by Holt, Cheryl
He forced himself to breathe, forced himself not to collapse in a stunned heap.
“Did you hurt your hand when you smacked him?” he asked.
“Just a little.”
Hayden extended his own hand, showing her his bruised knuckles from when he’d walloped Jasper. They shared an identical, conspiratorial grin.
“I don’t usually hit people,” Hayden said, “but sometimes they make me so mad.”
“Me too.” She nodded, seeming wise beyond her years. “Are you a ghost?”
He shook his head. “No.”
“Who are you then?”
He didn’t answer, but instead inquired, “Who are you?”
“Millie Wallace.”
“Who is your sister?”
“Mary Wallace.”
“How old are you?”
“Nine. Mary is nine too. We’re twins.”
“I heard you quarreling with those boys. You told them your father was Hayden Henley.”
“He was Hayden Henley.” She tensed and bristled. “Don’t call me a liar!”
“I won’t, but why is your surname Wallace? Why not Henley?”
“Alex was married to my mother, but she didn’t love him. She loved Hayden Henley. He was Lord Henley, Viscount Henley, and she ordered us to never forget that he was our father.” Stoically, she murmured, “And we never have.”
“You live with Alex Wallace?”
“Yes, he’s our father too. We have two fathers.”
“What about your Aunt Abigail? Why is she here?”
“Our mother—our real mother—moved to America, so Abigail is our mother now.”
“I see…”
His pulse was pounding at such a fast clip that he wondered if his heart might not simply explode out of his chest.
When he’d been in Italy, struggling to recuperate from being wounded in the duel, he’d constantly clashed with his parents. He’d been bitter over their whisking him out of England.
It had made him look guilty, as if he was in the wrong, when he didn’t feel he should have been blamed for any offense. He’d dallied with a pretty doxy who’d turned out to be wed to a lunatic. His honor had been at stake, and back then, honor had seemed so important. It had seemed worth fighting and dying over.
During a particularly scathing discussion with his mother, she’d advised him that she’d received news from a friend in London that Eugenia Wallace had lost her baby. He’d never questioned the story, but why hadn’t he?
Why had she lied? Had she hoped to spare him further anguish? Had she hoped to hide the child—no children—from him? Had she expected he would never discover the truth?
How could she have assumed he wouldn’t find out? London was a vicious place, where malicious gossip abounded. It was never a secret that could have been kept.
“Are you sure you’re not a ghost?” she asked again.
“I’m sure.”
“Do you know me? Do you recognize me?”
He reached out a finger and set it on her forehead. He traced it down her nose to the pert tip. He wanted to pull her into his arms, to feel how sturdy she was, to feel how strong she was, but if someone blundered up while he was hugging her, it would appear odd and inappropriate.
“Does your sister, Mary, look just like you?”
“Yes. There’s not a whiff of difference between us.”
“And you’re nine.”
“Yes, but we’ll be ten very soon.”
“Are you happy here?”
“We’re happy.”
“Mr. Wallace…Alex…has he been kind to you?”
“Kind enough. It’s been better since our Aunt Abigail arrived. She’s made it better.”
He dropped his finger, and he stared at the ground. The woods were very quiet as if the wind had ceased to blow and the birds to chirp. He was so overcome by emotion he was surprised he didn’t burst into tears.
A decade of rage swept through him. He’d wandered for so many years, under the very worst conditions. He’d endured and survived, and his mind was disturbed in so many dire ways.
While most days, he blustered forward and pretended he was fine, he was generally playing a game with himself, ignoring the deep issues that rocked him.
Would he ever be the same as he’d once been? He had no idea.
He had two daughters—twin daughters—but they were his enemy’s daughters too. They carried his enemy’s name, and he was raising them as his own. He’d provided shelter and support, had kept them safe and clothed and fed when Hayden couldn’t.
There was a huge bubble of torment building inside him, and he nearly bellowed to the heavens, Why?
Why had he suffered so terribly? Was he cursed? Was that it?
“I…I…should probably go,” he muttered.
“Will you come back again?”
“I’ll try to.”
“Here to the woods?”
“If I can.”
“When? This can’t be the only time. I’ll bring Mary with me. I’ll ask her if she can see you or if you’re invisible.”
“I’m not invisible.”
“What’s your name? You haven’t told me, and you have to. You have to say it out loud.”
He didn’t dare admit it. He couldn’t have her running to the manor and shouting it around every corner. He had to talk to Abigail first, had to…to…talk to Alex Wallace, but he was so overwhelmed, he couldn’t imagine that conversation.
“You know who I am,” he said.
“Yes, I know. Is it to be our secret?”
“For now.”
“I won’t tell—except for Mary. I can’t keep a secret from her.”
He placed a hand on the top of her head, and he held it there, letting some of his strength flow into her, feeling her powerful energy flowing back.
Then he nodded toward the house. “You go on home.”
“Swear you’ll come again.”
“I swear.”
They stared and stared, then she turned and walked off. She stopped at the trees to glance at him, but he’d slipped away, and she searched for him, worried over how he could have vanished.
No doubt she believed he was a ghost, and why wouldn’t she? He’d been one for an entire decade. But he was back, and he had to notify certain people. Starting with Alex Wallace.
She rushed off, most likely to find her sister and drag her to the clearing. She’d claim Hayden had been there, that their father was a specter who’d appeared as an apparition.
He yearned to see Mary so desperately he was ill with it, but he didn’t suppose he should tarry. They’d beg to escort him to the manor, to parade him around, but he wasn’t ready for that encounter. Not yet anyway. He had to think this through, had to proceed cautiously. He had twin daughters who should reside with him at Middlebury, who should grow up there.
It was such a wonderful gift to have received, as if Fate had decided to shine a kindly light on him for once, to remind him of all the reasons he had to be happy. He was alive, he’d survived his ordeal, and he had two daughters whom he had to retrieve from Alex Wallace.
How would he do that precisely? He couldn’t barge in and demand custody. Mary and Millie had never even met him, and a brash command might spur another quarrel with Wallace, which he had to avoid.
Suddenly, he was urgently anxious to be with Helen. He needed her advice and her calm, steady presence while he discussed his options and listened to her replies. He was even anxious to speak with her disgraced father who perhaps—just perhaps—was a tad older and wiser after all.
Had Simon Barnes known about his daughters? He’d hinted that Hayden had a huge surprise waiting for him at Wallace Downs, and he’d been correct.
Hayden wanted to tell his girls who he was. He wanted to tell Alex Wallace and Abigail too. He wanted to shout his identity to the world, then he wanted to bring his girls home to Middlebury where they belonged.
He whirled away and mounted his horse so he could race to Middlebury and share the astonishing, distressing, spectacular news with Helen. He was so excited for her to learn all about it.
* * * *
Millie was never separated from Mary, not if she could help it, but they’d been playing in the woods, and Mary had torn her dress. She’d run to the manor to change. In the few minutes she’d been gone, a miracle had occurred, and she had to be informed immediately.
As Millie dashed out of the trees, Mary was hurrying down the verandah stairs into the garden. Millie motioned for her to proceed to their bench in the arbor behind the bushes.
They arrived together and slipped into their hiding spot. They sat very close, holding hands, their lips at each other’s ears so they could whisper and the fairies wouldn’t overhear.
“You won’t believe what happened,” Millie told her.
“What?”
“Father visited me.”
Mary’s eyes widened with shock. “Are you sure it was him?”
“Yes.” Mary was wearing their locket, and Millie pulled it out and flipped it open. “It was him exactly, and he recognized me too.”
“Was he as handsome as Mother said?”
“More handsome.”
“And was he tall and strong and amazing?”
“Very amazing.”
They stared at the picture, and Mary asked, “Was he a ghost or a real person?”
“I haven’t decided. He touched my nose and the top of my head. Can a ghost touch a human being? Can the human being feel it?”
“I don’t know. Is he still there? Shall we go see?”
“He had to leave, and he made me leave too. When I was across the clearing, I glanced back, but he’d disappeared.”
“Maybe he’s a ghost after all.”
“Maybe, but listen to this!” Millie elatedly murmured. “He’ll come again. He promised.”
“We need to watch for him then.”
“Yes, every day. I’m certain—one of these times—he’ll be there waiting for us.”
* * * *
Desdemona sat in the parlor of her mother’s house where she’d been staying and entertaining guests for most of the summer. After Jasper had banished her to the country, she’d sent her mother to Bath and had commandeered the grand residence.
Her mother had fumed over Des’s arrogant manner, but in the end, she’d left. What option did she have? Des was a countess, and her husband had bought the bloody place for her. Her mother could do as she was bid, or Des would sell it out from under her.
Jasper’s carriage had lumbered up the drive. He’d written to apprise her of his visit and that he had an important matter to discuss. So he was expected, but as usual, he was several hours late, and her temper was on a slow boil.
She kept peeking out the window, pretending she wasn’t paying attention to him when, in fact, she was in an absolute dither.
Once she’d received his message, she’d leapt into a flurry of preparation. She’d donned her most ornate gown, had curled and styled her hair, and she’d taken extra care with her cosmetics. She’d be the first to admit she wasn’t the most beautiful woman, but she cleaned up nicely.
Her extensive primping would remind him of how lucky he was to have her as his wife. It would remind him of how shabbily he’d treated her.
Acquaintances in town provided regular reports about him. Without her stabilizing influence, he was drinking too much, gambling too much. Most gallingly, he was pursuing a blatant affair with that whore, Camilla Robertson.
Des was furious about it, but a friend had notified her that Jasper and Miss Robertson had had a falling out, although there’d been no gossip as to why. The information was particularly riveting. Des could only conclude that Jasper was about to tell her his paltry romance was over, she was forgiven, and he wanted her with him at home.
Ultimately, the butler escorted him into the parlor. Des deemed herself to be the injured party in their fight, so she didn’t stand to greet him, and a tense silence festered as he walked over and stopped directly in front of her.
To her surprise, his nose was swollen and his eyes black and blue as if he’d been punched very hard. The damage looked painful, and his nose was crooked as if it might be broken.
He nodded disdainfully. “Desdemona.”
“What happened to your face? Did you run into someone’s fist?”
“That would be putting it mildly.”
“Are you here to apologize to me?”
“For what transgression?”
“For the sins you’ve committed against me over the summer.”
He snorted with disgust and went to the sideboard to pour himself a whiskey. “You have the strangest views. If we’re quarreling, let’s not forget who and what started it.”
Her infatuation with the despicable roué, Nicholas Swift, had been the precipitating cause. Then Nicholas had shamed her by traipsing off and marrying Jasper’s cousin, Sarah. Yet with a possible reconciliation in the works, she wasn’t about to mention Nicholas. It would only renew their argument.
Still though, she couldn’t prevent herself from needling him. “I’ve heard all about your little amour with Camilla Robertson. I’ve been fully briefed on how you made a fool of yourself over her. Don’t you dare stroll in and act like a saint.”
He ignored her and gulped down his liquor. He refilled the glass and gulped most of that too. He was very glum, very stoic, and she braced for disaster. She’d convinced herself that he’d missed her and was eager to patch up their spat, but clearly, she’d been mistaken.
“I need to talk to you about something,” he said. “Something bad.”
Her mind raced. Had he sired a child out of wedlock? Had he bankrupted himself in a fraudulent stock scheme? Was he in love with some tart and about to ask for a divorce? Any calamity seemed likely.
“What is it?” she demanded, becoming even more disturbed as he staggered over and eased onto the chair across.
“Have you corresponded with your cousin, Helen, lately?”
“Helen? No. She’s toiling away at Middlebury. Why?”
“I received a frantic letter from her.”
“A letter! My goodness. If she wrote you, it must have been a catastrophe.”
“It was.” He dawdled, stared at the floor, sipped his liquor.
She couldn’t bear the suspense. “What was the catastrophe?”
“A man arrived at Middlebury, and he was claiming to be Hayden.”
For a moment, she was perplexed. She’d only ever known one man named Hayden in her life. “You mean Hayden Henley?”
“Yes. She begged me to come and see for myself. I assumed I’d get there, find a deranged interloper, and chase him off.”
“And…?”
“I couldn’t chase him off.”
She slapped the arm of her chair. “Honestly, Jasper, aren’t you capable of the simplest task?”
“Des, he’s really Hayden.”
She scowled, struggling to unravel the comment. “Hayden is dead. He’s been dead for ten years.”
“No, he hasn’t been dead. He’s just been…gone.”
“Gone? Gone where?”
“I didn’t have an opportunity to ask him. He was upset about the conditions at Middlebury. He felt we’d been sloppy in our management, and he and I fought about it.”
“Is that who blackened your eyes?”
“Yes. He tossed me out and ordered me not to ever return.”
“Of all the nerve!” she huffed.
“We’re in a bind, Des.”
“How are we
in a bind?”
“He’s back, and he’s alive. He’s hale and fit and possessed of his mental faculties, so he’s the earl now—and I’m not.”
They were the most frightening words she’d ever heard. “That can’t be true, Jasper. Don’t ever speak such nonsense aloud.”
“He’s taken charge already. He’s locked me out of the town house and the estate bank accounts. He’s having Attorney Thumberton prepare all the legal documents so it’s official. Shortly, I figure he’ll run advertisements in the newspapers to inform my creditors of what’s occurred. I’ve had a reporter sniffing around, but so far, I’ve avoided him.”
“The story is out there though?”
“Yes.”
“We can’t be positive it’s him,” she scoffed. “He could be an actor, an imposter. It could be some…some…confidence artist who’s devised a scam to cheat us.”
“It’s him, Des. I have no doubt.”
“Jasper, listen to me: You have every doubt. To any inquires, you must categorically insist that you knew your cousin better than anyone in the world, and the man at Middlebury is not him. The man is a total fraud.”
“I won’t be believed. Any person who meets him will recognize him.”
“It’s been ten years, Jasper. He was a boy when he left. Who can declare with any certainty that this oaf is that same individual?”
“It’s not a battle we can win, Des.”
“Who is there to contradict you? A few tenant farmers and elderly servants? A few shop merchants and village peasants? No! Grow a spine, Jasper. You’re Earl of Middlebury. Who is there to gainsay you? We’ll destroy any idiot who refutes your denials.”
“With what money, Des? With what allies?”
She stood and went to the sideboard to pour her own whiskey. She filled his glass too, then she sat again, and she was in desperate shape.
When Hayden and his father had still been alive, she’d simply been Jasper’s wife, who’d been a distant cousin to the Earl of Middlebury. At the beginning of their marriage, she hadn’t even realized Jasper was Middlebury’s heir after Hayden.
