"Darrell," Richard smiled, taking Christina's hand for a formal introduction. "I'd like you to meet Christina, recently made my wife."
Darrell's expression immediately became a curious mixture of incredulous disbelief and, oddly, humor. "Your what?" he demanded in a loud, refined English voice.
"My wife." Richard laughed. "Yes, I'm a married man now. You, my friend, have the good fortune of looking on my lovely wife. Christina, this stunned gentleman is my good friend, Darrell Bradley Cole."
"Pleased to meet you, sir. Richard has said much about you."
"No doubt." His gaze seemed unable to leave her person. "Richard," he beckoned slowly, "I think I need an explanation—"
"You'll get it, but not here. First, I need an introduction to Lord Phillips there and then, then let's enjoy a mid-morning meal at the Five Crowns together. I don't know what I've missed more, you or your culinary dining experiences. Come!" He slapped Darrell's back. "What say you?"
Darrell's eyes still could not leave her, and he said in a strangely hurt voice, "Richard, I'm—I'm shocked; I don't know what... to think—"
Richard saw the explanation could not wait. He excused them both and took his friend aside and, for what seemed near a half hour, they talked. Christina heard little of it and cared less, for her attention was riveted on the carriage of Lord Winston Phillips.
Captain Shaw approached the carriage. A footman quickly disembarked and swung open the carriage door. Lord Winston Phillips stepped out and she gasped. Justin was the very image of his father; no one could mistake their relationship. Tall, nearly as tall as Justin and with the same commanding carriage, Lord Phillips seemed but an older version of his son. He had the same impressive features, the same dark hair and brows. While she could not see his eyes clearly from the distance, nor was he as broad of shoulder or as muscular as Justin, she felt she looked upon a love that she had thought lost forever.
She could not hear what Captain Shaw said but he must have gone straight to the point. Seven survivors only, no sign of the English prisoner, Justin Phillips. At first Lord Phillips showed no sign of emotion but he turned quickly, wordlessly away to hide what feeling he had. Like Richard then, she could not bear it, and swallowing her nervousness, willing her heart to slow its pace, she hastened to Richard's side. But Richard must have noticed as well, for he had already urged Darrell forward.
The incessant noise and bustling of activity seemed suddenly to grow louder, more frantic, as she waited. Darrell spoke briefly to the lord and returned quickly. "He sends his regrets but feels not inclined to receive introductions at this time." And at the very moment Darrell spoke those words the carriage took off.
"Oh catch him! Tell him it concerns his son and is most urgent!"
Darrell looked briefly at her and then the disappearing carriage, suffering a moment's indecision. He nodded, took his mount's reins, and mounted to take flight. Another wait. Christina tried to peer over the heads of the crowd to see if Darrell had stopped the carriage. But all she saw was the confusion of the docks.
Darrell returned in short minutes. "Lord Phillips awaits this news. May I?" he said, offering his hand to lift Christina up.
"Shall I go with you?" Richard asked.
She shook her head and Richard lifted her atop Darrell's mount securely in front of his friend. The horse moved slowly through the crowd until it reached the awaiting carriage. Lord Phillips stood outside and even before she spotted him, she felt—she could actually feel it—the intense scrutiny of painfully familiar blue eyes.
Strong hands fitted completely around her small waist to lift her to the ground even as Darrell quickly made introductions. Lord Phillips's hands seemed unwilling to leave her, and she could not for her life meet those eyes.
"You have news of my son?"
Her eyes shot up at the sound of his voice, that voice, a voice so similar to the one she had loved. She nodded, then glanced quickly to her sides.
He understood immediately. "Please step into my carriage. It's the only privacy I can offer at the moment."
The footman helped her ascend and she took a seat opposite Lord Phillips on a plush maroon couch. She kept her eyes hidden beneath long lashes and she, too, got right to the point. "Justin, sir," she said softly, "is indeed alive and, I think, well."
"I know that."
She looked up, startled.
"I know my son," he explained. "If there were any survivors, he is among them. And no matter what Justin insists upon putting himself through, he is always well."
Christina suddenly saw from whom Justin inherited his arrogance. "I see, she countered evenly, though softly. "My intention was to relieve your doubts, even grief, but since you have none..." She rose, but felt a firm hand stop her movement, gently guiding her back to her seat.
"Christina—may I call you by your Christian name?" he asked but did not wait an answer. "Do not fault me for confidence in my son's abilities. Besides, you have yet to tell me what happened. You, too, were a survivor, were you not?"
She hesitated.
"Have no fear," he answered her hesitancy, "I have not only a father's pride but a father's love as well. In all truth, I would easier shoot myself than go to the authorities."
What were you thinking, sweetheart? That once we were rescued, I would see you to some port, say a pleasant good-bye, as I ask for your lips for the last time... I think it would be easier to shoot myself...
Christina returned to the present and nodded, though this was far from the source of her hesitancy. "Justin is stranded on an island—the island from which we were rescued. Obviously he could not board a British vessel in safety."
"Hence he remains on some faraway island?"
"Yes. However, one of the survivors has promised to alert a certain captain in London to launch his rescue."
"I see," he said. "And is that survivor you?"
She shook her head.
"Is this person trustworthy?"
She paused. "In light of Justin's threats, I think yes."
She was startled again when he chuckled at this. "Tell me, did Justin's two ships go down in the storm too?"
"Sadly, yes. And only a handful of his men survived."
"So, he had already been rescued at that point," he seemed to say to himself. "Are Jacob and Diego among the survivors? His man Cajun?"
She was surprised by how well he did in fact know his son. "Yes, all of them, but Diego—" She paused again, then added quickly, "Diego died recently."
"I am sorry to hear that," he said solemnly, "but then I'm not. His illness was very trying for all who knew him."
There came an uncomfortable moment of silence. Christina thought to leave but suddenly she felt his scrutiny again.
And indeed, shrewdly observant, Lord Phillips was quickly forming his impression of her. The young lady's beauty was startling, her intelligence and breeding obvious. But something was amiss; he sensed her fear. Justin, he knew, had never fallen in love before but he'd have to have been a fool not to when presented with this. And his son was not a fool. He knew in just these few minutes, or at least felt, Christina was as rare a treasure as his own Elizabeth, Justin's mother.
"Tell me, did Justin let you leave the island?"
Startled gray eyes shot up to him. "I... I act on my own volition." She hastened to add softly, though with clear trepidation, "Your question seems at once impertinent and irrelevant."
"Impertinent yes, irrelevant, I think not." He smiled. "And then your answer is telling. Were you also acting on your own volition when you boarded Justin's ship from the Defiant?" he continued his questions. His answer appeared immediately in her large expressive eyes. "I see," he said gently, knowing his son was perfectly capable of such a thing. "But you did fall in love with him and he you?"
Christina could not fathom the intelligence behind such quick reasoning and was at a loss as to how to answer. "Please—" She rose, just wanting to leave.
"Why did you leave him, Christina?"
/> He watched the startling eyes fill with tears and then saw her hand move protectively across her abdomen, an unconscious gesture with women and one in which he—being the father of eight—was intimately familiar. "Christina—" He reached a hand to her but she shook her head.
"No, please. It's too late." She bit her lip, not thinking of the words that came unbidden from her as she left. "I'm married now. I'm sorry. Tell him I'm..." She couldn't finish through her tears as she stumbled out of the carriage.
Lord Winston Phillips watched her go, knowing he could not stop her. The situation definitely required discreet inquiries. Anything to prevent his past from being Justin's future. He only hoped and this with all his heart, that in fact it wasn't too late for his son.
CHAPTER 10
After lighting a warm fire in the nursery, Betty Mae Jones peered into the crib for the tenth time to make certain her young charge still slept. She smiled at the lad's sweet angelic face—a face markedly different from the little devil he was during waking hours. Only five months old and he was already into everything. She then set about finishing her chores. The supper dishes had yet to be cleaned and she had still to tidy the gaming room after yesterday's party.
Downstairs a huge bin of water in the pantry waited for the dishes, but the matronly lady first opened the front door and stepped out into the chilly night air.
"Beauty! Beauty!" She called her mistress's dog, his name tripping uneasily on her tongue. How can any mutt that size be a beauty? Still less than a ten-month-old puppy, the Saint Bernard filled the fashionable but regrettably small townhouse on London's west side and, la, she thought not for the first time, the miserable creature made her cleaning that much harder, what with his fleas and fur and all. "Beauty! Ye get in 'ere afore I feed ye supper to the cats! Beauty!"
That threat seemed to do it, for she first heard its bark, then saw the white and brown puppy lumbering clumsily toward the house. The dog climbed up the steps, wagging her tail in anticipation. " 'Ow is it our mistress loves ye so, I don't know," she complained out loud as the dog followed her happily into the pantry. "But love ye she does—second only to 'er babe upstairs."
Beauty barked at this, never bothered, though often confused by the old woman's tone of irritation. The old woman sounded mean but acted nice; she always saved a bone, always brushed her coat, and always kept the back door open. The old woman was part of the pack, as affectionate as their mistress. So why all the fuss?
"Don't look at me with those big droopy eyes!" Betty snapped as she worked the dishes. "I canna 'elp it. Ye 'ave more fleas than a blind beggar and ye fur's 'tis always fallin' on me clean carpets, it is. I canna ever get the house straight with ye and I like a clean house. I do—nearly as much as I like my one or two glasses of sherry a night."
One or two? The dog looked confused again. More like three or four.
"No sherry fer the likes of me tonight—la!" She shook her head. " 'Twould never do to fall asleep with deaf ears to the little master's cry. Not since this is the first night our sweet lady trusted us alone with the lad. No, sir..."
Betty continued to keep the dog company while she went about tidying up the gaming room, determined all the while to resist indulging her master's abundance of spirits. She had just finished dusting and setting everything in its place when she heard the first sounds from upstairs. "Hear that?" she asked Beauty. "Them be the first grunts afore he works up 'is wail. And my how that bairn can wail," she laughed, moving quickly into the pantry. She dipped the suckling cloth into milk, this laced with a goodly amount of sugar, and rushed up the stairs with surprising speed for a woman her age. She flew into the nursery and lifted her charge from the crib mere seconds before he sounded the infamous wail.
He smiled at her familiar face, second favorite face after his mother, and greedily grabbed the suckling cloth into his hands. Betty took her bundle to the rocking chair by the fire and while the little boy contented himself, she sang and rocked and talked. The little lad soon grew bored with the cloth and dropped it unceremoniously to the floor. With a huge grin he turned to amusing himself with his own voice, his favorite trick of making Betty's face laugh back at him.
An insistent knock sounded at the door.
"Oh heavens! Not another call for the master," she muttered to herself, having just watched the thick black lashes close over dark blue eyes. It could only be yet another emergency at this hour, she knew. Must be a full moon out tonight, she thought, rising from the chair to make her way downstairs.
With her charge hanging limply over her arm, she opened the door and she started. For a long minute the man she was looking at stole her breath. Handsome didn't quite do it, but devastating, frighteningly devastating. She might have been a country virgin meeting the devil himself.
Uncommonly tall, the man's imposing figure was clad in a wealthy gent's traveling cloak, the fold of one side thrown over a shoulder to reveal black breeches, boots, and a richly tailored white silk shirt. None of the fashionable frills. He had short dark hair and brows, dark eyes hidden in the light, and his sharply defined features spoke at once of arrogance and aristocracy. She took in everything at once, including the strange way he stared at her charge. She suddenly wished she had not put Beauty outside again.
"Good evening, madam. I've come to see Mr. or Mrs.—" He paused at the title, "Morrison."
His gaze seemed unwilling to leave her charge, even as he spoke. She looked past him to the mounted men on the street. " 'Tisn't an emergency, is it?"
"No, but it is urgent."
"The doctor's not at home presently, sir, and I don't expect him till near dawn."
"And Mrs. Morrison?"
"Oh, well, she's at the governor's charity ball—she was on the committee, ye know, fer all the poorhouses and all. This is the first night she left me with the young master—" She smiled at the babe, now sound asleep. "Ye can leave a card—"
"No, I'll wait," he informed her and turned at once to his men with quick commands. "It should be awhile. Cover the streets and one of you find out what's delaying that carriage. I want it here within the hour."
Having little choice, Betty stepped aside as the stranger stepped inside the hall. The house seemed suddenly to shrink. The man first removed his gloves and handed them to her. Her arms were full and just as she suffered the indignant thought that all in his class assumed servants had ten hands, he surprised her.
"May I help?" he said, motioning to the sleeping child.
"Oh aye, fer sure," she said, carefully placing the babe in his arms. She made a fanfare about placing his gloves in the decorative glove box, hoping he'd notice the fine quality, disappointed when he did not. His gaze was still fixed on the child.
Justin expected to feel something the first time he looked at his son's face. He had imagined he'd feel father love and joy and pride, and indeed he did; but what he had not expected was the intensity of these feelings and it shocked him.
This was his son!
He could not account for all he felt. Perhaps most surprising was how familiar his son looked to him. Just familiar. Familiarity that seemed beyond the fact that he was looking at his own face in miniature: the same dark hair and brows, the same shaped face, nose, and mouth. No, it was felt as though he knew him already and inexplicably. He thought of the Hindu's strange belief in reincarnation.
"Here, I'll take him off ye hands."
"That's not necessary. I don't mind."
Betty was quite suddenly charmed. " 'Tis a rare man that likes babes." She smiled. "Don't usually notice 'em till they start talkin'. Please, come sit in the parlor," she motioned.
Justin followed Betty into the parlor, and still holding his son, the questions began. "How old is he now?"
"Just after his fifth month."
"Is he small for his age?"
"Small?" Betty laughed. "I can tell ye haven't been around many babes. Why, little Justin might be eight or nine months for his size."
He had, of course, known the c
hild's name from his father, though actually hearing it gave him a long moment's pause.
Betty saw that this seemed to please the man. "May I get ye a drink?" she asked, adding hopefully, "Myhap some nice sherry."
"Only if you join me," he said, though still his gaze kept to the child.
This was most unexpected coming from his kind and she smiled generously. "Oh, thank ye, don't mind if I do." She returned shortly with two glasses of sherry.
"He looks healthy! Is he?"
She laughed again. "One has only to hear his wail to know how healthy he be. The little master keeps his mum on her toes, he does. Why, he's already crawlin'—if ye can believe that! Everywhere! And I've never seen a babe that demands so much attention from his mum. And I've raised three of my own."
"Really!" Justin exclaimed, pleased.
"Oh aye. 'E looks an angel now that he's asleep, but believe me, there's a devil in those eyes—"
"What color are his eyes?"
"Blue, dark blue, just like—" She stopped, mid-sentence to look at Justin with sudden visible shock. She suddenly recognized the man in her mistress's sketches, minus the beard and the long hair.
Oh lord...
Like all servants, she knew the secrets of her house. She had known her mistress's child was not her husband's. Not just because little Justin neither resembled the good doctor in either appearance or temperament, or even because of the separate bedrooms, but the good doctor, for all his fondness, showed none of a father's keen interest in his child.
Keen interest such as this man was showing.
"I better take the lad upstairs to his crib."
"Must you?" Justin asked, unaware of the change in the old woman's tone.
She nodded.
Justin reluctantly handed his son over to her and she excused herself. He rose to check on his men but on the way out, he spotted a sketchbook sitting on the window seat.
He could not stop himself. He knew it belonged to Christina; he remembered she was always sketching as she talked to him on the Defiant. He recalled, too, numerous attempts on his part to coax her into sharing her work but to no avail. In her usual self-debasing manner, she claimed to pursue drawing for her own amusement and "my works I fear are immature, drawn by an unskilled hand, and truly they could be of no interest to anyone but myself."
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