“You said his name is José. They are Spanish?” Nathaniel asked.
“From Cádiz. She spoke of war, and finally getting passage to leave. She came here to find the boy’s father.” Her mouth pursed. “Her husband, she said. Well, it isn’t for me to judge. If a woman with a bastard wants to say her husband is gone or dead, that is not my concern. I did try to explain that this ‘husband’ would not welcome her demands, however. When the letters never were answered, I tried to make her see that.”
“Did she mention the name of this man?” Charlotte asked.
“Never. She was very mysterious about it. She let me know he was of good birth, like herself. She had expectations for service that exceeded the normal, if you know what I mean.” She shrugged. “I believed her own birth was high. She possessed that air that says so. She spoke English well, and could read and write it too. And she was paying for things with those gold links, wasn’t she?”
“How long was she here?” Nathaniel asked.
“About a year. All the while writing letters and waiting for someone or something. She grew subdued toward the end, however. Very melancholy, as if she was beginning to understand that she had been seduced and abandoned like a farm girl, no matter what her birth. Her worry was for the boy, of course. Not much future for a Spanish bastard in England, is there?”
Charlotte did not know what to think of this story. They had learned much, but really had not learned anything at all. They only had Harry’s own memories confirmed.
“Why did she leave?” she asked.
“I do not know. One day she took the boy and two valises and was gone. She left what would not fit in the bags, saying she would send for it. I never expected to hear from her, and did not. Paid a man to take her back to Southampton, I expect. I assumed she had gone home.”
“Since we found the boy in London, it appears not,” Nathaniel said.
An empty silence claimed the chamber. Three people slowly chewed the few details of the story.
“What name did she use?” Nathaniel asked.
“A false name, to be sure,” Jenny said with a very knowing smile. “She called herself Mrs. Marden.”
A silent quake vibrated through the room. Charlotte stared at Jenny, who did not appear to notice how her words made the world shake. Charlotte’s heart thickened. She looked at Nathaniel, desperate for reassurance that this false name did not herald a terrible disaster.
Nathaniel’s face had fallen. “Mrs. Thresher, I must ask again whether she ever spoke of the boy’s father. It is very important that you try to remember.”
Her brow puckered and her lids lowered, as if she sorted through all the memories. “She said nothing to me. I was a servant to her mind, of course. However, sometimes she would read to the boy, and I would hear them in here. She always read in English, using those books there, and told him he must learn it well, that he would have to be English.”
Charlotte did not care what that woman had read or not read. Her shock was threatening to become a panic.
Nathaniel rose and walked over to the shelf. His finger touched one. “Byron.”
“She did enjoy that, now that you mention it, but she read to him from all of them, and from the Bible.”
“Did you hear anything else by accident as you went about your duties in the house?”
“Well, she kept giving the boy airs, teaching him to be proud like she was. It caused a bit of trouble in the village one day with some other children. Seems little Joseph got into a scrap with some others, and he began yelling at them. Kept shouting the same word over and over while he faced them down. A fishwife who heard it later told me he had been shouting “Bow, bow!” Everyone thought he was imitating a dog, but I suspect he meant they should kneel to him. Quite the little king he could be for a homeless bastard.”
Oh God, oh God. Charlotte thought she would burst from the expanding horror. This Spanish woman had come to Britain after Philip died, after James had inherited the title. She had come with her son to claim the boy’s place in the household of his father, the new baron. James, how could you?
Nathaniel still stood near the shelf of books. She turned to him, frantic.
His gaze met hers. Warmth waited for her in it, but also resignation and sadness. You should have let me compromise while I still had the chance, his eyes seemed to communicate. For you I would have done it.
She wished she had let him. Oh, heavens, how she did. She cursed herself for her stubborn trust in Mardenford. She hated herself, and her willfulness, and even the hunger for passion that had lured her into trying to remove this final barrier between them.
“If you have the boy, where is his mother?” Jenny asked, her head cocking as if the omission of this fact just dawned on her.
“She took the boy to London. We have reason to believe she is dead five years now.”
Jenny clucked her tongue. “Was running out of those links, she was. If she wasn’t going home, she should have stayed here. The parish would have seen to her. We all would have helped even if she was a foreigner. London is no place for the poor. Odd for her to go there after a year.”
Yes, odd. Charlotte’s chaotic thoughts allowed that to penetrate.
“Well, if you have the boy, I should give you the things she left.” Jenny rose. “Not much, just a small trunk, and I’ve no idea what is in it. If you come with me, sir, I’ll show you where it is stored.”
Charlotte could only sit numbly as Jenny opened the door. When Nathaniel passed her chair, his hand gripped her shoulder gently. His presence at her side made her startle. He felt very big there, looming with strength and power of will.
“Do not allow your thoughts to run away from your rational sense,” he said quietly. “We really do not know anything for certain yet.”
That helped her battle the sickening shock a little, but not much. She watched him follow Jenny.
Yet. They knew nothing for certain now, but he could not ignore what had been said here today. What she, in her stupid arrogance, had demanded he hear.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
Dinner was quiet. Carefully so.
Charlotte’s distress had affected everything since leaving the village. A sword hung over them, waiting to fall. Nathaniel wondered if he could find a way to avoid that happening.
She did not eat much, and he could tell that her mind was working hard.
“You are correct. We know nothing for certain,” she said after the meal was finished.
He did not welcome her speaking of it. The man who desired a woman resented that she did not wait until tomorrow to broach the subject.
He gestured for the waiting footman to leave.
“Her use of the name Marden cannot be explained away, of course,” she added, after the door closed and they were alone.
“No.”
She raised her gaze to his and a spark of the old glare flickered. “So, it appears that my brother-in-law had one of those common, youthful passions after all.”
“Yes.” He’d be damned before he’d encourage where this was going. That particular road could wait.
Unfortunately, she did not agree. “Calling herself Mrs. Marden does not mean anything. A woman with a child would call herself Mrs. Something.”
“That is true.” It was also not the most provocative piece of information Jenny had given them. Charlotte had to know that. A woman too clever by half at the most vexing moments would have recognized the really dangerous information.
Harry’s mother had begun training him to be an English lord. The woman thought her son was legitimate. Which meant she had been secretly married and abandoned, or badly deceived.
He pictured the two Baron Mardenfords. He saw their eyes and their characters. It had not been Philip who misled Harry’s mother, he was certain of that. Philip would never be so dishonorable.
“You are unusually short-spoken tonight.” She speared him with one of those looks. “Do you intend to pretend today did not happen?”<
br />
“For now, yes. It can wait.”
“That is easy for you to say. You are not the one whose life might be ruined.”
“Nor are you. Even the worst scandal about this, and the worst resolution, will not ruin your life.”
Her face fell. Not my life, her expression said, but my happiness will be much affected.
Hell, he knew that. Which was why he wanted to delay this conversation.
She rose and slowly strolled down the table, skimming her fingertips along the tops of the chair backs.
“I should have let you think it was a fool’s errand.”
Yes, she should have. That had been his first reaction on hearing Jenny calmly describe her evidence. Look what your willfulness has done, my love. You risked too much in trying to be sure the bridge had no flaws.
“Well, you know the family intimately, Charlotte, and were very sure I would be proven wrong about James.”
She flushed. She paused at the foot of the table. Grasping the chair’s back, she faced him. She could not be farther away if she tried.
“You have to know now, don’t you?”
“I have not decided.” Not that it would matter. No matter what he did, he would lose something and gain little. If he retreated now as he had wanted to yesterday, he could not lie to himself. He would live with a gnawing guilt over Harry, if nothing else.
If he did not retreat, the woman facing him down the long expanse of the dining table would never forgive him.
Her eyes appeared misty. His heart clenched. She appeared very small behind the chair, and very frightened. He sensed that she saw both a possible protector and potential villain as she gazed at him.
Her lips parted.
Do not ask it of me. Not yet, not now. Let the decision wait.
She looked down at the table. He could see a faint blur of her sadness reflected in the polished surface.
He rose and went to her. She did not fight his embrace, but that sword remained poised above them.
“Kiss me,” he said.
She looked up, the tears still threatening.
“Kiss me, Charlotte. There is time enough for decisions and worry in the future.”
Her lips touched his, tentatively, as if she checked to see if their passion still had meaning.
He needed no more encouragement. He held her to a deep kiss intended to burn away any hesitance. She accepted and responded, but he felt confusion within the desire.
She tucked against him. She rested her cheek on his shoulder. He held her, tightly and possessively, waiting for a sign that the future did not start right now.
They shared as sweet an intimacy as he had ever known. That at least had not been ruined by this day.
Her fragility touched him. The impulse to protect at any cost spread like the primitive fire it was.
“Charl—”
Her fingertips touched his lips, stopping him. Her gaze implied a knowing of him that exceeded his own.
“I was only going to say that I am not a danger to you.” That was not what he had intended to say at all, but it seemed a fitting substitute.
She eased out of his embrace. Her glance toward the door made her separation seem inspired by discretion more than rejection, but it was not a distinction he would wager on.
“An honest man is always a danger, Nathaniel.”
She drifted away, from his hold and his body and finally from the room, leaving him to wonder if her door would be locked tonight.
She spent the evening in her chamber. Nancy tried to serve her but she sent the maid away, unable to bear the intrusion on her thoughts.
The meeting with Jenny had been disastrous. And dangerous. Oh, yes, very dangerous. Nathaniel would have to know now, no matter how much he wanted to delay a decision. A grave injustice may have been done. A legal wrong. Worse, Nathaniel knew the victim, had given the boy protection and friendship, and probably felt responsible for young Harry.
She rose and paced to relieve her agitation. She saw her home, and Ambrose playing on the carpet by the fireplace while his father watched.
She had been an idiot. So sure, so trusting that Mardenford could never be reckless about a woman. And if Harry’s mother thought her son was legitimate, it had been James after all. Philip would never deceive a woman thus. He would never compromise his duty that way. She knew he was honorable as certainly as she knew her own name.
But James? James? Dull, pleasant James? It was hard to believe. He was so . . . flat. No highs or lows, no secret valleys or lofty dreams. His life lacked drama, and his character was devoid of solidity. A scandal of this nature would become a ruinous tempest merely because society would be so utterly amazed.
Perhaps his want of distinction had been his downfall. She could picture him, young and unformed, a watercolor sketch traveling in a world of rich oil paintings on that grand tour. He would have been overwhelmed by the deep colors and theatrical lighting and dynamic compositions.
She saw him beside Philip, watching a fire dance on the Spanish coast, and women, exotic women, spinning around the flames in the night.
A sickening heaviness filled her stomach. Yes, he could have done it. Dull, placid James could have fallen in love and made an impulsive marriage if passion gave him the illusion of notability. Sensual excitement had a way of making one feel fearless and special. She certainly could attest to that.
If he had married on those travels, would it even be legal? Was there any proof? How big was the danger?
Big enough, if Nathaniel Knightridge investigated.
She muttered a curse so tightly that her teeth clenched. She damned her stupidity. He had offered to remain ignorant, for her. For the passion. But she had been so very, very sure she was right. And she had hoped . . . she had hoped they might clear the way for possibly knowing more than a passing affair.
Now there would probably be nothing more. Soon there might be nothing at all.
An unworthy thought entered her head. A truly sinful one. Could she dissuade him? Buy him off, at least for a while?
Possibly. Maybe. Not forever, but until his desire began waning. He had already offered once, and had come close again as they embraced in the dining room. She might strike a bargain with him. I am yours as long as you leave Mardenford and Ambrose alone.
Her face heated. It would be a type of whoring. With another man she might have seriously considered it, however, and armored herself against self-loathing with thoughts of little Ambrose safe from stain and displacement.
With Nathaniel, it would change every memory and turn a beautiful passion into something cynical and base.
She let down her hair and brushed it slowly. There is time enough for that decision and that worry. He knew it could not be avoided but he wanted to delay whatever it would mean. He waited in this house for the night to bring its silence and discretion, wondering if a new wall had been built already, one so high and thick that they could not reach each other.
That wall would be there very soon. Tomorrow, or the next day. Her heart cried at the certainty. She tasted the worry and unhappiness. Her eyes misted as she felt the loss.
Not yet, however. Not tonight, unless she insisted on laying the stones of that wall right now.
She realized she would not. She could not. She wanted the beauty and intimacy tonight. She wanted her fill of the pleasure and excitement while she could still have them without guilt or compromise.
A visceral arousal stirred in her, like a deep, erotic purr. There was time enough for decisions and worries, and duties and even honesty.
She added fuel to the fireplace. She did not lock her door.
He paused outside the bedchamber. The house was silent. Someone had left a window open somewhere, and the slight draft carried scents of earliest spring.
No sound came from within the chamber either. He gazed at the dark line of the latch, wondering if it would move.
She had blocked his retreat from Harry’s cause yesterday, and again tonight at sup
per. She feared the truth, but would not allow him to ignore it. Three times now she had refused his gift of silence.
He should be grateful that she did not use his passion in that way. He was glad she did not ask him to be other than he was. He understood the implications, however. She might insist he be who he was, but she might also barricade herself away from that man.
There was only one way to find out if she already had.
He slowly guided the handle down. It met no resistance. The door opened silently. He stepped in and closed it.
The room was dark except for the light cast by low flames in the fireplace. He was halfway to the bed before he realized she was not in it. He glanced around, wondering if she had left completely.
A small movement drew his attention to the fireplace. A chair stood in front of it, its back to him. A small hill on its top had tilted. He heard another movement, and a small, pretty foot appeared beside the chair’s base.
He walked to the fireplace to see if she had fallen asleep there.
She was not asleep. She sat in the high-backed chair, regally poised with her head against its back and her lidded gaze on the flames. She sat properly, straight and tall, with her knees pressed together. Her lower legs angled more casually, making an elegant diagonal to the feet tucked around the edge of the chair.
She was naked. Starkly, beautifully so. The light from the fire moved sensuously over her skin in a fluid glow. Her dark hair tumbled around her shoulders and the ends of long waves framed her firm, high breasts.
He moved to the side of the fire so he could look at her. The contrast of her nakedness with the upholstered chair’s dark pattern was very erotic. So was her boldness in waiting for him like this.
She could still appear girlish at times, but not now. Nor was the earlier vulnerability present.
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