Sylvia sank to her knees and grasped Huntingdon’s hand. She inched nearer to Rafter. Christopher frowned. What the hell was she doing so close to the lunatic? Her eyes brightened, she peeped from under her lashes at the pistol, then sent a quick glance at Christopher. Tension radiated from her body. He felt its vibration in his own.
Bloody hell. She was going to knock the man over or do something equally rash. But what other choice did they have? He tensed, ready to spring and gave her a slight nod of acknowledgement. He was ready.
Sylvia threw herself up and back and knocked the pistol away from David. Christopher snatched the gun out of Rafter’s hand.
The Irishman backed away and raised his hands. ‘Do your worst, Evernden. I’ve done mine.’
Eyes full of pain, Sylvia stared down at Huntingdon as he hugged his son close to his chest, his shoulders shaking with suppressed sobs. Anguish formed a shield around her stiff body and Christopher feared she might shatter if he spoke one word.
He reached out and touched her arm. She thrust his hand away, her eyes glittering bright. ‘I don’t care about all this.’ She swung her arm wide. ‘I hate you. I always have. Keep your precious heir. I’ll not tell anyone the truth. I’m leaving.’
Plain Mr David No-Name, with set jaw and tears drying on his downless cheeks, pulled himself out of his father’s arms. ‘It doesn’t work that way, my lady.’
Chapter Eighteen
A glimmer of hope lifted Huntingdon’s expression. ‘If that is what she wants, perhaps it is for the best. No one regrets what happened more than I, but to ruin so many lives…Think of your mother, son.’
David’s young face flushed. ‘Think of the dishonour.’
Huntingdon’s tongue flickered over his lips and he glanced at Sylvia. ‘I never meant Marguerite or her daughter any harm. I truly loved her. When Rafter told me you wanted to be a courtesan like your mother, I let anger rule my head. I was wrong. I promise to do my duty by you.’
Pain filled Sylvia’s eyes; it cut into Christopher like a whip.
Hades. What a dilemma. In one fell blow the Duke had lost his heir, his whole future, but for the man to let his own daughter sacrifice herself was pitiful. He wanted to take Huntingdon by the throat and force him to apologise.
He clenched his fists at his sides. Sylvia had made it clear she would not welcome his interference.
David drew himself up straight, his child’s face mirroring his father’s earlier haughty expression. ‘No, Father. You taught me better. I will not dishonour my name…’ he swallowed ‘…your name, by adding further crimes to Rafter’s misdeeds against my half-sister. She has her place and I have mine.’
‘Well said,’ Christopher murmured.
At Christopher’s side, Garth looked as sick as a horse. ‘The devil is in it now,’ he muttered. ‘Such bloody nobility and he’s no more than a stripling. I’m going to lose my dinner.’
‘The boy is right, your Grace,’ Christopher said, his tone impartial. ‘No matter how you try, you can never keep this hidden.’
‘I’ll make sure of it,’ Rafter gloated.
‘Silence,’ Huntingdon and Christopher said in unison.
Sylvia frowned at Rafter. ‘Why are you doing this now? You’ve made your fortune in blackmail.’
Rafter dropped on to the sofa across from Huntingdon, his weather-beaten face arrogant and insolent. ‘Because the old duke forced all the tenants off his land in Ireland, so he could raise fecking sheep.’ He curled his lip. ‘My family lived on that fine estate, but I wanted more and went off for a soldier. When I came back, cock o’ the walk at having made me way up through the ranks, the jingle of gold in me pocket, they were gone.’
His hands curled into fists on his knees, the sinews in his wrists corded tight. ‘Not even the foundation of the old house remained to show where they had lived for generations, working the land for the betterment of Huntingdons. Nothing but grass and sheep.’
Seemingly unable to bear to look at the Duke any more, he gazed into the flames in the hearth. His voice dropped to a roughened whisper. ‘Oh, I found them in Dublin, all right. Me da was dead of a broken heart. Me mother lay dying in a stinking hovel on the charity of her relatives and me little sister was selling her body for pennies.’
He drew a shaking hand across his eyes. ‘That’s why.’
Nothing but the ticking clock and the hiss of the fire filled the silence.
As angry as Christopher felt at Rafter’s use of Sylvia to gain revenge, he couldn’t prevent a surge of pity for the fellow’s agony. Sylvia’s eyes reflected a similar sympathy. Of all people, she should not feel sympathy.
‘I knew nothing of this,’ Huntingdon said, his voice hoarse. ‘My father did it without my knowledge.’
Turning, Rafter straightened and arrowed a glance at the Duke. ‘It was your obligation to know what happened to your people. Just as it was your responsibility to protect your wife and child. But ye left it to someone else. And it was not done.’
Huntingdon wrung his papery hands. ‘If you had just told me—’
‘You dashed off to France like the divil was after you. And he was.’ He gave a sharp laugh. ‘I’m satisfied. You’ll get no more heirs off your old duchess, even if you marry her now, and your whore of a daughter is restored to the family, while your son wallows in bastardy.’
Garth drew in a sharp breath. He looked like he’d been cut to the quick.
But something about the story did not make sense. Christopher racked his brain for an elusive memory somewhere on the fringes of his mind. Slouched in his seat, Rafter’s eyes shifted from Christopher’s direct gaze.
Drawing herself to her full height, Sylvia fixed Rafter with a haughty stare, so like her half-brother’s just moments before Christopher couldn’t doubt their relationship. ‘I won’t be party to this revenge of yours.’
‘You don’t actually have a choice,’ Garth muttered. ‘Whether you like it or not, his second marriage is bigamous.’ His mouth twisted in a bitter smile. ‘Under the law, a man has to recognise another man’s child born to his wife. Your half-brother has no claim to the dukedom. There is no heir.’
Young David stood unflinching beneath Garth’s harsh words and stared his fate bravely in the face. Christopher could only admire his courage.
Sylvia reached out a hand to the lad. ‘You’ve been bred and trained for this all your life. Surely something can be done?’
How could she be so selfless? She was the legitimate daughter of a duke, entitled to all of the privileges and rights that went with it. A cold fist bunched in Christopher’s stomach as he realised the full implications of her new status. She was so high above him, so close to royalty, he normally wouldn’t even be invited to the same functions, let alone be permitted to marry her.
A black pit opened up in front of him.
He shook the thought away. This was not about him, or Sylvia, this was about truth and justice. And by God, he would see justice done.
Rafter shifted on the sofa. His gaze devoured the duke’s son as if the destruction of the boy satisfied some primal hunger. At thirteen, the innocent youth didn’t fully comprehend the face of evil.
Whereas Sylvia had never had the chance to be truly innocent. Rafter and the Duke had seen to that. Christopher tasted ashes in his mouth. David was roughly the same age now as Sylvia had been when John Evernden had rescued her from a horrific future in the brothel.
The recollection clicked into place like tumblers in a well-oiled lock. ‘What was the date of your mother’s death, Lady Sylvia?’ Christopher asked.
Rafter jerked in his seat.
Sylvia stared at Christopher as if he was mad. She blinked and shook her head as if trying to make sense of his question.
Christopher raised his voice. ‘When did she die?’
‘What does it matter?’ Rafter shouted. ‘Die she did. In the pain and agony of the pox. A whore.’
Sylvia recoiled, her face as white as parchment.
‘Shut him up,’ Christopher said savagely to Garth.
Garth, foiling Rafter’s attempts to bite him, shoved his handkerchief in the Irishman’s mouth.
The Duke, slumped in the chair, his skin as grey as the ashes in the hearth, raised his head. ‘I heard from Rafter that she died in March 1805. I had married again the previous February, thinking she must be dead by then. I had heard nothing for years. My God. My poor Marguerite. I never wanted that for her. Never.’ He covered his face with his hands. ‘When Rafter brought the news that the marriage was invalid, I didn’t know what to do. Cover it up, Rafter said. No one would know. I…When she—’ he pointed at Sylvia ‘—started to blackmail me, I thought it served her right.’
Christopher kept his voice calm. ‘Sylvia, think. This is important. Jeannie told us the date of your mother’s death. It was three months after you left Paris. When was that?’
‘I arrived in England in—’
Rafter struggled to his feet and threw himself at Sylvia.
Without thinking, Christopher shielded her with his back. He lifted her out of Rafter’s path by her shoulders. Her sweet body pressed against his chest. Her rapidly beating heart matched the banging of his own. She softened, her warmth pulled to him, her lips curved in a smile as she glanced up at him. He forced himself to pretend it wasn’t happening, this instant arousal between them.
Garth seized Rafter by the throat and flung him back on to the sofa.
Christopher set Sylvia down at arm’s length, ignoring the overwhelming desire to hold her close, to shelter her from this room of raging storms. He locked her sapphire gaze with his. ‘When?’
Comprehension sparked in her expression. ‘It was the winter of 1804—January, I think.’
‘Then she died before my parents were married,’ David cried. Face flushed red, he leapt at Rafter, fists flying. ‘You lied.’
Garth restrained David in a gentle hold. ‘Relax, lad. He’ll get his dues soon enough.’
The relief flooding Huntingdon’s face told Christopher all he needed to know. Christopher rejoiced in Sylvia’s good fortune, even as his own situation solidified with all the ugly twists of a churchyard gargoyle.
The legitimate daughter of a duke, an heiress, a beautiful, desirable woman with her pick of the most eligible bachelors of the ton, would never choose the second son of a baron. Nor would he expect it. Loss emptied his chest and left a hollow space.
He’d have to admit to ruining her and do the honourable thing and ask for her hand. For one blissful moment, he imagined Huntingdon accepting his offer, then despair rolled over him. If Huntingdon didn’t laugh in his face, the old Duke would probably challenge him to a duel.
All he had ever offered her was a carte blanche. And now, right after he learned she was legitimate, he was going to offer her marriage. How bloody ironic. She’d never believe he’d already decided he didn’t care about the misfortune of her birth. Not now.
He straightened his shoulders. No matter what, he’d do his duty.
‘A Mr Christopher Evernden to see you, your Grace,’ announced the Huntingdon butler.
Christopher. At last. After four long weeks since they’d seen each other, Sylvia couldn’t prevent a smile from curving her lips or the rush of pleasure at the sound of his name. She threw her embroidery to one side and surged to her feet.
She caught the Duchess’s raised eyebrows and subsided onto the sofa. Lady Huntingdon, with her tight bun and unusually severe style of dress for a member of the ton, had proved to be a welcoming angel to her long-lost stepdaughter.
The Duchess had accepted Huntingdon’s explanation about his daughter’s sudden emergence from an isolated convent in the French Alps. There had been stranger tales of lost family members during the French Revolution and the wars that followed.
The Duchess had thrown herself into the business of bringing Sylvia out with an energy that seemed to surprise even the Duke. Sylvia had begun to love her stepmother and she adored her half-brother, David. She’d even learned to forgive her father as she learned of the lengths to which Rafter had gone to destroy his belief in her mother.
Christopher paused in the doorway, his gaze sweeping the room and meeting hers. His forest-green eyes contained the haunted quality of a lonely mountain glen, all dark shadows. Had he missed her as much as she had missed him?
Not a hair out of place and his black coat and white cravat impeccably neat, he looked paler than when she had seen him last, thin and hollow-cheeked. She recognised his expression, reserved caution, the way it had been at the reading of Monsieur Jean’s will. But she had seen the other side of him since then—anger, recklessness, passion, tenderness. All the things she had grown to love in him.
Christopher bowed low. ‘Your Grace. Lady Sylvia.’
In the weeks since Rafter had made his dreadful revelations, this was the first time Christopher had called. She smiled and held out her hand. ‘How lovely to see you, Mr Evernden.’
He took it. His touch was fleeting, hesitant. ‘I’m glad to find you well, Lady Sylvia.’
‘All the better for seeing you,’ Sylvia said.
Christopher glanced at the Duchess, who watched him with bright, expectant eyes in her severe countenance. ‘I wonder if I might ask Lady Sylvia to take a turn around the square with me, your Grace?’
She inclined her head. ‘Of course, Mr Evernden. One of the footmen will accompany you.’
Sylvia tamped down her impatience. This need for constant attendance sparked her impatience at regular intervals, but she tried to accept it with good grace.
Her heart fluttered with anticipation. How clever of Christopher to think of it. Walking with a footman a few steps behind would give them more privacy than her stepmother’s drawing room and she had so much to tell him.
She hastened to her chamber to fetch her shawl and hat. By the time she got downstairs, Christopher held his hat and gloves in his hand.
He placed her hand on his arm and they stepped out into the street and crossed the road to the small deserted park in the centre of the elegant square. Sylvia glanced up at the grey sky. No doubt the intermittent rain had kept the nursemaids and governesses indoors today.
Silently, they strolled beneath the overhanging branches and between the flowerbeds full of daisies and roses.
Sylvia revelled in Christopher’s closeness, the heat of his body at her side, the firm strength of his arm beneath her fingers, and yet she sensed a distance in him.
‘I’m so glad you came today,’ she said. ‘So much has happened these past few weeks. My head is spinning. You can’t imagine. I have been introduced to so many people I can’t remember them all.’ She laughed. ‘To tell you the truth, I am not sure if I am on my head or my heels, but I missed you.’
‘I didn’t get back into town until yesterday. I came as soon as I received your note.’
Disapproval coloured his tone, as if sending him a note were somehow improper.
‘I met Lord Stanford at Almack’s and he mentioned you would be back this week. I wanted to talk to you.’
‘Well, here I am.’
There was brusqueness in his tone, a subtle impatience she had never heard before.
She stopped and turned, staring into his eyes, trying to see behind the greens and browns gazing back at her. ‘What is wrong?’
His expression remained polite, formal, as if they were strangers. ‘Nothing is wrong. I just didn’t expect to receive a note requiring my presence, that is all.’
A dreadful sense of impending doom ran like a cold snake down the back of her neck and into her stomach. ‘If I hadn’t sent you a note, would you have come to see me at all?’
He shrugged and gestured that they should continue walking. He matched his steps to hers.
Fear sharpened her tone. ‘Would you?’
‘Lady Sylvia, I am sure you have realised by now that you are far above my touch. You are moving in circles to which I could never aspire.’ He paused as if he were searching for word
s.
She glanced up at him from beneath the brim of her hat. His gaze was fixed on the distance, his mouth a thin straight line. ‘I think it would be better if you do not contact me again.’
Her breath caught in her throat. It was as if someone had placed something heavy on her chest, a rock, or a mountain. Hot tears choked her throat. No wonder he hadn’t been to see her. Here she was, assuming she was respectable enough for him at last, when all the time he wanted nothing to do with her.
Fool. He had never spoken of love. He had wanted her and she had given herself to him with all the abandon of a whore. He was telling her he had had his fill. And now, just like her mother, she would humble herself before him because she couldn’t help it. Because she loved him. ‘Why?’
At the centre of the park, four wrought-iron benches sat in military square formation. In front of them, an ornamental fountain played gentle water-tunes to a pool of reeds and water lilies.
‘Please be seated, Lady Sylvia,’ he said.
Boiling temper erupted from deep inside her. Rage at her own foolish heart. Anger at her belief in him and at his coldness when she needed his warmth. She plumped down on to the seat and glared up at him. ‘Lady Sylvia this and Lady Sylvia that. Are you so impressed with titles then, Mr Evernden? And is it still not good enough for you? Or is it because you know the truth about my mother?’
A flash of pain glittered like splintered glass in his eyes. He glanced away. ‘You are talking nonsense.’ His tone was harsh. ‘My business demands a great deal of my time. In fact, I do not know how much longer I will be in England, since I have business interests abroad.’
A muscle flickered in his jaw, then he lowered himself to sit beside her. He flicked at a speck of dust on his boot with his glove. ‘Your father has great plans for you, Lady Sylvia. He has an opportunity to make up for all the years he lost because of Rafter and his schemes. You should be happy.’ His words were rational, his tone gentle, persuasive and patently false.
Aware of the rapid beating of her heart, Sylvia took slow, deep breaths. She’d controlled this pain before, this urge to cry hot tears. She’d been hurt many times by careless cruelty. But not like this, her heart cried.
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