest you to know that I’ve never been anyone’s kept woman.”

  That answered Julian’s question about why she was living so modestly.

  “I’ve taken lovers, of course,” Genevieve went on, “who have given me gifts and such … jewelry, clothes … but I’ve never depended on them for my living expenses.”

  “Although I have made your past personal life my business,” Julian said with careful politeness, “your present personal life is none of my business.”

  She gave him a candid look. “Nevertheless, it is important for you to know that I am not a … a … whore.”

  Julian nodded gravely.

  Genevieve heaved a small, tired sigh, then continued. “I am well acquainted with the woman who is presently under Sir Humphries’s protection … Sally McQueen.”

  “And it was she
who told you about my visits and what I discussed with Sir Humphries?”

  “Yes. Sally and I are very close friends. In fact, she’s the only person I’ve ever talked to about … about the baby. Everyone … except for Sir Humphries, of course … has long forgotten that I had to quit for several months early in my career to give birth to a child.” She turned and looked wistfully at a robin hopping on a windowsill outside. “Only she’s not a child anymore, is she? I’ve caught glimpses of her here and there about town. She’s very lovely … even though she does resemble her scoundrel of a father. I was never so shocked in my life to find out she was alive.”

  Julian furrowed his brows. “Why did you think she was dead?”

  Genevieve sighed deeply, appearing much older at that moment than she’d ever looked on the stage. “At Simon’s insistence, I retired to the country for the last months of my breeding period. It was only by doing exactly as he stipulated that he was willing to assist me financially at the time. And as I could not work…”

  “Go on,” Julian prompted her.

  “I gave birth to Samantha in a small cottage in West Sussex. It was a difficult delivery and I was given laudanum for the pain. Hours later, when I woke up, the midwife was gone and there was no sign of a baby.” She paused for a moment and ran a hand over her eyes, as if finding the memory quite distressing. “Simon told me the child had died,” she continued in a quavering voice. “He said he’d buried it already, so I wouldn’t suffer at the sight of its poor deformed body.”

  Apparently too agitated to remain seated, Genevieve stood up and began pacing the carpet. “I suppose I must be grateful that he didn’t actually murder her on the spot!” she said grimly.

  Julian waited while Genevieve grappled with the painful past. Presently she seemed more composed and sat down.

  “After returning me to London, I never saw him again,” she continued. “But since his behavior during my pregnancy had been cold and cruel, revealing his true nature, I had already grown disgusted with him and was glad he was out of my life for good.”

  “How did you meet Samantha’s father?” Julian asked her.

  The bitter smile came back. “When I met Simon Darlington, I had just arrived in London from Yorkshire. I was little more than a child, a fledgling actress … and very naive. Simon was a respectable country gentleman in town on business. We had an affair for two years. Whenever he came to town, we spent all our nights together. He taught me how to speak properly, you know, so it would be easier for me to get roles. I thought he was wonderful.”

  She sighed. “I never knew he was married. In fact, I really believed that eventually he and I would wed. So, when I found out I was with child, I was horrified when he told me he had a wife in Surrey, that he had been lying to me all along.”

  “He lied to everyone,” Julian assured her. “He did eventually tell his wife about you, you know, but he said you were a titled lady of the ton.

  “He would,” Genevieve said disgustedly.

  “Sam … that is, Samantha … thought her mother was dead, that she’d died giving birth. But Mrs. Darlington’s diary, which we just recently found, stated that Sam’s mother was highborn and did not die during childbirth. Naturally, I was concerned because I did not wish to accidentally marry Sam off to her brother. It was imperative that I find you. Fortunately, after Sir Humphries had searched his memory in vain for a titled lady who might have consorted with a man named Simon Darlington at the time of Sam’s birth, he finally connected the name … with you.”

  Genevieve nodded, then tilted her head to the side. Her eyes narrowed. “How did you come to be so involved in Samantha’s life? I didn’t learn everything I wanted to know from Sir Humphries’s confidences to Sally, and I’m sure you will understand my curiosity.”

  And your protective instincts as a mother, Julian thought to himself. She probably was suspicious that his motives weren’t completely pure. Sometimes he wondered himself…

  In as short and concise a manner as he could manage, and without dwelling on the neglect and suffering Sam experienced while being virtually imprisoned on Thorney Island, Julian related the whole story to Genevieve. She listened in silence, but her beautiful, expressive face reflected all the emotions she was feeling of sympathy for Sam, anger toward Simon, incredulity and regret.

  Afterward, Genevieve got up and began pacing again. “I know it is useless to agonize over what Simon did. I won’t put myself through such torment, and it can’t help Samantha now. ’Tis enough to know that she is presently well and with friends and people who love her. I can’t tell you my feelings when I found out she was alive…”

  Genevieve’s voice broke and Julian was sorely tempted to comfort her with an arm around her shoulders. But he feared it would not be taken in the spirit in which it was offered. Genevieve probably had ample reason not to trust men.

  Presently she got command of her emotions, sat down again, lifted her chin, and looked Julian square in the eye. It was a gesture, a look, that reminded him oh so much of Sam. “I don’t want her to know.”

  “I can’t not tell her,” Julian replied.

  “Yes, you can. Why does she need to know? You said yourself that the only reason you searched for me was for fear of marrying Samantha to a sibling. Now you know that’s not possible. I never had another child. Not even when I tried … If word got out that I’m Samantha’s mother, she’d be ruined. No respectable man would want her. I can’t bear to think of her ending up alone or … or … desperate.”

  “Sam will never be alone or desperate,” Julian said with steely determination. “Not as long as she has me to take care of her.”

  Genevieve raised her brows in a look of interested surprise.

  “And her sister, of course,” Julian amended in some confusion. “Sam has a lot of people who care about her.”

  “Evidently,” Genevieve murmured.

  “And any man who wouldn’t want Sam because of the unfortunate circumstances of her birth, isn’t worthy of her,” he continued harshly. “Any blockhead can see that Sam is everything that is pure, unspoiled, good, and gracious. She has spirit and compassion and intelligence.”

  “Your praise is warm,” Genevieve commented.

  “But not excessive or undeserved,” Julian emphasized. “Sam has a right finally to be happy, and it is my aim that she be happy and secure. Therefore I want her to make a respectable match. But I promised her that I would not promote a marriage for her with a man who does not love her, or whom she doesn’t love. I promised her that she would marry the right man … the one and only man for her … the man who will make her the happiest woman on earth.”

  Julian was surprised and embarrassed to hear himself repeating, verbatim, such sentimental claptrap, but it had all come out in a passionate rush. And he was equally surprised to discover that he’d meant every word. He dreaded Genevieve’s reaction.

  But her reaction was much different than he expected. “Then am I to conclude, Lord Serling,” she queried with a faint smile, “that you are intending to marry my daughter?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  At first Julian wasn’t sure he’d heard her correctly. “I beg your pardon…?”

  Genevieve DuBois twined her slender fingers together and rested her clasped hands on her knees. “I said, Lord Serling—as I’m sure you heard quite clearly—I conclude that you intend to marry my daughter.”

  Julian shifted uncomfortably. Attempting to appear just as composed as she did, he answered, “Indeed, Madame DuBois, marrying Sam has never been my intention. I can’t imagine what gave you such an idea.”

  “Your manner of speaking of her just now gave me the idea.”

  “My manner of speaking?”

  “Yes. It was very warm. In fact—might I presume to say?—it was quite possessive and loverlike.”

  Affecting nonchalance, Julian took out his snuffbox, deftly opened it with one finger, and took a sniff. “Now I see where Sam gets her romantical notions,” he drawled.
“Like your daughter, you see loverlike inclinations where there is only friendship.”

  Genevieve’s eyebrows rose. “So, Sam has found you out, too? Good girl!”

  “Nonsense,” Julian continued repressively. “Sam has merely nurtured an infatuation for me of late, and fooled herself into believing that I returned her feelings. That I have a great deal of affection for Sam, I will not deny. That I intend to settle her in a happy and respectable home as someone’s wife is also quite true. But it shall not be my home, nor shall she be my wife. I do not love her.”

  “The gentleman ‘doth protest too much,’ ” Genevieve suggested soberly, but with the glimmer of a smile in her eyes.

  “I do no such thing,” Julian protested stiffly. “I merely state the facts.”

  “And the fact is, you are in love with my daughter,” Genevieve insisted, “whether you choose to believe it or not.”

  Julian got up and moved to the window. He gazed at the quiet scene outside, feeling anything but quiet inside. First Sam, now her mother, was trying to tell him that he was in love with his ward. The idea was ludicrous. He could never be in love with a young woman so different from his ideal of a wife.

  Instead of decorous and circumspect, Sam was playful and impetuous. And instead of encouraging his reserve and control, she flouted it, broke it down. An attachment to such a woman would be unwise; therefore, it was unthinkable. Judging by his behavior the other night at the King’s Arms, if he was foolish enough to fall in love with Sam, he would be doomed to live a goodly portion of his life spinning out of control.

  No, that would never do.

  Besides, he was honor-bound to Charlotte Batsford. His particular attentions to her could not be construed in any other light than as a positive … er … pre-engagement.

  Mentally reinforced, Julian turned around and looked at Genevieve. “I repeat … I will make sure Samantha is well and happily married, but not to me.