by Isobel Carr
“You need to take care of him. Keep him here.”
Gareth found himself momentarily unable to reply as his brain ground to a halt like a clock with a missing gear. “Are you mad?” he shouted, trying to be heard over the child. “Whose baby is it, and why the hell would I keep it?”
“It’s mine, and father can’t find out.”
“Father? The earl won’t care that you’d sired a bastard. He wouldn’t care if you had an entire regiment of them. He’s got one of his own that he supports. Even mother knows.”
“You don’t understand,” his brother said, chin jutting out stubbornly, just as it had when they were boys and being dressed down for some infraction. Gareth got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “He’s not a bastard. Or at least, I don’t think he is.”
There was panic in his voice. Panic, and something very close to fear. Gareth rubbed at his eye, which had begun to throb. “What the hell have you done, Souttar? He’s either one or the other. There’s no middle ground.”
“No one needs to know,” Souttar said, his tone pleading. “Not father. Not Olivia. If you’ll just claim him. Raise him. I rarely ask you for anything… You’ve got to help me. It’s your duty. He’s family.” He picked up the crying child, plucking it out of his coat, and held it awkwardly. The little boy sobbed anew, repeatedly asking for his mamma.
Gareth could feel his resistance weakening. He’d pulled his brother out of any number of scrapes over the years, and Souttar had done the same for him… the two of them united against the earl, deflecting his anger, protecting each other. It was second nature to do so. Even if, once again, Souttar’s needs were paramount to his own.
“What would I tell Beau?” Gareth asked in a bid to force his brother to understand just what he was asking.
“What would you tell me about what?” Beau’s question broke over the room like a wave, forcing the air right out of Gareth’s lungs. Gareth watched in horror as his brother’s eyes flashed triumphantly and his expression went sly.
The room went suddenly quiet as Beau caught sight of the child and stopped in her tracks. The smile slid right off her face.
Gareth could almost feel the anger whip through her. Beau’s head was up, her eyes wide, like a horse about to shy, or strike.
“It’s Gareth’s,” Souttar said, thrusting the child at him, nearly dropping it in the process. “The child’s mother died a few weeks ago, and he was sent to us by her family.”
Gareth ground his teeth, opened his mouth to contradict him, and shut it again as facts and dates spun through his head.
“A few weeks ago?” Gareth said with dawning horror. Souttar flinched. The boy thrashed in his arms, hiccupping pitifully.
“What does it matter?” Beau said, voice tight with repressed rage. “Through no fault of his own, he’s here.” She scooped the child out of his arms and settled him on her hip. “We can decide what’s to be done later. After such a journey, I expect he’s exhausted. And you two yelling at each other is clearly not helping him calm down one bit.”
She spun on her heel and marched out, skirts rustling with agitation. The boy watched them over her shoulder, his eyes the same familiar blue as all the men in their family.
“You bloody fool,” Gareth said as soon as the door shut behind them.
“I know. I know.”
“You married Olivia knowing you already had a wife?”
“No. I mean, yes, but…” He swallowed hard, hands opening and closing in frustration. “It wasn’t a real marriage. Not the kind with a church or a license. It was just a bit of fun one summer in Scotland. I’d forgot all about it.”
“Go on.” Gareth repressed the urge to cuff his elder brother. What kind of a man forgot he was already married?
“It all started a month or so after the wedding. I got a letter—well, you did, really—asking me to take the child.”
“What do I have to do with it?”
“I may have used your name,” he replied offhandedly. “Or at least, I didn’t use all of mine.”
“You may have…” Gareth took a deep breath, struggling with his temper. Fratricide didn’t seem out of the question at that exact moment. “You set up house with a girl in Scotland under my name. Abandoned her and your child. Married another girl—the only child of the Earl of Arlington, just to make it all the more disastrous—and now you’re proposing to abandon your son a second time, because it’s better to ruin my marriage than yours. Have I got that all straight?”
“It’s not as though it would just make Olivia angry. It would ruin her. Our marriage would be invalid. Mary’s dead. What’s the purpose of letting it all come to light now?”
Gareth barely repressed the urge to strangle Souttar then and there. “You’re perfectly right. There’s no reason to ruin Olivia’s life just because you’re a selfish bastard without so much as a shred of honor.”
“There’s no need—”
“There’s every need, damn you. We’ll keep this quiet. Between only the two of us. But you’ll sign something here and now pledging to support that child when it’s grown.”
Souttar stiffened, clearly not enjoying being dictated to.
“You’re taking away his birthright,” Gareth said, gripping his brother’s arm hard. “Instead of being the future Earl of Roxwell, he’s going to grow up as my bastard. You’re going to make that up to him as best you can, even though he’ll never know why.”
“He’s the son of a tradesman’s daughter,” Souttar said dismissively, as though that made the deception alright.
“My help, my terms.”
CHAPTER 29
Beau stormed up the stairs and marched through the winding corridors until she came to the suite of rooms that were devoted to the nursery. Everything was draped in Holland covers, and the windows were filmed with dust.
It hadn’t seemed a priority to get the nursery in order. She still couldn’t quite wrap her head around the idea that it was now, even with a squirming little boy in her arms.
She flipped the cover back from a chair and sat down hard, legs nearly giving out from under her. The child pulled out of her arms and worked his way to the floor. “Want mamma,” he said decisively, his forehead puckered with confusion.
“I’m sure you do, moppet. But mamma isn’t here.” Beau pulled her handkerchief from her pocket and wiped his runny nose. She looked around the room. There must be toys somewhere. Something to entertain him with. She got up from the chair to explore the room.
Gareth’s son—Beau took a deep breath at the thought—toddled after her. She knelt down beside the window seat and lifted the lid. Inside, there was a very battered stuffed monkey, a box of blocks, and a broken leather cockhorse, just the head with a few inches of stick protruding from the neck.
She handed the little boy the monkey, and he clutched it to his chest, holding on as though it might come to life and escape. “Monkey,” she said, pointing at it.
“Mokee.”
Beau nodded. It was close enough.
“Mokee, mokee, mokee.” He said the new word over and over, wrapping his tongue around it. “Up!” he demanded, pointing to the window seat where she was now sitting. Beau lifted him up and set him down beside her on the unpadded wooden bench.
He was still snub-nosed and unformed in the way of all small children. It was hard to say if he looked like his father. But there was certainly something very like Gareth about the eyes and chin.
Beau let her breath out with a shudder. It felt as though there was a bubble behind her breastbone, and it ached. Anger, resentment, disillusionment, annoyance, betrayal. She could feel them all swirling inside that bubble. What would she do if it burst?
She’d known what Gareth was. A rake. A seducer of other men’s wives. A man who consorted with opera dancers and Cyprians. She had assured her father that she knew and understood. Had sworn that she didn’t care.
It was a very inconvenient time to discover that she did. The idea of marrying a rak
e hadn’t bothered her. Seeing him with Lady Cook—wondering if he still desired her, if he resented having to give her up—that had been painful enough in the moment, but easily dispelled. The reality of having her nose rubbed in his past on a daily basis was nearly impossible to choke down.
The little boy sat quietly beside her, monkey in his lap, as though he hadn’t the slightest idea what to do now. At least he’d stopped crying. Beau swallowed hard. She wasn’t entirely sure what to do either. It wasn’t quite the same as being left to play with her nephews for an afternoon.
“My lady?” Mrs. Peebles stood in the doorway, nose wrinkled up as though something stank. Behind her, one of the grooms was hefting a small, battered trunk in both hands.
Beau sat up straighter as annoyance overtook everything else. She was the only one who had a right to be offended. Mrs. Peebles could take it in stride, or she could give her notice. She waved them both in. The groom deposited the trunk, tugged his forelock, and fled as though he knew full well there was about to be a reckoning.
“Mrs. Peebles,” Beau said, using the same tone she would have when dealing with an overly familiar buck at the opera. “We’ll need to set the nursery in order. Can you send up something for the child to eat and one of the maids to look after him?”
“I’ll send Peg up to prepare the nursery,” the housekeeper said with chilly hauteur before sweeping out, her ring of keys jangling with every step.
“Well,” Beau said, addressing herself to the boy, “it appears that you may well be the straw that breaks the camel’s back.”
The child blinked, his large eyes ringed with sooty lashes just as his father’s were. “No camel. Mokee.”
Gareth stared at the cold food on his plate before refilling his wine glass. The meat had congealed in its sauce, the fat turning opaque. He’d foolishly thought his wife would join him. He’d held off eating, waiting for her to appear.
What the hell was he going to say to her?
He shoved the plate away and took another drink. Damn his brother. It was one thing to believe the world was your oyster. When you were the heir to an earldom, it was, more or less. But Souttar’s utter belief that none of life’s rules or England’s laws applied to him was maddening.
How could you save such a man from himself? How could you control the damage he did? Everything he touched was in danger of exploding in his face like a mortar heaved over a castle wall and just lying there, smoldering.
If anyone ever found out what Souttar had done, what the two of them had conspired to cover up, it would be disastrous. Hell, it already was for one small boy, and quite possibly for his own marriage.
He’d seen Beau angry, offended, upset, but he’d never seen her hurt. Not like she had been today. This was a thousand times worse than the day that they’d encountered Lady Cook in the park, and Lord knew that had been awful enough. Something vital had been crushed right out of Beau today. Trust perhaps? Faith that she’d made the right decision? And it was all Souttar’s fault.
Gareth finished the wine and went in search of his wife. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know where to look. He found her down on her knees on the worn Turkey carpet in the nursery, surrounded by open trunks, sorting through a sea of clothing, toys, and linens.
The floor creaked beneath his foot, and she looked up from her trove. “Shhhh.” She crossed her lips with her finger. “He’s finally asleep.”
Gareth searched her face. Nothing. She was carefully blank. Devoid of any hint of emotion. Was it mad that he would rather she railed at him? He stepped closer, careful to walk on the balls of his feet.
He looked down at the various stacks of garments. “What are you doing?”
“Sorting through all the things that Peebles brought down from the attic.” She shook out a small blue gown, its long sleeves and large cuffs clearly from an earlier generation.
“Why?” Gareth stared down at the clutter. Very little of it appeared salvageable. It was just the ghosts of children past, remnants of unknown childhoods boxed up and forgot.
Beau shrugged and shook out the next garment, tossing it aside when she found it badly moth-eaten. “Someone has to. There was little enough in the boy’s own trunk. Some of this can be made over for his use. It will at least get us by until more suitable clothing can be procured.”
“Leave it to the maids then,” he said, holding out a hand to help her up.
Beau’s shoulders stiffened, and she pointedly ignored his hand. She held up a tiny yellow gown and then tossed it into what appeared to be the discard pile.
“Really, Beau. We’ll hire one just for the boy. She can deal with all of his. With him. You needn’t bother yourself. In fact, I’d prefer if you didn’t.” He felt like a monster the second the words were out of his mouth, but it was true nonetheless.
Beau’s hands dropped to her lap, fingers clutching a small, padded pudding cap. She nodded her head, but she was biting her lips, holding them shut. Gareth looked away, sure she was about to cry.
“I don’t know what else to say, Beau. Come downstairs and eat something.”
“I’m not hungry.” She tossed the pudding cap back into the trunk, her head still lowered, face averted.
Gareth tiptoed back to the door. She didn’t want him there, and he had no desire to stay. He was unwelcome, unwanted, and utterly superfluous. In his own home. All because of a child who wasn’t even his.
“What’s his name?” Beau asked with a sniffle that clearly presaged tears.
“Jamie. James Gareth Sandison.”
CHAPTER 30
Jamie toddled through the ruins of the garden, trailing his leading strings behind him. Beau clutched her shawl about her shoulders to keep it from trailing likewise and followed him down the path.
Gareth had ridden out before she’d risen. Peebles said something about the master wanting to look over the oast houses where the hops were dried and stored. Beau had a vague understanding that the crop was valuable and had something to do with brewing, and she found herself resenting the fact that Gareth hadn’t asked her to accompany him.
Not that she’d given him a chance to do so. For the first time since their marriage, she’d slept in her own bed. It had been cold, and slightly musty, and she’d lain awake half the night waiting for Gareth to storm in and carry her back to his bed.
But he hadn’t done so.
Jamie tripped over his skirts and tumbled to the ground, his monkey flying out of his grasp and landing in the dirt. The boy lay there for a moment, quietly, before looking back at her. The moment he saw she was looking, he began to cry.
Unlike his pleas for his mother, this she knew how to deal with, having seen her nephews do the same any number of times. With a shake of her head, Beau scooped him up and put him back on his feet. She dusted him off and wiped away his tears with her thumbs.
“Little faker,” she said, ruffling his dark curls. “We should put you on the stage.”
Jamie blinked at her and then shook his head no quite decisively. One of the stable cats slunk by, and Jamie darted after it, abandoning his toy where it lay.
Beau picked up his monkey and shook it off. One of its eyes was lolling off to one side, and its rag stuffing was leaking out of a split seam along its side. It looked thoroughly disreputable, and like some child had likely loved it to death.
Before Jamie made it even halfway to the stables, the cat made good its escape by darting into the shrubbery. Jamie stopped and turned back to face her. His expression of confusion and consternation made the bubble inside her chest expand until her lungs felt crushed between it and her stays. She knew that look. Those brows. Jamie spotted his toy and ran stiffly back to her to reclaim it.
At the sound of hooves on gravel, they both turned toward the stable block. Jamie clutched her skirts and buried his face in them. Gareth swung out of the saddle and stood staring at them, disapproval leaking off him in waves.
Beau squared her shoulders and dropped one hand to stroke Jamie’s head.
The boy was here. Pretending otherwise was simply ludicrous.
Gareth’s expression hardened. Beau’s pulse was racing. Her knees wobbled. Whatever it was that her husband expected of her—wanted of her—mothering his bastard wasn’t any part of it.
After a long, pregnant moment, Gareth spun on his heel and marched toward the house, pale queue stark against the dark-fabric coat. Beau let out a breath that she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.
“Shall we walk down to the cliffs and look at the ocean?” Beau said, loosening Jamie’s grip on her skirts. The child didn’t answer, but he clutched her offered hand and followed along as she led him down through the garden.
It seemed simple enough when she looked at it dispassionately. All she had to do was acquiesce to Gareth’s command. Just let the servants take care of Jamie. Leave him upstairs. Pretend he didn’t exist. Pretend nothing had changed.
It’s what most women would do, after all. It was the sensible thing. But she didn’t feel sensible at the moment. Mostly, she was angry. Angry at herself for being so easily upset by something that she should have known was a distinct possibility. Angry at Gareth for being exactly who everyone had always said he was, and angry at the world in general for disrupting her plans so thoroughly.
As they approached the cliff’s edge, Jamie dropped her hand and Beau snatched up the leading strings of his gown, wrapping them securely around her hand. The tide was in, the water lapping directly at the cliff base.
Beau studied the spit of sand that twisted off toward the village. No sign of the shipwrecked dog today, just a fisherman dragging his boat up onto the beach.
The idea of writing to her mother for advice was risky. Too high a chance of the duke reading it also, and Beau simply wasn’t prepared to face down her father again quite so soon. None of her friends would understand, and if their parents or husbands found out the topic of her letter, they’d be furious and scandalized. The virginal daughters and young matrons of the ton did not need to have their minds sullied with topics such as surprise bastards and questions of how best to care for them.
