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Prologue
Miss Merry Parks ignored the shocked gasp of her father’s butler as she swept into Parks House cradling a lustily crying infant, trailed by her exasperated maid, who was no doubt mentally composing her resignation letter.
“But Miss, what will Sir Thomas say?”
“It wasn’t to be helped, Milton,” she told the man who’d known her since she was in the nursery herself. “Now, please ask Mrs. Rhodes to have the little sitting room beside my bedchamber outfitted with the cradle from the nursery. I want to keep the child near me until we can find a wet nurse.” She’d known the moment she made the decision to take the babe into her own home that there would be an outcry from both the upstairs and downstairs residents of Parks House, but having just seen her dear friend Charlotte Smithson succumb to a fever following the birth, she was not going to allow the child to suffer the same fate. Besides, she had a very good idea of someone who could and should take on the care of the baby, and though requesting his assistance would reopen a wound she’d thought healed long ago, for both Charlotte’s and the child’s sake, she would ask.
Not waiting to see if her orders were followed, she carried the infant, who had been growing quieter the longer they were out of the carriage, up to her own bedchamber and soothed her as best she could while she waited for the crib to be readied.
Fortunately, Merry had handled the infants of other friends over the years, so she was not as flummoxed as other unmarried ladies would be to find themselves the unexpected caretaker of an infant. And if truth were told, there was a time when she’d looked forward to holding her own children. That this child in particular was cousin to the man she’d thought would father them was especially bittersweet.
“Effie,” she said once she had made the child, who had finally fallen asleep, comfortable on the silk counterpane of her own bed, “I know your feelings about this, but I would like for you to ask around downstairs to see if any of the housemaids has experience with babies. Until we can find a nurse, I’ll need someone to manage the day-to-day care and feeding of little Lottie. At least until I can be assured that her father’s family will do right by her.”
As her maid bustled about the room, hanging Merry’s pelisse to be brushed out later and making preparations for her mistress’s bath, her stiff movements and pursed lips told the story of her concern.
“It’s not that I don’t see why you’d want to help your friend, Miss Merry,” Effie began as she stepped into the dressing room with Merry’s dressing gown, “but your father . . .”
“Will have to see reason,” Merry said, stroking a finger over the baby’s gossamer soft cheek. Poor Charlotte would have made a good mother. And Merry’s assurance that she’d find the child’s father had given her friend some comfort, she hoped. She would not go back on her word now, no matter how her father might react. “I made a promise, Effie. And I mean to keep it, even if Papa becomes incensed. It will only be for a week at most that his peace is disturbed. And even then, he likely won’t hear anything. You know how he gets when he’s deep in study. A Catherine wheel could be set off in the parlor and he’d barely notice.”
Sir Thomas Parks was one of England’s foremost classics scholars, and though he was often supportive of his daughter’s charitable endeavors, he also complained that Merry’s crusades cast shadows over both her reputation and his own standing among his colleagues. Not to mention that they took time away from the work she did for him as his assistant. It was difficult to imagine now, settled as she was in her father’s shadow, that she’d once upon a time been ready to break away and seek a life, a true partnership, with a man who valued her for more than her neat penmanship and organizational skills. But she’d been forcibly reminded of that long-ago dream at the very mention of Wrotham.
Even as the thought arose, however, she stopped herself. What use was there in dwelling on that at this point? If the life she had now was a far cry from the one she’d once imagined, it was a good one. And she’d done good work with her father. Contributed to some very important scholarship. There was little comfort to be had in regrets this late in the day, especially when the gentleman in question had very likely forgotten about her almost as soon as they’d parted. At least if his grandmother was to be believed, he had. It was the dowager Lady Wrotham, after all, who had convinced her to let Alexander go.
“It will only be for a week or so,” she repeated. And, she thought to herself, since she’d given her father her loyalty for all these years, the least he might give her is a week to keep her word to her dying friend.
Perhaps knowing it was futile to argue with her mistress, Effie settled for shaking her head before heading downstairs to oversee the heating of Merry’s bathwater.
Alone now with the baby, Merry gazed down on the slumbering infant, unable to look at her without recalling Charlotte as she’d last seen her, pale from blood loss and desperate for Merry’s assurances that her child would be well cared for.
Even if the midwife hadn’t already warned her, Merry would have known that her friend only had a few short moments left of life. And she set out to give her what comfort she could, even as she struggled with the notion that this sweet, generous friend would soon be gone. How could the world be so horribly unfair?
“Whatever you need, dear Charlotte,” she said in a soothing tone as she clasped the other woman’s cold hand in hers. “I promise you I will see that little Lottie is well cared for. I’ll raise her in my own household if need be.”
But Charlotte, her hair lank with sweat, shook her head a little, “She should be with her father. She deserves the protection of his name. He owes that to her at least.”
Merry hadn’t had the courage to ask yet about who the father of her friend’s child was, but Charlotte’s words gave her pause. “Do you mean you married him, Charlotte?” To her shame, she’d assumed that her friend had succumbed to the lure of a seduction. When she’d asked before about whom the child’s father might be, Charlotte had been reticent, only saying that he’d betrayed her and she couldn’t bear to talk of it.
At the mention of marriage, Charlotte gave a wan smile. “Eloped,” she said, her breath growing scarce. “But he was called away. Promised to come back. But never did.”
Hating to ask, but knowing she’d need them, Merry asked, “Where are your marriage lines?”
“William has them,” Charlotte said. “Said if he didn’t come back to call at Wrotham House in Berkeley Square. Letters went unanswered. I did call, but they turned me away.” She took a gulp of air, the string of words taxing what little strength she had left.
At the mention of Wrotham House, Merry felt her own heart quicken. After so many years, how was it possible that even his name could stir such a strong response? It had been five years since she’d laid eyes on Wrotham. And nearly as long since she’d determined to consign their time together to that part of her heart that remained locked securely to this day. Blinking down at her friend, she squeezed C
harlotte’s hand and made herself focus on the present. There would be time enough to think about the past later.
“Who is William to Viscount Wrotham?” she asked her friend. “I know Lord Wrotham has a younger brother, but I do not recall him being named William.”
“Cousin,” Charlotte gasped, her eyes desperate now. “Please find him, Merry. Please.”
Merry had assured her she would do all she could to find the baby’s father, and as if she’d only been waiting for Merry’s word, her friend gave a slight sigh and breathed her last.
Blinking back tears at the memory, Merry gazed down at the innocent child who had, through no fault of her own, caused such grief. She might learn one day that her birth had taken her mother’s life, but Merry would do all she could to see that Lottie knew she was loved.
But first she would see to it that Lottie’s father did right by her. It would mean visiting the home she’d once thought would be her own, and, perhaps, even speaking to Alexander.
Thanks to a gossip column, she knew that the annual Lords of Anarchy Christmas Ball would be held this week. And Wrotham’s name was among those listed as likely to attend. Had it only been yesterday that she’d seen his name and congratulated herself on how unaffected she’d been?
What a difference there was between merely reading a name and facing the prospect of a face-to-face meeting.
If it were for any other reason than to do right by Charlotte, she very much feared she would have done all she could to avoid such a reunion. But looking down at the sleeping baby, she knew she had no choice.
“Tomorrow,” she said softly, “we will introduce you to your cousin Lord Wrotham.”
She only hoped in the years since they’d last seen one another, his sense of decency hadn’t changed.
Chapter One
“But how long do you think it would take that cat of yours to climb these curtains, Wroth?”
Alexander Ponsonby, Viscount Wrotham, shook his head at Lord Edward Findlay’s question. The fellow would gamble on literally anything. And now he’d turned his wagering eye to the one-eyed tomcat that currently slept on a cushion like an Eastern pasha in Wrotham’s drawing room.
The two men and their friend Mr. Adam Vessey had come up to town in the unfashionable month of December in order to attend the annual holiday festivities of their driving club, the Lords of Anarchy, scheduled for tomorrow night. But in the meantime, tonight had been a chance for them to catch up for the first time since Wrotham’s return to England after a year spent in Paris.
Unfortunately, it didn’t appear that Findlay, whose gambling had been getting out of control before Wrotham left, had made any changes to his behavior during the viscount’s absence. He had thought that perhaps the Duke of Trent, who now served as the head of the driving club, might talk some sense into his friend, but it would appear that if he had done so, Findlay hadn’t listened.
“Cat doesn’t look as if he’s going to be climbing much of anything to me, old son,” said Vessey with an affected drawl, gesturing to the slumbering feline. “Perhaps you’d better stick to animals known for their speed. Horses, for instance.”
At which point they embarked upon a discussion of the prospects for the coming year’s races at Ascot.
Alex rose to poke at the fire and also to avoid the conversation that, to his surprise, was deadly dull now. A year ago, before he’d gone to France, he’d have been just as adamant about where to place his bets at the celebrated racing event. But a year ago he’d been a different man. A year ago, he hadn’t been just returned from a trip reuniting him with the mother he hadn’t seen in twenty years or more.
It had been a risk to respond to his estranged mother’s invitation to visit her, and her new family, on the Continent. An even bigger one to pack his bags and board a packet to Calais. But his father had been gone for ten years at that point, and he was curious about the mother who’d abandoned him. With little more than a tenuous connection to a parent he barely recalled, he’d closed up his London townhouse and, without confiding his reasons for the trip, embarked for France.
Where he’d discovered that all the stories his father and grandmother had told about why Lady Wrotham had left—that she’d not wanted the responsibility of motherhood, that she’d wanted to be with her French lover, that she’d been mentally unstable—had been lies. He’d had his suspicions over the years that the late viscount had been covering up some dark secret. And when he’d found his mother to be far from unstable and, from the looks of it, quite happily settled with M. Dumonte, he’d been inclined to believe her story. It hadn’t been madness or unfaithfulness that made her run, but genuine fear for her life. Fear that she’d be killed at the hands of her cruel and violent husband.
“My only regret,” she’d told Alex, who had found her story too close to his own experience with his father to doubt its credibility, “was that I had to leave you behind. I mourned for the loss of you, but I also hoped that he would value you, as his heir, far more than he valued me. I hope I was not wrong.”
So much about his parents’ marriage had suddenly made sense as he listened to his mother’s story. Alex had grown up hearing only the viscount’s version of things. But his father’s harsh words and cruel demeanor had been at odds with his description of heartache at the loss of his wife. He had, in fact, not turned his anger on his son. So in that, his mother had been correct. Viscount Wrotham had valued his heir’s physical health, at least. And since Alex had gone away to school not long after his mother left, he’d escaped the sort of day-to-day scrutiny and abuse that had driven his mother away.
What followed his emotional and cathartic reunion with his mother was a year of the sort of family life he’d longed for as the only child on a remote estate. He’d gotten to know his half brothers and sisters, who were not entirely surprised to learn of their mother’s past. The viscountess had been living quietly as Mm. Dumonte for some years, but it was impossible to hide her English accent, and the sadness that came over her when there was news from her family. France was much more liberal than England about arrangements such as that between his mother and M. Dumonte. And it was an open secret in their social group that there had been no formal divorce between Lady Wrotham and the viscount. After his death, she and Dumonte had been married officially. And that was that.
It had been difficult for Alex to leave after a year with his newfound family. But he had responsibilities in England, and if he’d learned anything from his mother’s tale it was that he didn’t want to be the kind of indifferent, careless man his father had been. When he’d received his grandmother’s summons to the family estate in Kent, he’d recognized it as a sign he should get back to England and start doing a better job of leading the family than he had done up to now. Especially given what he now knew to be Grandmama’s culpability in hiding the truth from him. There was very little that the dowager Lady Wrotham didn’t know about what went on in her family. And though it hadn’t come as a shock to know she’d lied to him, it had been disappointing.
Learning the truth about why his mother had left had also forced him to reexamine his response to another sudden loss he’d experienced. Though Merry’s decision to call off their betrothal had felt very much like the same sort of abandonment he’d felt at the hands of his mother, he couldn’t help but recall that she’d spent the afternoon with Grandmama the day before she left. Finding her note of apology and the sapphire ring he’d given her just the day before on the mantel in her guest room at Wrotham Keep had sent him into a spiral of destructive behavior not unlike what he’d witnessed in his father years before. It had been impossible not to compare Merry’s defection with his mother’s, and not to consign both of them to the devil who’d surely prompted their misdeeds.
Knowing one of them had been misjudged, however, he couldn’t help but wonder if the other had been, too. It had never seemed in character for Merry—sweet, loyal, intelligent Merry—to simply decide on a whim that they weren’t suited and leave for ho
me like a thief in the night. True, she’d been reluctant to abandon her work with her father. But he’d thought they’d settled the matter by arranging for one of Sir Thomas’s students to take over as his amanuensis. His hurt had made him doubt the light shining in her eyes when he gave her the ring, but now, years later, he questioned instead his grandmother’s assurances that it was for the best.
So, after this short stay in London and a bit of revelry with his friends, he was off to Kent where, amid the traditions of the Yuletide season, he’d press his grandmother for answers. It would be a difficult interview, he knew. But he was finished with believing half-truths and lies. And though he’d only just come to realize it, his life since Merry left had been one long unsuccessful attempt to forget her. Whatever he found out from Grandmama, he was determined to follow his mother’s example and start his life anew.
“What do you think, Wroth?” said Findlay, cutting into his host’s thoughts. “Does that cat of yours have what it takes?”
Turning from the fire, Alex blinked, then deciding to give his friend the courtesy of his attention, he looked at the feline. Clearly the cat had already made his decision. He was content to remain indoors near the fire and showed no inclination to climb the curtains or anything else at the moment. “I’m afraid Vessey has the right of it, old fellow. Tom doesn’t appear to be in a climbing sort of mood.” As if to emphasize his master’s words, the cat gave an exaggerated yawn and stretched, then turned in a circle, only to curl up into a ball in his previous spot on the tasseled cushion.
Tom the cat had only been in Wrotham’s house a few days or so, having appeared in the mews behind the townhouse soon after his return from France. Something about the feline’s battered appearance, with his missing eye and half-chewed ear, coupled with a world-weary air, had appealed to him. Tom came and went as he pleased, standing at the kitchen door until someone noticed him, slipping out of the house when he felt the need, and returning again the next morning, hungry and eager for a rest. For his part, Wrotham liked the idea that the creature had found a bit of peace here. Lord knows he himself had wished for a quiet place to rest at times.
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