Andrew: Lord of Despair (The Lonely Lords)

by Grace Burrowes

  For a long moment, they lay together, warm and spent, breathing in counterpoint. Then the baby fluttered, and Andrew recalled himself enough to roll them, so Astrid straddled him.

  “Married life with you has a certain appeal,” Astrid said a few moments later, sliding down to rest on his chest. “If that didn’t wake the baby, nothing will.” She commenced drawing a picture with her index finger on his chest. “May I ask you something, Husband?”

  Husband. “Yes, love?” Though he had the right now—the legal right—to call her Wife.

  “Have you ever wished this baby was yours?”

  He wasn’t quick enough to cover a pause in his breathing or a momentary stillness of his hands on her back. The pain of her question was all the more brutal for being unexpected. Completely, hopelessly unexpected.

  “You don’t,” she supplied, disgruntled. Her pointy little chin settled against his sternum. “Do you mind if I wish this were your baby?”

  “Sweet lady, it is your wedding day, and you should be free to wish anything your heart desires. The baby is not mine in a biological sense, but the child will be mine to love and protect.”

  He kissed her temple, wishing he’d been able to see her face as he made his declaration. His words were a vow to treat this child as his own, and he hoped she understood them as such. He would protect her baby with his life; he would protect her with his life. As she leaned up to kiss him gently on the lips, he offered up a prayer that he would never have to.

  ***

  “Douglas, I do not understand,” Lady Amery said, wringing a damp handkerchief between her fingers. “I simply do not understand why dear Astrid would leave us like this. Did you frighten her? You can be so very stern, you know. Not like dear Herbert, or dear Henry.”

  Dear Henry shot Douglas a look of fraternal sympathy. “I think what Douglas is trying to say, Mother, is that Astrid is young, she misses Herbert, and she’s overwrought with the strain of expecting Herbert’s heir. She has run off and married Greymoor as a consequence, and we can do little about it.”

  Henry’s ubiquitous grin was singularly not in evidence, which was fortunate for the state of Douglas’s nerves.

  “I know she’s young, Henry,” Lady Amery retorted. “But if she’s so young, how could she just up and marry that man without anybody’s permission?”

  When he wanted to snap at someone to put some damned coal on the damned miserly fire dying on the damned filthy andirons, Douglas waded back into this most pointless discussion.

  “She has achieved her majority, Mother, though barely. Unless I can prove the ceremony was a fraud, or Astrid did not consent to the marriage, our hands are tied.” He’d consulted both solicitors and barristers on the matter, and had been politely prevented from consulting an expert in ecclesiastical law in the See of the Bishop of London. The Marquess of Heathgate’s influence being what it was, that last was disappointing but not surprising.

  His mother wagged a finger at him. “Douglas, this will not do. This will not do at all. If you brother were alive, he’d know what to do.”

  Oh, quite. If his bloody saint of a brother were alive, Astrid Allen would be sitting on her adorable fundament, waiting placidly to bear Herbert his precious heir while Herbert finished bankrupting the family with his horses and his whores.

  Which sentiment was not permitted to disturb the look of patient concern Douglas had affixed to his countenance.

  “The best thing you could do, Mother, is write Astrid a cordial note congratulating her on her nuptials and asking when you might call on her to offer your felicitations. I will journey out to Enfield when she and Greymoor are in residence there, and you can be sure I will make pointed inquiries as to Greymoor’s fitness to raise this child.”

  “Raise this child?” Lady Amery’s voice approached a shriek. “But the child is Herbert’s heir. Of course the child won’t be raised by Greymoor. We’re the child’s family, aren’t we?”

  “Of course we are,” Henry assured her, taking her arm and leading her toward the door of the sitting room. “You must do as Douglas says, Mother, and write Lady Greymoor the most sincere, warmhearted congratulatory note you can. We’ll have a pot of tea sent up to settle your nerves.”

  Henry held the door for her, then stepped back and let it swing solidly shut as his mother asked, “Lady Greymoor? Who on earth…?”

  Henry nearly sprinted to the decanter. “I do not envy you, Douglas. Not one bit, not one iota. And you are going to join me in a drink.”

  “I suppose I will at that.” Fortunately, they were in the house Astrid had recently vacated. The decent spirits were still on display.

  “So what didn’t you tell our good mother?” Henry asked as he found a seat in a cushioned chair, drink in hand. “This marriage is more than a sudden affection between family members.”

  Douglas took a seat in the chair opposite Henry’s before speaking, choosing his words and resenting the burden of even that effort.

  “Our dear Astrid ingested poison some time this morning after Mother left for her calls and the housekeeper went to do the marketing. Greymoor happened along, just why or when we do not know, and found her in distress. Greymoor had the presence of mind to summon Dr. DuPont, who has assured me that without intervention, the situation could have been fatal to mother and child both.”

  Henry flicked a bit of hay off his sleeve onto the carpet. “Good God. Somebody is trying to kill us off one by one. Let’s not tell Mother, shall we?”

  “I must conclude, Henry, that Herbert’s accident and this accident are just that—accidents,” Douglas said as he poured himself a small measure of brandy. “Guns misfire, ladies occasionally tumble down steps, and food can go bad in any household. Viscount Fairly, however, paid a call on me this afternoon to ensure I understand that he, Heathgate, and Greymoor do not share my opinion on the matter.”

  For once, Henry was not tossing back his drink as if they could afford an endless supply. “Douglas, what do you mean?”

  “Whether they are simply being prudent, or whether Astrid has embellished an hysterical tale, her Alexander and Worthington relations suspect I am trying to murder her, and, of course, the child who will bear the title in my stead.”

  Douglas tried to keep the indignation from his tone, but really, that all three of Astrid’s titled relations should leap to such a conclusion so quickly was… disappointing.

  “Of all the nerve,” Henry spat, getting up to pace. “As if you ever had designs on the title! Perhaps Greymoor poisoned her, and now she’s gone and married him. God above, what would Herbert say if he could see this mess?”

  Herbert would have rung for more brandy, or gone to visit his mistress, and whiled away the rest of the day visiting with the lads at Tatt’s. If in the grip of a rare bout of perspicacity, he might then have caught a packet for Calais.

  “There’s more, Henry,” Douglas said. “Our dear brother was dipping heavily into the part of Astrid’s dowry that had been set aside for her widow’s portion. He all but obliterated it, and while I myself made Astrid aware of the situation, Fairly has learned of it too.”

  Which meant Heathgate knew, as did Greymoor. What a cheerful state of affairs.

  Henry did take a gulp of his drink before setting the glass down with a decisive thump. “The little snitch told him, of course. Why should she protect the dignity of the Allens, after all? She was only my brother’s choice of bride, and that couldn’t have meant much to her, given today’s developments.”

  Douglas, initially heartened by Henry’s indignation, nevertheless again heard that one off word: my brother’s choice… Not our brother’s choice. This display of righteousness on Henry’s part was not for Douglas, who was being accused of attempted murder; it was for Herbert, who had been a good-natured, immature, thieving, whoring wastrel.

  Douglas wondered why it should feel good to admit t
hat even in the privacy of his thoughts while Henry railed on against perfidious women with too many overbearing, titled relations.

  Douglas interrupted when Henry paused to refresh his drink, “I will make inquiries regarding Greymoor’s background in preparation for bringing suit to be appointed guardian of Astrid’s child, assuming it’s a boy, of course.”

  “You don’t want guardianship of a girl? Even a daughter would be Herbert’s child. Mother will feel very strongly about that.”

  “Of course, I would like to be guardian of Herbert’s daughter,” Douglas replied with the very last of his patience, “but lawsuits are scandalous and expensive and one must be practical, Henry. The primary reason for granting me guardianship of the child over Fairly, Greymoor, or Heathgate is so I might teach Herbert’s heir what is expected of him with respect to the estate and the family responsibilities. A female has no need of that education.”

  Thank God. And yet, gently bred females were deucedly expensive to rear. Douglas silently wished Greymoor the joy of the girl’s dressmakers’ bills.

  “You are up against a viscount, an earl, and a marquess,” Henry conceded. “I know Greymoor and Heathgate both cut a wide swath with the ladies until a few years ago, but then Heathgate married, and Greymoor left the country. I haven’t heard a thing derogatory about either one since I came down from university. And that Fairly.” Henry shuddered dramatically. “In some ways, he’s the scariest of the three.”

  Greymoor was the scary one, showing up at the exact moment of Astrid’s peril, but Fairly was deserving of a healthy respect, too. “I believe Fairly would observe the rules of engagement punctiliously. He would give warning of his intent to strike, never fire at a man’s back, and never fire on the unarmed. The most dangerous one is Astrid herself.”

  Henry paused, his drink—his third, and before supper?—two inches from his mouth. “You could toss her over your shoulder one-handed,” he sputtered. “She’s a woman, I grant you, and the whole gender is suspect on general principles, but Astrid?”

  Henry would take convincing, but the effort was necessary. Methodically, Douglas laid out the reasoning that could lead a prudent man to conclude Astrid resented the child she carried and would take extreme measures to end its life. By the time Douglas finished speaking, Henry was reaching for the decanter yet again.

  “And to think,” Henry said dazedly, “my brother’s helpless child is going to be born to such a one as her, and we can do nothing about it. One wonders about the unfortunate turn of events her health took last year.”

  My brother, again, though Henry’s point supported Douglas’s theory of events far better than it did Fairly’s—and without Douglas having to bring up such an indelicate situation.

  “We’ll fight for guardianship of Henry’s son, certainly,” Douglas said, “and I’ll do everything I can to investigate Greymoor’s character. Meanwhile, there’s something you can do.”

  Besides drink the last of the good liquor.

  Henry stood straighter. “You have only to ask.”

  “You will be our spy in the enemy camp,” Douglas said. “Whereas I am suspected of attempting to harm the mother and child, you are not. Whereas I will bring suit for guardianship, you will be the bewildered younger brother, saddened by this terrible misunderstanding, and offering Astrid a sympathetic shoulder to cry on. She is fond of you, and perhaps, if the courts are persuaded by Greymoor’s money rather than my arguments, you will have secured access to the child that I could never have.”

  Henry finished his drink—there being no more left in the decanter—and left the parlor, apparently happily intent on his mission. Douglas, however, sat for an hour, watching the fire consume half a bucket of coal, and trying to decide for himself just what the purpose of Fairly’s call earlier in the day had been. Unable to come to a satisfactory conclusion to that puzzle, he then found himself wondering how much—how much more—he was willing to sacrifice in the name of duty to family.

  Twelve

  Heathgate scowled from his perch on the Willowdale estate desk, an unhappy raptor among the letters, reports, and ledgers of the marquessate, while Andrew wandered the room.

  “Gentlemen,” Heathgate began, “the morning’s post has brought an interesting epistle from Douglas Allen. He proposes to call upon me as a courtesy, given that my brother has married his former sister-in-law. I know not what to make of this, but I can hardly refuse him entry.”

  Fairly seemed amused, or bemused. “Douglas is a proper old thing, isn’t he? Either that, or he has ballocks the like of which I haven’t seen before.”

  “He’s up to something,” Andrew said, picking up a pipe carved of ivory that his father had favored. He brought it to his nose, and still, after thirteen years, caught a hint of vanilla from the bowl. “I don’t want Douglas anywhere around Astrid, but I expect he’ll call at Enfield in due course. I am considering installing Astrid at Oak Hall instead to prevent him from seeing her.”

  Also to preserve Astrid from the constant warfare between Lady Heathgate and Cousin Gwen.

  Fairly shoved away from his habitual post at the French doors. “I simply do not read the man as a murderer.”

  “That’s the difficulty,” Heathgate said. “It’s hard to read him as anything at all, he’s so damned cold.”

  Andrew thought of Moscow in winter, and decided Douglas was colder. “You two should know some things about the Allen family. Astrid casually mentioned that the old viscount had also died in a shooting accident. His sons were on the same shoot. My vote for the member of the party with the worst aim goes to Douglas.”

  Heathgate closed his eyes. “I am going to be sick.”

  Fairly, whose face bore no expression whatsoever, continued to stare out at the bleak, chilly day. “Why don’t we just beat each other bloody, Heathgate? I was the one who approved of the match, as Astrid’s older brother. Simply retching into the bushes won’t answer, when Douglas is the most likely party to end up as guardian of Astrid’s child.”

  As Andrew set the pipe back where he’d found it, the firelight winked off the decanters across the room, the gryphon seeming to laugh.

  Heathgate shoved off the desk and took a seat in the big leather chair behind it, the result being a sense of enthronement, regardless that two stacks of his correspondence were weighted down with silver rattles.

  He picked up one of the rattles and tossed it from hand to hand. “We come across more and more reasons to arrange an unfortunate accident for Douglas Allen. One can’t help but wonder if the world would not be an altogether better place for it.”

  Fairly turned, so his back was to the French doors. “We have plenty of reason to avoid the man’s company, though nothing with which to convict him, or even lay charges.”

  Andrew had been married one week. Already he and Astrid had fallen into a pattern of assisting each other to dress and undress. She watched him when he washed off the day’s dirt, and he watched her, too. He suspected she liked that he did, and more to the point, he liked watching her—somewhat more than he liked to breathe.

  “I’ll take Astrid to the damned Continent if I have to. I know plenty of places to bring up a child comfortably enough outside of England.”

  “It’s an idea,” Heathgate allowed, setting the rattle aside. “Felicity won’t like it one bit.” And anything that upset the spectacularly gravid marchioness would not find favor with her husband.

  Andrew did not like it either—because Astrid would see leaving the country as cowardly, and thus rebel against the notion, and because any trip to the Continent required crossing water yet again.

  And the idea of taking ship accompanied by a pregnant wife was a horror that, for Andrew, beggared description. Rather than admit that to anyone, he waited for Fairly to render an opinion.

  Fairly obliged. “Even if you could convince Astrid to go, do you really think Douglas would wav
e you merrily on your way, the Amery heir in tow? He’d find you sooner or later.”

  “Maybe that is the best option, then,” Andrew said. “Let him find me, posthaste, and we’ll settle this once and for all.”

  “It may come to that,” Heathgate replied, picking up a silver letter opener and testing the edge against his thumb. “But we aren’t at that point, because Astrid might well bear a girl child. Take your wife to Enfield, and we’ll see what Douglas brings up when he calls upon me next week.”

  Heathgate set aside the letter opener, swiped up both rattles, rose, and headed for the door. “If you will excuse me, gentlemen, I believe it’s time I reminded my marchioness of her duty to take a damned nap.”

  Andrew regarded the closed door rather than heed the siren call of the decanters. “We still do not know if Herbert was murdered.”

  Fairly shoved away from the door and crossed to the sideboard, where he did not pour a drink, but instead began organizing the bottles: griffins with griffins, dragons with dragons, and so forth.

  “I have the sense this whole business would be much clearer if we understood Douglas’s motives. One hears things when one owns a brothel, and there were whispers at the time of Herbert’s death that one of the Allen brothers has—or had—unusual tastes. When I delivered to Douglas the news of your recent nuptials, I all but accused Douglas of murder, and could detect no emotional response at all.”

  A lone chimera sat across the room on an end table. Andrew would have left him there, but Fairly collected the prodigal and placed him with his fellows.

  “We are back to Douglas’s motives,” Andrew said, “which remain known only to Douglas. Heathgate had the only sensible proposal at this point: watch and wait. Watch very carefully.”

  And the rest of Andrew’s plan didn’t bear repeating: spend every possible moment in his wife’s company, because once he was sure she and her child were safe, Andrew would have no choice but to leave her again, even if it meant he must once again face a sea crossing.