“The boy isn’t...in the way?” David asked.
“In the way?”
“New marriage and all,” he said. “I thought that perhaps you might wish me to take him off your hands.”
The words were casual. Almost offhand. And hearing them, Sarah felt the blood in her veins freeze, her entire body chilling with their threat. “What do you mean?” she whispered.
“Why, simply that you have had the burden of raising my son for more than four years. And now, considering the very changed circumstances of your own life...”
He let the words hang in the air between them. Sarah tried to decide what might have brought this on. David had never before professed the slightest interest in Andrew’s welfare, much less a desire to assume responsibility for raising his son.
“No,” she said softly.
“And if I insist?” he said, his voice just as quiet, his smile lingering about the corners of his mouth as he held her eyes.
“You have no right to insist. You don’t care about Andrew,” she accused. “You never have.”
“Every father cares for his child. At least you’d find it difficult to convince people otherwise. And Andrew is, as far as I am aware,” he said, his voice almost amused, “my only son.”
“No one knows he’s your son,” she said.
“That’s because you never told them,” he suggested. “Instead you fabricated some cock-and-bull fable about fostering him for a dying Spenser relative. I suppose you could provide the name of that relative, Sarah. If anyone should ask. Or perhaps some proof that the arrangement was indeed entered into?”
She couldn’t, of course, but Sarah was still trying to fathom David’s purposes in making this threat. He didn’t want Drew. It didn’t fit into his character to wish to be saddled with a small boy. And he didn’t care if Justin was good to Andrew or not. So what was this all about?
What was David Osborne about? she thought, answering her own question. “You want me to pay you money so you won’t take Drew away from me?”
He smiled at her again. “I’m simply telling you that I’m now willing to assume the responsibility for my son.”
“You can’t prove he’s your son.”
“Ah, Sarah, you are so astute. It would be very difficult to establish whose child this is after all this time. Especially considering what has been suggested through the years to explain his birth. Or should I say to explain why a spinster such as yourself would, after a prolonged absence, bring a baby home. There were so many rumors, I understand.”
“None of them concerned you,” she said. “Or Amelia.”
That was the one thought that had comforted her through the maelstrom of gossip. Rumor had pointed its finger at her as the sinner and not at her sister, who was, of course, supposed to have died and been buried months before the baby was born.
“But you and I know the truth,” Osborne said.
“A truth you can never prove.”
“You mean prove it, for example, in a court of law?” he asked innocently. “I suppose to do that would require documentation of some kind,” he suggested.
He was right, Sarah realized in relief. To claim Drew legally David would have to have some kind of documentation. Otherwise, she would fight him every step of the way, using the old gossip to her own advantage. Her heart, which had faltered when he’d mentioned the courts, began to beat steadily again.
“But I have that, of course,” David added. He reached into the inside pocket of his greatcoat and removed a paper. “The priest who attended to the baby’s baptism and Amelia’s death was kind enough to supply it. Don’t you remember? As next of kin, and as a witness to both, you even signed this.”
Sickness washed over her in a great wave. She had signed a document. David had told her it was necessary to have Amelia buried. Sarah had been distraught over her sister’s death and far more concerned about keeping the baby alive than she had been about any legal or even religious requirements. She had signed whatever David pushed across the table to her. Signed it, so relieved that he had finally seen to something.
“It’s all here,” he said. “If you want to read it. Or perhaps your husband sees to your affairs now.” She stood up, knees trembling, and held out her hand for the paper he held. Again Osborne laughed.
“I said read it, my dear. Not have it. I’m very much afraid I don’t trust you to treat it with the care it deserves.”
She hesitated, not wanting to be any closer to him than she already was, but she’d be a fool if she took his word for what was written on that paper. She might have let David trick her into signing this thing years ago, but she was a very different person now than she had been then. More knowledgeable about how one carried out business, for one thing. There were certain men whose word was their bond. Then there were others....
David Osborne very definitely fell into the second category. Trembling with fury, she walked around the desk and to the doorway where he stood. Exactly where Justin had stood when he had told her he was embarking on his trip to London.
“All right,” she said, her eyes demanding.
Osborne unfolded the paper he’d taken from his pocket and held it up for her inspection. It was exactly what he had said. A document verifying the baptism of an infant boy. Andrew David Osborne. Son of...
She took a breath. The names written on the paper were quite clear. Son of Amelia Spenser and David Osborne. And beneath them, equally clear, was her own signature, as carefully inscribed as for a schoolroom exercise.
“You don’t want Andrew,” she said.
“That isn’t the point, my dear. The point is that you do. That’s what makes a bargain, Sarah. If one party wants something badly enough to pay the price.”
“And what is the price?”
Whatever it was, she knew she would have to pay it. And then, remembering the enormous withdrawals that had been made from the estate’s accounts in the last few weeks, she wondered suddenly if she would be able to.
“I haven’t quite decided,” he said, his manner almost teasing. “But I will very soon, I promise. And I shall certainly be in touch, Sarah.”
Without another word, he turned and disappeared into the shadowed hallway where she had last seen her husband. And where David’s words still seemed to echo. I shall certainly be in touch.
Chapter Seven
“Are we almost there?” Andrew asked. He had been asking the same question at quarter hour intervals since they left Longford.
He could be no more eager to reach London than she, Sarah thought. After the confrontation with Osborne, she had wanted to get Andrew as far away from Longford as possible. Somewhere his father could never find him.
That had been her first instinct. Her second had been to seek Wynfield’s protection. This journey they had undertaken satisfied both. She hadn’t questioned why she felt so certain Justin could keep Drew safe when she could not. Simply because he was Justin, she supposed. And because she knew he was more than a match for her sister’s lover.
Sarah had come to the ironic realization that if Osborne did go through with his threat to go to court, Justin would finally know she had not betrayed him. Perhaps then the cold indifference that was in his eyes when he looked at her would disappear. And she wanted that more than she had ever wanted anything in her life. Anything other than Andrew.
And she could really lose Andrew if Osborne went to court. She had now had time to think about what he threatened. He didn’t want Andrew, not unless taking the boy was the only way he could get what he did want—what he had wanted from the beginning. As much of Brynmoor’s wealth as he could possibly manage to acquire. If Sarah didn’t pay whatever he demanded, he might very well take his document to court to try to recover anything that might be due to Drew as Brynmoor’s grandson.
She took a deep breath and smiled at the little boy, despite her anxiety. He couldn’t be allowed to know that she was so full of foreboding. She pulled him against her side and tucked the lap rug m
ore securely around him.
“We’ll be there soon,” she said. “Are you tired?”
“I just want to see him,” Drew said.
“I know,” Sarah whispered, putting her lips against the small head that was leaning on her shoulder. “I know you do.”
So did she. She wanted to tell Justin the whole sordid tale. To confess the lie her letter to him four years ago had contained. To tell him about the promise she had given her sister that had compelled her to write it.
Don’t tell anyone. Not even Papa. I could not bear for them to know what I’ve done. Poor Amelia. If David did what he’d threatened, then it would all come out. In the worst possible way. It would ruin Amelia’s name, and the very public scandal of a court case would haunt Drew the rest of his life.
And Sarah had no idea how the courts would view the claims of an illegitimate grandson. The rights of male descendents were always considered to be of more weight than those of females. The only reason she and Amelia were to inherit her father’s properties was because there was not a single living male relative to lay claim to it. Perhaps Andrew’s claim, in the eyes of the law, was as good as hers.
It was not, of course, that she would begrudge Drew that inheritance, but if her father died before Andrew reached his majority, as seemed very likely, then David Osborne would have complete control of his son’s money. And, more importantly, in order to get it, he would take control of the child himself.
Sarah didn’t care about the money, even though she knew what would happen to it in Osborne’s hands. But she cared very deeply about losing the little boy who had belonged to her since he was only a few hours old.
All the possible outcomes of David’s threat circled maddeningly in her brain. If Osborne told the truth in court about Drew’s birth, she might win back the love Justin had once felt for her. But she might lose Drew, she thought in despair.
Either way, Andrew would certainly lose whatever opportunity he might have had to escape the scandal. Indeed, it would be spread far and wide if it became a battle in the King’s courts. And if David won, Drew would also lose Justin, of course, who was, in his eyes, already his father. A far better father than the man who actually held that position.
“How much farther?” Drew asked.
“At least another hour, I think. Shall I tell you a story?”
“A military one,” he requested.
“I don’t know any military stories,” she said truthfully.
“He does,” Drew said.
There was only one “he” in Andrew’s small world. The man who was at the center of his universe. Sarah herself had arranged to put him there, so how could she allow him to be torn away? But if the truth came out...
Deliberately, she forced herself not to think about any of it anymore. Instead, she squeezed the small body closer to her side, resting her chin on his head and looking out on the desolate landscape, revealed through the windows of the coach.
They had been lucky that the roads were frozen, but not covered with snow. That had been a distinct possibility, and her coachman had quite wisely advised her against making this journey. But she had wanted to be near Justin if this storm broke over their heads. Not the snowstorm, of course, which had not entered into her decision at all. She was far more worried about the storm Osborne threatened to bring down on them.
“Then you may tell another kind of story,” Andrew conceded. “But make it exciting, Sarah. I’m not a baby any longer.”
When he had been, she thought, he had been her baby, given into her keeping by her dying sister. A trust and a promise.
“All right,” she agreed, trying to think of any tale she knew that would be bloodthirsty enough to keep him occupied until they arrived at her father’s town house, yet not give him nightmares.
“Once upon a time,” she began, and her voice didn’t fade until his head lolled, relaxed in sleep, against her breast. Then, again, all the permutations of what might happen if Osborne did what he had threatened ran endlessly through her head.
She had intended to go to her father’s house. And of course, she didn’t expect Justin to be there. He would be staying at his own residence in town. By the time they reached London, however, she knew that neither she nor Drew would be satisfied until they had seen him. That was why she had made this hastily planned and perhaps foolishly executed journey.
She had not warned Justin she was coming and could not be certain of her reception. But after all, she told herself, she was the earl of Wynfield’s wife. She had every right to present herself at his door and seek shelter for the night. She had not taken time to send ahead and warn the staff of her father’s London house that she would be arriving, so no one there was expecting her, either. It simply made more sense to go to Justin’s, where the staff was already in attendance on the earl.
When the coach pulled up to the front entrance, however, it didn’t appear that anyone was in residence. It took an inordinate amount of time to get someone to the door, despite her coachman’s determined knocking. Whatever transpired between her servant and the footman who answered those knocks, the coachman eventually returned to hand her down.
Once she stepped inside the town house, she quickly realized that although the earl had been in London for almost two weeks, he had done no entertaining, despite the holiday season. The furnishings of the formal rooms were all shrouded with their winter holland covers, and the house was so cold she could see her breath before her.
Drew huddled for warmth against her skirts as they stood in the wide front hall, waiting for Wynfield’s majordomo to appear. Her coachman assured her he had been sent for, but as the slow minutes slipped away, she began to wonder if she had made a terrible mistake in coming here.
Sarah heard distant, hurrying footsteps, and finally the earl’s London butler appeared at the other end of the hall where she and Andrew were waiting. It was obvious his clothing had been quickly donned, since he was still in the process of adjusting it. And it was in need of refurbishing, Sarah realized, as he came close enough for the lamp he carried to reveal the condition of his rather rusty black coat,
Of course, given the fortunes of the Wynfield family in the last few years, that should not be surprising. Her husband’s recent projects had, apparently, all focused on his country properties and their tenants.
“I am the countess of Wynfield,” she announced, and realized this was the first time she had had occasion to use her title.
“My lady.” The butler almost stammered his response.
“The earl is in residence, I believe?”
The man seemed uncertain about how to answer, and for a long time he didn’t.
“Is he dining out tonight?” she questioned finally.
“And is the earl expecting you, my lady?”
Sarah knew, of course, that Justin’s father and his brother had let their properties go to rack and ruin, but it seemed they had also failed to train their servants. “I’m sure that is none of your concern,” she said softly, her voice holding exactly the proper amount of censure.
She could feel Drew shivering. And after all, she was, as she had just claimed, the countess of Wynfield. However ill-run this household might be, it and its inhabitants were now her responsibility.
“If the earl is here,” she continued, “I wish to be taken to him at once. Then you are to prepare adjoining rooms for my foster son and myself. Be sure there are good fires burning in them and that the sheets on the bed are fresh and thoroughly warmed,” she added, watching the butler’s eyes widen. “You may direct our luggage to those rooms when they are ready. Then have someone see to the horses, please. We’ve had a long journey.”
Apparently, this was a tone the majordomo had at one time been accustomed to. His eyes moved quickly to her coachman, who was standing near the entrance watching the proceedings. Intending to insure she was treated with the proper respect due the marquess of Brynmoor’s daughter, Sarah realized in amusement.
The butler’
s gaze came back to her. He looked as if he wanted to say something, to make some excuse for his behavior, perhaps, but he wisely decided it might be better to simply do as he had been told. “If you’ll follow me, my lady,” he said.
Sarah put her hand on Andrew’s shoulder, directing the exhausted child. The lamp the earl’s butler carried wavered before them, almost the only light in the house. The central staircase, beautifully designed, was dimly revealed as they followed him. It was not quite dark enough, however, to hide the stains and signs of wear on its faded carpet.
There was no noise but their footsteps. Not even the subtle whispers of sound produced by a large below-stairs population. Such sounds were so familiar to the inhabitants of a great house like this that they usually went unnoticed. Unless one listened for some indication of the servants’ activity, as Sarah did now.
There was nothing of that evident here. No cheerful blaze of wax tapers. No warmth from the enormous fireplaces that would be found in almost every room. No rushing maids and footmen called to see to the needs of the earl’s guests. Sarah decided very quickly that a more dismal dwelling it had never been her misfortune to enter.
Still the lamp ahead of them climbed. One flight and then a second before he led them down a dark hall. There could be nothing on this floor but bedchambers, Sarah thought. Surely the man had not misunderstood her instructions, deliberately or otherwise. She had clearly asked to be conveyed to the earl.
Just as she was about to protest, he raised his hand to knock on a door. It moved backward before he could carry out that action, exposing the figure of Justin’s valet. Peters had obviously been about to leave the chamber, but confronting the earl’s unexpected guests, he stopped in the doorway, mouth dropping open at the sight of Sarah.
The butler’s fist, raised to knock, slowly lowered and then fell back to his side. After a heartbeat or two, the valet pulled the door closed behind him. He stood in front of it, the gesture almost protective.
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