by Liz Carlyle
Edward felt a rush of emotion; something cold and a little sickening.
But Kate and her sister were studying the book that lay open beside his gold pocket watch.
“So, if we follow this—” Fendershot was drawing his finger along a line of type.
No, let’s not, thought Edward.
“—then we see that Isabel married Baron Keltonbrooke,” the butler droned on, “and became Isabel, Lady Keltonbrooke, now his relic. Further, my lady, it is important to note that Baron Keltonbrooke was an only child—”
“Yes, yes,” said Miss Wentworth, leaning over the book, “but we don’t want to learn all these names. What can they have to do with Edward?”
“I’m merely explaining that Lady Keltonbrooke has no nephews on her husband’s side,” said Fendershot patiently. “She hasn’t anyone on her husband’s side. And she hasn’t any children, either. Moreover, she has only two nephews on her sister Caroline’s side.”
“Yes?” said Kate, her brows knotted. “And who was her sister again?”
“She was Lady Caroline Smithers,” said Fendershot, pausing dramatically, “but she married the Duke of Dunthorpe!”
“Oh, my God!” squealed Miss Wentworth, clapping her hands. “Is Edward a long-lost duke? Edward! Kate! How romantic!”
“Er—well, no,” said Fendershot, “but I’m fairly certain he’s Lord Niall Edward Dagenham Quartermaine, the duke’s second son.”
Edward must have made a choking sound. Kate had turned to look at him.
“Edward,” she whispered. “There were initials. On your valise. Those initials. Fendershot must be right. Mustn’t he?”
He shook his head. “No,” he said quietly. “Not … exactly.”
KATE WATCHED A strange emotion pass over Edward’s face. No, not emotion. It was more an absence of emotion, bizarre and a little chilling.
Indeed, he had been behaving more than a little oddly since leaving Taunton. She had not for one moment believed he had been asleep on the drive home. She had assumed—mistakenly, she now feared—that he’d merely wished to avoid Nancy’s nattering over shoes.
But it was not that. No. He had seen something. He knew something.
“Lord Niall Quartermaine!” said Nancy effusively. “It does suit you.”
“Do not call me that,” he uttered. “I was never called Niall. Nor do I now use a title.”
His voice was cold, and as absent of emotion as his expression. Nancy’s face fell, and she looked at him a little woundedly.
Kate drew a deep breath, and clasped her hands before her. “Well, Fendershot,” she said, “you are, as always, a marvel. Thank you. Now, would the two of you kindly excuse Edward and me? We will have particulars to discuss, I think, in light of this shocking development.”
The butler bowed. “But of course.”
Nancy opened her mouth to protest, then, with another glance at Edward, followed Fendershot from the room.
“This is not welcome news, Edward, is it?” Kate managed as soon as the door was shut.
Edward had begun to roam the room, which was not especially large. “No,” he said flatly. “I fear it is not.”
Alarmed at his tone, Kate followed him to the windows. Hands clasped tightly—too tightly—behind his back, Edward stood looking blindly out at Bellecombe’s formal rose garden, now bare save for those last, dry leaves that still clung hopelessly to the rose canes. His posture was utterly rigid, like that of a soldier, and the soft laugh lines about his mouth and eyes had hardened into something far more brittle.
“You remembered something on the drive, did you not?” Kate tried to sound matter-of-fact.
He did not answer. It was as if he had gone elsewhere, and could not even hear her.
“Edward?” Lightly, she touched his arm, and felt him flinch.
After a moment, he spoke. “You have been nothing but kind to me, Kate.” His diction was as flawlessly upper class as ever, but his voice seemed to belong to a different man. “And I owe you, of all people, an explanation. But it is to be an unpleasant one, I fear.”
She let her hand drop. “Edward,” she whispered, “Edward, please, you’re scaring me.”
He said no more, as if turning something in his mind. As if determining how much to tell her, or how he might soften the blow. “Kate,” he finally rasped. “Last night I lost my senses. I said things to you that I’d no right to say. I suggested things. I’m … so sorry.”
Kate felt a sort of cold numbness flooding through her body and into her extremities, and for a moment she feared she might faint, because the most horrific thought had just struck her.
“Dear God,” she murmured. “Edward. Please tell me you … you are not married?”
“No.” Finally, he turned from the window, but his eyes were soulless. “No, I have never been married. I was once betrothed. Or believed myself betrothed. But she died whilst I was in the army.”
“Oh.” Kate’s face fell. “Oh, Edward. I’m so sorry.”
He shrugged as if it didn’t matter. “Perhaps it would not have lasted,” he said. “She was young. And her family disapproved.”
“I … oh, I see.”
“I very much doubt you do,” Edward returned. “But that is neither here nor there.”
It was very much here and there to Kate, but she had grown a little frightened of the look in his eyes. She said nothing, and let the shoe hang.
“Your butler suggests I’m the son of the Duke of Dunthorpe,” he said. “It is true that I was born to the Duchess of Dunthorpe and called for some time Lord Edward Quartermaine. But when I was ten it was explained to me that I was not, after all, the duke’s son.”
“Oh.” Kate dragged in a breath. “Oh, Edward. That is terrible.”
“Oh, I think the duke rather relished telling me,” said Edward, the corners of his mouth drawing taut. “He had never been fond of me, for I looked very little like him. Indeed, I looked much like my mother who, I gather, had not the strongest of moral fiber.”
“Still, what a cruel thing to do!” Kate cried. “To … to tell such a thing to a child! And really, the law does not allow him to put you aside. If you were born to the Duchess of Dunthorpe, the law concludes you to be his son. One cannot simply declare a thing to be … to be not so.”
Edward shrugged, his profile harsh and stark against the window’s light. It was a dismissive, almost haughty gesture. “The law is one thing, and the practicalities another,” he said. “In the heat of an argument, my mother made the mistake of throwing my parentage in the duke’s face. And that, as they say, was that.”
“And that was what?” Kate whispered. “What happened?”
Edward turned at last to look at her—to truly look at her. “He told her to get me out of his house, and to take me to my father where I belonged,” he said calmly, “and that if she could not bring herself to do it, he would put the both of us out, and petition the House of Lords for divorce. And he would have got it, too.”
The feeling of cold and lightheadedness had returned. “And she … she did that? She took you from your home? To your father? But who was he?”
“Not a nice man,” said Edward, the words clipped. “Indeed, he was the sort of man, frankly, whose son should probably not be welcomed into your home. And beyond that, I would prefer to say no more.”
“But you are still the duke’s son in the eyes of the law,” said Kate, “if he did not take legal action.”
Something like rage fleetingly flared in Edward’s eyes. “If that is the straw your kind heart clings to, my dear, then it is a tenuous reed, indeed, that you grasp.” He thrust out a rock-steady arm, and pointed at the long library table. “I may well be listed in those fine, leather-bound tomes of your grandfather’s, but no one imagines me to be anything but what I am—the bastard of a beautiful but flighty duchess, and a vile piece of trash who was not fit to wipe the dirt from her shoes, let alone seduce her into his … into his …”
He spun away, back to t
he windows, pinching hard at the bridge of his nose.
“Christ!” he said. “I cannot believe this has happened. That I have dragged you, of all people, into this quagmire of filth.”
This time Kate did not touch him. “Edward, listen to me,” she said warningly, “this has happened because we had an accident—an accident which I caused—and that is the end of it. Moreover, I do not concern myself with what others think or wish to believe—”
“Well, you had better concern yourself,” he snapped. “If you cannot think of your own good name, Kate, you had damned well better think of your sister’s. She wishes to marry the rector, you will recall. And then there is Lady Upshaw. She has, what—? Two or three daughters in the schoolroom? And they are about to descend upon you within the next few days?”
“Edward, I’m sorry for all this, but your worry is premature,” said Kate, drawing herself up to her full height. “As to Richard, he’s a better man than to concern himself with such foolishness. As to my aunt, she’s not bringing her daughters, and even if she were, it is my opinion that carries the weight in this house. Do not for one moment think it otherwise.”
“Christ!” he said again.
“Edward.” This time she did touch him, but lightly. “Edward, do not fret so. Please. Listen to me. I’m glad your memory is returning. It will be all right. It will.”
But Kate was shaken. She could not escape the fear that her life had just changed inexorably; that it had just turned as brown and bare as the rose canes clattering in her garden, casting off the last shriveled leaves of autumn.
And there were still more shoes left to drop; Kate didn’t deceive herself. She still felt like Marie Antoinette with the guillotine cranked but halfway up.
Moreover, it dawned on her, too, that the house was no longer silent; that the sound of servants’ feet had begun to fly up and down the passageways and stairs. Surely Edward’s news had not carried far and wide already?
Suddenly, there was a sharp knock upon the library door.
“Kate?” said Nancy, breathless. “Oh, Kate. You had better come out.”
Kate spun around to glower at the door. “What?” she snapped.
For a heartbeat, Nancy hesitated. “Kate, I’m afraid Mamma has come,” she finally said, “and I think … well, I think you won’t be happy with her surprise.”
Kate looked down to see her hands were shaking. The weakness made her angry with herself. “Well,” she said with asperity, “you will excuse me, Edward. It seems my guests have arrived.”
“Kate.” Edward caught her arm, his face fleetingly softening. “Oh, Kate. We really need to talk further. There are things I must say.”
“I know, but not now,” Kate whispered. “I must go and deal with what will doubtless be but the first of Aurélie’s cock-ups. As to you, Edward, you’re our welcome guest until you wish to leave, so I insist you come, too.”
Kate strode into the great hall to see poor Jasper staggering beneath another towering heap of boxes that Nancy was helping to steady, and Aurélie warbling in her pidgin French while simultaneously trying to kiss Fendershot and Peppie on both cheeks, a hatbox dangling from one elbow and Filou, her flatulent pug, draped over the other. A huge red hat was perched upon a towering pile of inky curls, and trimmed with a black feather that curled elegantly backward, almost brushing her shoulder.
On the threshold, Kate paused. “Mamma fancies herself French,” she murmured over her shoulder, “but it’s mostly just a show.”
“Good Lord,” said Edward quietly. “She is your mother?”
“Remarkable, isn’t it?”
“How many carriages does she require?” He was craning to look out the door.
“Heaven only knows. Mamma hates the train.” Then, with a parting smile, Kate stepped into the fray. “Aurélie!” she said, opening her arms. “It is very bad of you to come early.”
“Oh, ma chérie, ma chérie!” her mother declared, flinging a hatbox wildly aside. “Alors, give poor maman a kiss. Oooh, how I have missed you.”
The pug oblivious, Aurélie swept Kate up in a cloud of ermine, eau de cologne, and dog hair, then set her away again. “Well, Katherine, how do you go on? Oh, ma fille! Your hair! What have you done to it?”
“Why, not a thing,” said Kate, wriggling from the embrace.
“That is my very point.” Aurélie’s lips made a pretty moue. “Oh, ma chérie, you look like a brown mouse.”
“Yes, well.” Kate forced a smile. “Where is le comte? Lady Julia?”
“La, somewhere!” Aurélie made an absent gesture over one shoulder. “Sir Francis wished to stop in the village whilst I brought on the baggage. But we are speaking of the hair, ma petite chou! In Paris, you know, the braids are all the thing, oui? Very high, very glamor— Ça alors, who is this—?” Suddenly, her eyes widened dramatically.
She had noticed Edward.
Kate stepped back a bit. “Aurélie, this is Mr. Quartermaine, who has been our guest a few days. Mr. Quartermaine, this is my mother, Mrs. Wentworth—and, er, Filou.”
Kate’s mother was a beautiful, almost fairylike creature with inky black hair and flashing blue eyes who appeared at least a decade shy of her years. Men always looked twice—often thrice—at Aurélie, but Edward’s gaze was inscrutable, and utterly without affect.
Aurélie’s eyes, however, widened even further. “Ah!” she said lightly. “Mr. Quartermaine, is it?”
“Indeed.” Edward bowed coolly, and brought her hand to his lips. “A pleasure, madame.”
Aurélie gave a light laugh. Then, before he could straighten up, she cut Kate a dark—and very knowing—glance, sharply arching one brow.
“Mr. Quartermaine and I had a little dust-up near the village road.” Kate explained. “I fear he took the worst of it, and was unconscious for a brief time.”
“Quel dommage!” declared Aurélie, her gaze taking in his wound. “And such a pretty man, too. Ah, well! It is time for Filou’s nap, ma fille. The road—oh, la!—you cannot fathom the filth! The fatigue! We have been mercilessly jostled. Oh, but wait! Where is Kate’s surprise?”
With a sly smile, Aurélie turned to look through the open door and down the steps. Suddenly on edge, Kate leaned around to look past her. And there he stood.
Dear God.
Suddenly, Kate couldn’t get her breath.
Of all the riffraff Aurélie might have dragged with her from London, she’d chosen Lord Reginald Hoke, Kate’s former fiancé? Of course Aurélie and Reggie did run in the same fast London circles; Kate knew that. And it wasn’t as if Kate didn’t see him on rare occasions.
She was always civil, and Reggie was always speciously fawning. It was a polite, two-minute charade. But this was different. This felt as if he’d come to invade her peace. The very sanctity of her home.
Well, she’d be damned before she showed even a hint of weakness—or heaven forbid, regret—before that arrogant devil.
“So, you’ve brought Reggie with you,” said Kate darkly. “Why, pray, would you do such a thing?”
“Ah, ma chérie, he misses you!” declared her mother with a huge, theatrical wink. “Alas, Reggie is much cast down at present. You will cheer him up, oui?”
“I will do no such thing,” said Kate firmly. “I will not turn him out. But if Reggie is to be cheered, Aurélie, you will have to do it yourself.”
“Oh, how wearying you are, Katherine! Reggie is an old friend.” Lashes aflutter, Aurélie set the back of her hand to her forehead. “Eh bien. Mr. Quartermaine, perhaps you might give me that very strong-looking arm of yours, and help to my room? And my blue portmanteau? I must have it now, for Filou’s blanket is in it.”
But Edward was looking more forbidding than ever. “Certainly, ma’am,” he said stiffly.
Just then, Reggie himself came through the door herding his put-upon valet, who was bent under the weight of a large, brass-bound dressing case. Reggie looked as sleek, slender, and satanically handsome as ever, and Kate wan
ted to backhand him in the teeth.
He espied her at once. “Kate, old thing! How famous!”
Left with no alternative, Kate crossed the hall to greet him.
Edward veered toward the mountain of baggage long enough to snatch the blue portmanteau.
“How do you do, Reggie?” she asked, catching his hands in hers.
“Katie, darling!” He kissed both her hands in turn. “You’re like water in the desert to me.”
Kate smiled. “Don’t trouble yourself to flatter me, Reggie; it is unbecoming to us both,” she said matter-of-factly. “I do hope your journey wasn’t tedious. How is your mother in Devon?”
“Very well,” said Reggie. “She sends her regards.”
“Lovely,” said Kate. “Now, may I introduce you to—”
“Good God, Ned Quartermaine?” Eyes rounding, Reggie faltered, his gaze going to the blue case Edward held. “Has Bellecombe taken you on as a footman? Or are you just here to gloat?”
“Reggie, don’t be an ass,” said Kate.
“How do you do, Lord Reginald?” said Edward coolly.
With a wicked grin, Reggie thrust out a hand. “Well, old chap, I see it’s true what they say. You never sit on a mere profit when you can turn it into a windfall.”
“No, I do not,” Edward agreed.
It was a strange comment. And how very odd, thought Kate, that they should know each other. Still watching Edward from the corner of one eye, Reggie returned his attention to Kate and, before she could protest, looped an arm companionably through hers.
“Well, old thing, how goes life at the family pile?” he said, once again blithe. “Walk with me upstairs and help me choose a bedchamber far from the Comte de Macey’s wretched snoring, won’t you?”
Kate pulled her arm from his. “I must greet the others, Reggie,” she said coolly. “Just tell Peppie where you wish to—”
Reggie shot her a darkling look. “My dear girl, de Macey, Julia, and Sir Francis are two miles behind,” he said, dropping his voice intimately. “Doesn’t our past entitle me to a mere five minutes of your time? Trust me, you will wish to speak with me before those three arrive—for they will be well acquainted with Mr. Quartermaine.”
