My Fair Groom (The Sons of the Aristocracy)

by Linda Rae Sande

  “And?” Lady Mayfield encouraged, leaning forward a bit in the settee.

  Alistair stared at her for a long moment, wondering how much to admit. “No one can know, milady,” Alistair countered with a shake of his head.

  Lady Mayfield straightened and regarded him solemnly. “I promise I shall keep your secret,” she spoke quietly. “As long as you send word to Lady Aimsley that you are safe and in good health,” she added with an arched eyebrow.

  Alistair sighed. He dared not earn the lady’s wrath – he needed the employment her husband’s head groom had granted based on the skills he had shown with a horse when he’d first queried the man about a position. Without a character, something he would need if he had any hope of gaining a respectable position, he would have to find less reputable employment, or worse, hire out to haul cargo at one of the shipping companies at the docks in Wapping. “I made a promise to a man who served under me. In the army.” He paused, wondering again how much he should tell her. “So, I sold my commission … I am responsible for his ..,” he tried explaining himself and finally sighed, holding his breath until he could lift his eyes to make contact with Lady Mayfield’s. “For the widow and children of one of my men,” he got out, his eyes squeezing shut as he made the last remark. “The money from the commission is invested, but the funds will run out in a few years.”

  Temperance Harrington regarded Alistair and tilted her head to one side. “Was that … all?” she replied, apparently not convinced his father would find fault with his rather generous charity.

  “I sold my commission,” he countered, as if that was enough to explain his father’s reaction.

  Lady Mayfield frowned. “And you’re using the proceeds to provide your soldier’s widow with an income?” she clarified, still not convinced it was enough to warrant Lord Aimsley’s eviction order.

  “Fifteen pounds a month,” he acknowledged with a nod.

  Temperance Mayfield’s eyes widened. “I rather imagine Lord Mayfield loses that much in a single game of whist,” she admitted sotto voce.

  Shrugging his shoulders, Alistair resisted the urge to admit that at one time, he, too, would have lost that much in a single game of faro. “The commission was all I had,” Alistair explained then. At her look of astonishment, he added, “My father will not provide an allowance, nor do I expect an inheritance.” Especially now, although he didn’t put voice to the last thought.

  The woman nodded her understanding. “And, how long is your … punishment … to last?” she queried, thinking that she might have to suggest the same penance to her husband should he ever again show disregard for his earldom’s coffers by losing money at gaming tables rather than spending it in charitable endeavors.

  “My father did not dictate how I was to make my way nor for how long I was to stay away. We were both …” He paused, not sure how much to say.

  “Irrational?” Lady Mayfield offered, one eyebrow arched up with her comment.

  Alistair nodded. “A perfect word to describe an unfortunate situation, milady,” he agreed with a sigh. “So, I find myself hiding in plain sight until such time as it’s … safe … to return to Aimsley Park.” Which might be never, he thought with a frown.

  Shaking her head from side to side, Lady Mayfield leaned forward and captured one of his hands in hers. “I shall keep your secret as I promised. But you must send word to your mother as soon as possible. I can see to it a note is delivered to her this evening if you can write one now,” she offered quietly.

  Shrugging his agreement, Alistair regarded her hand on his. “I … I have no parchment or quill …”

  Temperance was suddenly up and out of the settee, hurrying to an escritoire set against one wall. Caught off guard, Alistair stood as quickly as he could until she turned and waved him over. “Use this,” she ordered, placing a piece of plain parchment onto the desktop. “I don’t have a wax seal without an insignia, so you’ll just have to do without. When you’ve finished, fold it up and take it to the table near the vestibule. I’ll see to its delivery. I would take it myself, but in doing so, I would give away your secret,” she explained as she pulled out a quill and opened the inkwell.

  “Thank you, milady,” Alistair replied with a nod. He glanced down at the parchment before returning his attention to the woman. “May I ask … why?”

  Lady Mayfield regarded him for a moment. “Why?” she repeated, not understanding his question.

  “Why … knowing what you do about me, why would you allow me to continue my employment here?” he wondered, keeping his voice as low as possible.

  Seeming surprised by the question, Lady Mayfield gave him a brilliant smile. “Until last week, my daughter was bored to tears and a rather unhappy girl. Since she’s taken you on as her project, she has … blossomed. And become far more enjoyable to spend time with, I must say.” At Alistair’s look of surprise, she added, “Besides, she needs a refresher course in dancing.”

  Alistair frowned. “You know?” he asked, his surprise still evident. “About the bet, I mean,” he clarified.

  Lady Mayfield continued to smile despite hearing the word ‘bet’. “Oh, I didn’t realize there was a wager involved,” she answered coyly. “But I know my daughter cannot turn down a challenge. You’re a dear to indulge her.”

  Realizing he wasn’t about to be brow-beaten by Julia’s mother, Alistair gave her a smile. “Thank you, Lady Mayfield. Truly,” he replied.

  “I will leave you to your note writing,” Temperance said as she moved toward the door. She turned to give him a quick curtsy to his bow before leaving the salon.

  Chapter 21

  Lady Trenton Learns She’s a Grandmother

  Gabriel headed for the stairs leading to the second story of Trenton Manor, hoping he would find his mother in her usual haunt. He wasn’t disappointed when he glanced into the salon and found Charity Wellingham working on an embroidery. Her injured arm cocked at an odd angle, the widowed countess worked a needle through the hooped fabric with her good hand, elegant fingers guiding the needle.

  Gabriel meant to announce his arrival, but his mother raised her head and immediately abandoned the stitchery to the settee on which she sat. She was on her feet in an instant, her face beaming in delight.

  “My Lord!” she cried out, holding out her arms to her son.

  Smiling, Gabriel bowed before rushing to her. “Really, mother. You can call me, ‘Gabe’,” he chided her as he took her into his arms and held her for a moment. He kissed her temple before loosening his hold and stepping back.

  Charity returned the hug as best she could. Once released from his hold, she leaned back to regard her only child. “You seem …” She paused, not quite sure how to describe her son’s disposition.

  “At odds?” he guessed, thinking it was as good a description as any for how he was feeling at the moment. I have a son, he thought for the tenth time that day. That feeling of … he wasn’t sure how to describe it. Pride? Fear? Disbelief? It gripped him again in his gut, reminding him of the sensation of when he’d been punched by his father that day he had inherited the Trenton earldom. At least he could breathe now, though. He did so, taking a deep breath as he considered how to tell his mother his news.

  The countess regarded him for a moment, a look of confusion passing over her face. “I would have said, ‘happy’, actually,” she countered, wondering at Gabriel’s comment.

  Gabriel nodded at her assessment. “I am,” he agreed, taking one of her hands so he could lead her to the settee where her needlework lay in a heap. He carefully moved it to an adjacent chair. “If you have a moment, I wish to share some news with you,” he said in a quiet voice.

  Charity gave him a tentative smile. “I always have a moment – or a whole day – for you,” she replied carefully. “Something must have happened on your trip. Do share your news.”

  Having rehearsed his speech the entire ride from the Spread Eagle, Gabriel now found himself unable to simply tell her about the baby he h
ad fathered. “I was in …” he started uncertainly. “I met a woman …”

  Gasping, Charity raised her good hand to her chest, her face brightening. “You found a bride,” she guessed. “Finally!”

  Gabriel started to respond and had to close his mouth. Sarah hadn’t agreed to marry him. He hadn’t exactly proposed, though, either. He had merely agreed to pay for his son’s education. But certainly Sarah would agree to be his wife should he make an offer. He was an earl, after all. “Possibly,” he finally responded, pushing one hand through his curls. He was suddenly reminded of how Sarah combed his hair with her fingers, the nails barely scraping his scalp so darts of pleasure skittered over his head. At one time, her insistence at running her fingers through his hair had annoyed him. Now, he wished she could do it every day.

  “So, you’re courting someone?” Charity ventured, hope evident in her voice.

  Gabriel considered that option. He hadn’t exactly left Sarah with that impression, either. His expression obviously gave him away, though, when his mother sat up straighter. “You just need to speak with her father, my lord,” she offered, not realizing she had used the honorific again.

  “Gabriel, mother,” he corrected her.

  Charity straightened, more impatient than ever to learn who might become the next Countess of Trenton. “Gabriel!” she chided him. “At this rate, I’ll be dead before you make me a grandmother!”

  Staring at his mother, his eyes wide, Gabriel cocked his head to one side. With her simple words, she had given him the perfect opportunity to explain his situation. “Actually, you already are,” he said quietly, realizing her comment made it possible for him to share his news about the baby before he would have to tell her about Sarah.

  A myriad of emotions crossed Charity’s face just then. Confusion, disbelief, happiness, fear … Gabriel saw it all as his mother took in his flippant comment. “I have a son,” he said, having a hard time containing his pride.

  Charity Wellingham stood up so suddenly, Gabriel was caught unawares and struggled to stand up as was proper courtesy. “Is this your idea of a prank, young man?” she got out with a good deal of annoyance, her good arm bending at the elbow so her hand rested on her hip.

  Stunned by her reaction, Gabriel flinched. “No, milady,” he replied with a shake of his head. “I … I have a son. He’s six months old. He’s …”

  “A bastard,” his mother spoke quietly, sinking onto the settee nearly as fast as she had risen from it.

  “Mother,” Gabriel whispered hoarsely, pushing a hand through his hair in frustration. He had expected a different reaction from her, although, at the moment, he didn’t know quite why he thought she would be pleased by the news. She was an aristocrat’s daughter. Married to an earl and quite versed in all things proper when it came to matters of the ton.

  “One of your mistresses?” Charity spat out, tears forming in the corners of her eyes.

  “No!” Gabriel replied, frustration causing his brows to knit together and his face to look drawn. He couldn’t exactly tell her the mother was a tavern wench. And I don’t have to. She’s the manager of an inn.

  “Then, how do you know the babe is yours?” she countered, a hanky appearing in her good hand from one of her gown’s pockets. She rushed to dab her eyes, obviously embarrassed to be seen crying in front of her son.

  Reminded of his first look at little Gabe while the baby suckled Sarah’s breast, Gabriel couldn’t suppress the smile that now showed on his face. Dada, the babe had said as he briefly, very briefly, let go of his source of nourishment and waved a clenched fist in Gabriel’s direction. Gabriel was reminded of a miniature that had been painted of him when he was about that age, a miniature that sat among many on the fireplace mantle in this very room.

  He held up a finger as if to indicate his mother should be patient for a moment before he moved quickly to the fireplace. The dozen or so tiny paintings were carefully arranged in clusters atop the mantle, their gilt frames dusted daily by a housemaid. He found the one of him as a babe, looking every bit like Cupid incarnate, and plucked it from its place among the others of him in his youth. Moving back to the settee, he held it out in his palm as he took a seat next to his mother.

  Charity gave the painting a passing glance and returned her attention to her son. “What are you doing?” she wondered, the hanky once again dabbing at one of her eyes.

  Gabriel held up the miniature and regarded it with a grin. “He looks exactly like I did at this age,” he said proudly. “Like Cupid,” he added, as if he had to drive home the point.

  Rolling her eyes in a most unladylike fashion, Charity gave her son a shake of her head. “Every blond-haired, blue-eyed baby looks like that when he’s six months old,” she countered sadly. “If not your mistress, then who did you bed to produce the bastard?” she wondered, her disappointment still evident.

  Tamping down his sudden anger – Gabriel realized he was tempted to lash out at her for her callous remark – he took a deep breath to calm himself. “Sarah Cumberbatch,” he finally said quietly.

  Charity gave him an uncertain glance, her face a picture of concentration as she tried to figure out which aristocratic family included a Cumberbatch. “A baron’s daughter?” she guessed, a look of puzzlement crossing her face.

  Sighing, Gabriel shook his head. “She is not of the ton, mother,” he spoke, deciding just then that he rather liked the idea of marrying someone for who she was rather than who her father was.

  From the sound of the squeak that erupted from his mother, Gabriel thought he might have to locate her vinaigrette. But Charity sat staring at him in disbelief. “A commoner?” she whispered, her arms wrapping around her middle as if she might be sick. And yet, only a few days ago, I thought I would find that wholly acceptable, she reasoned, straightening on the settee. I cannot at the moment …

  “Aye,” Gabriel responded with a nod. “I met her on my way to London a year ago last December. She …” he was about to say she was a barmaid, but he caught himself. “… She runs the Spread Eagle, a small inn near …”

  “Stretton?” his mother finished for him, her eyes widening.

  “Yes,” he agreed with a nod.

  “Then she no doubt beds every man of means who spends the night there!”

  The words were so shrill, Gabriel visibly flinched. “Mother!” he countered, hurt that she would think the worst of Sarah when she hadn’t yet met the woman.

  Of course, he had thought the same thing that first late afternoon he’d spent with the blonde barmaid. She hadn’t propositioned him. He had been the one to suggest a tumble, thinking she was someone else. And she hadn’t accepted; indeed, she had replied with an apology because she was working and would be until quite late. Another tavern employee had encouraged her to accept his offer, though.

  Remembering back to the busy, smoke-filled taproom where he’d taken refuge from the sound of the creaky wheels of the Trenton coach, Gabriel thought her initial reaction was one of surprise, as if she were never approached about taking a tumble with a traveler. Perhaps it was because of the clothes he wore, the rich fabrics a testament to his wealth. She had probably never been propositioned by a man of his means, he realized. And although her initial behavior had suggested the nervousness of a chit who had never been bedded, she was soon enjoying his attentions, except when it came to his kisses, he realized. But then she was giving him every reason to enjoy hers. None of his mistresses had been quite so enthusiastic in their beds – at least, not with him. “She is … she is not a lightskirt, mother,” Gabriel said with a shake of his head.

  “She took your coin for the tumble, though, didn’t she?” his mother accused, her chin angled up in defiance.

  Gabriel frowned at her quick response, surprised the countess would use such language. “I left some blunt, I admit,” he agreed with a nod, his frown still firmly in place. “But …” He shrugged, not knowing what else to say that might convince his mother that little Gabe was his son.
>
  Charity stared at her son, her eyebrows furrowing. “Do you … do you have feelings of … of affection for her?” she wondered quietly, her arms still wrapped about her middle.

  Gabriel lifted his head to stare at the coffered ceiling. “I do,” he admitted finally. “And not just because she is the mother of my child,” he added as he lowered his head to regard his mother.

  Visibly flinching, Charity stared at Gabriel for a long time. “So, she is … experienced … in matters of …”

  “No!” Gabriel interrupted suddenly. “I feel affection for her because … because we converse easily with one another. Because she is pleasant to look upon. Because she is clever and smart and quite able to look after herself. She earns her living. She doesn’t need me to make her way in this world. Indeed, she is an orphan, but not the least bit sorrowful in her disposition …”

  “So, what does she want?” Charity interrupted suddenly.

  “Whatever do you mean?” Gabriel replied, his brows furrowing as he shook his head.

  “Why were you there, if not to supply funds for your son?”

  Gabriel continued frowning, wondering why his mother would think the worst of Sarah. “I went there of my own accord. I wished to speak with her about … about what happened in London.” When he saw his mother’s brow arch up in surprise, he added, “About what happened with Lady Carlington and …” He waved a hand in the air, as if to indicate he intended to speak with Sarah about everything that had happened in London. “Sarah is easy to speak with, and I wanted a … a woman’s opinion,” he explained simply.

  “And you couldn’t do that with me?” Charity wondered, a look of hurt suddenly on her face.

  Gabriel cocked an eyebrow in surprise. “I think not,” he replied with a quick shake of his head. “You’re my mother. I have no intention of telling you … well, never mind,” he said suddenly, clamping his mouth shut as if he was afraid he would admit more of his failings in London.