by Cheryl Holt
"If you would like to tell me," Harold responded, hesitant now, beginning to fear where this might be leading.
"She died in childbirth," Lucas said, finally getting the reaction for which he'd been waiting. The duke went completely still, not breathing, not flinching, simply processing. Lucas could almost hear the wheels spinning inside Westmoreland's head as he added, "Approximately six months after leaving England."
"Isn't that interesting?" Harold said weakly, not meaning it, and suddenly feeling as though he might become ill. Swallowing, he asked, "How long ago was that?"
"Almost five years."
"Then, I must beg your pardon," he blustered, "but I'm extremely confused about what brings you here. I assume it has something to do with Caroline's death, but I fail to see what any of it has to do with me...."
"Shut your lying mouth," Lucas barked, wishing he had the fortitude to kill Westmoreland then and there for what had happened to Caroline. Sarcastic, and intentionally wanting to goad, he used Westmoreland's given name. “It's a boy, Harold. Congratulations." Before the duke could comment, Lucas retrieved his pistol once again and aimed it directly at the man's chest. "He's four years old now, almost five, and if you say
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that he is not yours, I will put a ball through your heart before you can draw your next breath."
Harold ran his tongue over his bottom lip, his mind briskly calculating whether it was possible. Could he have left her with a bastard child?
Their affair had been exactly the kind he liked best: short and sweet, with no chance for lingering affection and no opportunity for hanging on after he was ready for the woman to be gone. Rarely had he been alone with Caroline, their handful of assignations so risky, their time together curtailed by her return to America. There had been so much more he could have taught her, so much more he had wanted her to experience.
But a child? No, it simply couldn't be. He refused to accept it.
If such a disastrous event had occurred, why would she not have written once she became aware of her condition? Just as abruptly, he realized that perhaps she had, but with the vagaries of ocean travel he had never received her message. Which was just as well. What could he have done anyway?
Staring down the barrel of a loaded pistol cast a definite pall over his usual assuredness. Prudently he began, "I'm not saying I'm not the lad's father—"
"Harry," Lucas interjected. "His name is Harry. She asked us to name him after you," although that wasn't entirely true. Caroline had never admitted who the father had been. Lucas had used a variety of threats in attempting to learn the answer, but she'd refused to tell, correctly assuming that Lucas would want to exact revenge against the man who had compromised her while she had been so far from home and away from the protection of her two older brothers.
On her deathbed, with practically her last breath, she had requested that her male babe be named Harold and referred to as Harry, but she had not explained why. It was only years later, when Lucas had come across the letter she'd written but never sent, that he had discovered his nephew's paternity.
"Well..." Harold murmured, for once at a loss for words.
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They glared at each other angrily, neither willing to be the first to look away, and Harold had to suppress a surge of admiration for the reckless American. Few men of his acquaintance were brave enough to challenge him in such a fashion.
Pendleton was either immensely courageous or completely mad. Perhaps it was a combination of both.
Finally Harold asked, "What is it you want from me?"
One utterance described all that Lucas required. "Recognition."
Harold snorted in disbelief. "You can't mean it!"
“I am serious.'' Lucas's finger flexed on the trigger. "Deadly serious."
"I have no intention of claiming the child," Harold insisted, suddenly feeling more bold. A chap like Pendleton, who was seeking a father's declaration for his illegitimate nephew, couldn't get it from a dead man. No matter how much Pendleton swaggered or prognosticated, he wouldn't kill the only person who could confirm or deny the allegation, and Harold wasn't about to confirm anything.
As far as he was aware, he had sired one other bastard child, a grown daughter named Maggie. Despite their rocky past, they managed to lump along rather well, but he still hadn't publicly declared himself to be her father, even though she was now an accepted member of society and married to the Marquis of Belmont. She'd been born years earlier to a mistress before Harold had wed, and if he hadn't gifted her with paternal identification, he was hardly about to take such a drastic step on behalf of this foreign upstart over a boy he'd never met and who hadn't existed for him until the past few minutes.
"And I think I've heard enough," he said, confidently coming to his feet.' 'It's time for you to go. I will never acknowledge the boy. Despite what you say or how fervently you press, you will never convince me that I am the bastard's father."
Lucas let pass the slight over Harry's birth. There were other, bigger issues to address, and the facts clearly indicated that Harry was a bastard. But Westmoreland was going to ease the
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lad's way. Lucas would see to it if it took every last breath, his very last penny. He reached into the pocket of his vest and pulled out a miniature that had been painted a few months earlier, just before they'd set sail from Virginia, headed for London.
"Look at that boy's face," Lucas said. He tossed the likeness onto the desk, where it landed with a damning thunk. "Look into those blue eyes and then have the gall to tell me he is not your son."
Tentatively Harold picked up the gold frame and perused the rendering. It might have been a portrait of himself at the same age. Still, he felt compelled to assert, "No one will ever believe you."
“We'll see, won't we?'' Lucas said, trusting that the unpleasantness would never become public gossip, that it could be resolved peacefully and privately. "I realize you would not wish to embarrass your wife and family with the details of Harry's birth. I understand your concerns. Therefore, I have no need for you to make any general announcements. I'm happy to handle it confidentially, just between us."
"You are mad!" Harold sneered, thinking now that the American was insane after all. He'd listened to enough nonsense and wanted only that the blowhard be dispatched without delay.
"Jensen!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, calling for his butler, but the man was probably far away, in another part of the house, and unlikely to have heard his summons. Harold yelled again, hoping in vain that someone, anyone, might come to his aid, but chances were remote. As per his standing order, he wasn't to be disturbed for any reason during this regular respite of quiet in the evening. No servant would be lurking outside the door.
To summon assistance he needed to reach the bellpull on the other side of the room, but Pendleton would never allow that. Harold knew he was already pushing his luck by bellowing for Jensen, but he hadn't been shot outright for his bald action, so he was greatly encouraged. Pendleton wasn't quite as ruthless
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as he was trying to appear, but he was foolhardy. He couldn't know how isolated they were, that rescue was improbable; at any moment footmen might burst into the room, yet he stood there, calm as you please.
"All I require," Lucas said, completely ignoring Westmoreland's outburst, "is your signature on papers I've prepared." His eyes narrowed in disgust. How he ached to kill the man that very second! But he had sense enough to know he couldn't, not when he had yet to obtain what he had come for. Later he could call out Westmoreland, exacting his final retribution, but only after the entire impasse was successfully concluded.
He continued. "You will admit that you are the boy's father. You will put funds into a trust account for him that will remain sealed until his twenty-first birthday. You will also pay the start-up costs of whatever business he chooses to undertake as an adult. Other than that, you will never hear from us."
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"Why don't I believe you?" Harold scoffed. "You're nothing but a bloodsucking blackmailer."
Westmoreland's volume was rising with each word. Lucas listened carefully, and off in the distance he could hear people rushing down the cavernous hall. Only seconds remained. "If you refuse to comply with my terms, I shall exact my revenge publicly." He leaned closer, pressing his thighs into the edge of the desk and adding quietly, "On your family."
"You wouldn't dare!"
"Wouldn't I?" Lucas asked. "I have not killed you today, but I don't think you should question my resolve." He turned toward the fireplace. It took up a good share of one wall. Above it hung a portrait of the woman Lucas knew to be the duke's wife. Lucas aimed and fired, hitting the posed duchess right in the heart. Westmoreland was so shocked that he gasped and fell back into his chair. From out in the hall came clamoring and noises, but Lucas didn't mind, for he was ready to depart. Reaching behind his back, he pulled out a second pistol and pointed it at the duke.
"I'll give you three days to consider your answer," he said,
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then walked to the door and opened it as though he hadn't a care in the world. Casually glancing out, he saw two maids huddled on the stairs, a third hurrying down. "I'll kill anyone who follows me," he pronounced loudly, tipping his head toward the cowering women and causing all three to jump. Over his shoulder he glared at Westmoreland a final time. "I'll send word on how you can reach me with your decision."
With that he was off and running, disappearing from the enormous house as quickly and easily as he'd come.
Frozen in his chair, Harold watched the blackguard go, but he didn't give chase as he supposed he should have. The room was filled with smoke, and his ears were ringing from the sound of the blast. He didn't know why the exhibition had left him so shaken. Pendleton had only shot at a harmless painting— one of which Harold had never been fond—but there was something extremely disturbing and violent about the act. Yet, Pendleton hadn't batted an eye while committing it, hadn't so much as flinched when the pistol banged and jerked so loudly.
Harold's knees had turned to jelly, and he couldn't seem to raise the alarm so that others would attempt to catch the lunatic, which was probably just as well. Pendleton was deranged, and heaven forbid that any of the servants come face-to-face with the madman. There was no telling what he might do.
All Harold could accomplish was to sit speechlessly, steadying his breathing. Many minutes later Jensen appeared, his supper interrupted by recent events, a napkin still dangling from his collar. Several curious footmen and maids fluttered behind him in the doorway, trying to see what had occurred.
On seeing that the duke was alive and in one piece, the short, squat, unflappable butler calmed himself, instantly halting while straightening his jacket by tugging at its hem.
"Your Grace," he said with a slight bow, his usual reserve firmly in place, "may I inquire, are you all right?"
"Yes, Jensen."
"May I get you anything?"
"A brandy, please."
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"Very good, Your Grace." He flashed a menacing glance to those +++peeking around him, and they scattered like leaves in the wind, then he went to the sideboard and poured, filling the glass nearly to the rim.
Harold took a long gulp, draining the drink in a single swallow, letting the burn sizzle though his stomach and instantly go to work on his shattered nerves. Severely frazzled, he rested his head in his hands.
Another bastard child! he raged, bemoaning his luck. Would they now start coining out of the woodwork?
What had been the Good Lord's reasoning to create mortal man with such overpowering physical needs and drives, only to leave unwanted children as the result? Harold was only human after all. How could he be expected to resist the luscious temptation offered by the Caroline Pendletons of the world?
He looked up, found the butler waiting patiently for orders. "We've had an unwelcome visitor, Jensen."
"I surmised as much," the butler affirmed, his eyes straying to the ruined portrait and back again without betraying a flicker of curiosity.
"Send word around to my man, Purdy. I absolutely must consult with him this evening. I need him to find information on an American. He goes by the name of Lucas Pendleton."
"I'll have the message delivered immediately."
Harold stared at the man's napkin, still immaculately folded under his chin. "That will be all," he said. "You may return to your meal."
"Thank you, milord." Jensen took a step toward the hallway before looking back at Harold with no hint of any emotion showing on his worn face. "And the painting, milord, of Her Grace. Should I have it removed?"
"Later."
"Very good, sir. I bid you good evening."
He walked out and the door clicked shut, leaving Harold alone with his calamitous, guilty introspection.
CHAPTER TWO
Penelope Westmoreland strolled along the rear wall of her father's dark garden. The air was moist and cool, and she suppressed a shiver—one that was not entirely from the cold— and pulled her black sable cloak more tightly about her shoulders. It was an exotic piece of fur given to her as a gift by a Russian countess, and she ran her hand across the soft nap, thinking how perfectly it contrasted with her virginal white gown and long, blond hair, making her flawless skin appear pale and translucent.
The meal she'd just eaten in her parents' lavish dining room had been a tedious affair, as she'd known it would be, so she wasn't certain why she'd gone to so much trouble with her appearance. Habit, she supposed, and she had to admit that she'd looked beautiful with her hair swept up on her head, the two ringlets dangling on her bare shoulders exactly as they were supposed to. She'd worn a new dress that had been expertly tailored by the finest French modiste in London, and it was styled to show off the newer, trimmer figure she'd acquired; her personal debacles of the past three years had caused her to lose weight.
Even her jewelry had been dazzling, all those strings and
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bangles and combs of pearls. The very finest, most exquisite pieces had been taken from the family vault just for that evening's special engagement supper.
No doubt about it, she had looked exceptional. Custom of a lifetime had required that she not appear at her father's table unless she was magnificently turned out. She had always been the wealthiest, the prettiest, the most sought after girl in the world, but not any longer, so adorning herself meticulously hardly seemed worth the effort.
At age twenty, and quickly marching toward twenty-one, she was well past her prime, far beyond those first heady days of her debut three years earlier, where the only thing that had mattered was what gown she would wear to what event. Those times of innocent flirtation and romance were gone, but how she wished she could recapture some of the excitement they had engendered!
As the only daughter of the Duke of Roswell, she had been fawned over wherever she went. Hostesses had begged her to attend their soirees, other girls jealously regarded her across crowded ballrooms, wondering which of the men they wanted for themselves might be considering Penny instead. And there had been so many.
The gentlemen had lined up, making marriage offers to her father, while she in return had passed her leisurely hours doing nothing more strenuous than having her skin creamed and her body perfumed, reviewing invitations with her mother, orchestrating her fate, and setting the standard in appearance and affluence that others could only blindly follow.
But that thrilling era was behind her.
She rarely went out anymore, because when she did, people laughed at her behind her back, pointing and sniggering over her plight. The women she'd grown up around, whom she'd always considered friends and admirers, weren't that at all. They were married, most having already produced the heirs expected of them, and they were ready to gloat, happy to rejoice over how far Penny had fallen from her lofty beginnings. A
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Where once on a Saturday evening she would have passed from ball to supper to ball and danced till dawn, now she was merely tired, distressed, and wished only to be left alone while she figured out what course of action she could take to keep the future from rushing toward her. With the ferocity of an approaching storm, her destiny was bearing down, and very like a force of nature, she could deduce no method for steering it in another direction.
Even though it was March, her mother had had lamps lit along the walkways so that guests could enjoy an evening stroll, but Penny had been the only one to slip outside. Many of the tapers had burned down, and they gave off just enough light to mark the path but were dim enough to provide her with privacy. An added benefit, the multiple shrubs and hedges shielded her from view from the back of the house. Still, she cautiously glanced toward it. If Edward, her current fiancé, saw her and came out into the garden, she wasn't certain she could be responsible for her actions.
"Oh, Father," she murmured, shaking her head as she recalled how unperturbed the duke had appeared throughout the wretched meal they'd just endured. "How could you do this to me?"
If he had his way, she would be wed in June, at last. After all the cancellations, the machinations, the plotting and planning, it would finally happen. Once upon a time she had truly believed that marriage to a gentleman of their social class was the one and only occurrence that could make her happy. Now she shuddered at the thought.
It would be her third attempt at making a trip to the altar. On the first occasion, she had been betrothed to Adam St. Clair, the Marquis of Belmont, the man she had dreamed of having as her husband from the time she was a child. Adam was more than a decade older, sophisticated, and worldly in every manner she was not. The proposed union had been a typical arrange-
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