Clandestine

by Julia Ross

  “You’ll get burned,” he said softly. “The sun will give you the most unfashionable freckles.”

  She shaded her eyes with one hand and smiled up at him. He had already buttoned his breeches and tied his cravat.

  “That was—”

  “Ah, sweetheart!” He thrust his arms into his coat sleeves. “Say nothing, unless it’s to say that you love me.”

  Tears burned. She sat up. “I love you.”

  Fully dressed, he dropped down to sit beside her on the grass, his back against the rock, one arm about her shoulder. Her head cushioned, Sarah leaned into his strength and stared up at the sky.

  “You’re still hesitant to make a baby?” she asked.

  He stroked wisps of hair from her cheeks and nodded.

  “Then, even now, you’re afraid for our future?”

  “Yes, because I know now for certain that there’s absolutely no way to prove that Berry is Rachel’s child.”

  A shiver passed down her spine, as if a cloud passed over the sun. Sarah pulled away to look at him. “Yet you still believe you can take him from the earl?”

  He tugged her back into his embrace and pressed his lips to her hair. “Of course. I just don’t know how high a price may be exacted.”

  “Whatever it is, we must pay it.”

  “Do you really mean that?”

  Sarah nodded.

  “At whatever cost to us?”

  “Yes, of course. Why do you ask?”

  His fingers stroked gently along the back of her neck. “Because Lady Moorefield claims to have given birth at the Hall helped only by her own women, so no local midwife was in attendance. A doctor from London was called to assist, but he arrived too late—by design, obviously. He found the new mother a little tired from her ordeal, and the baby already at the breast of a wet nurse.”

  “This doctor made no examination?”

  “According to the servants’ gossip, both mother and child were glowing with health. So the doctor refrained from imposing on Her Ladyship’s modesty. Instead, he joined the earl to toast his new heir and returned home.”

  “All of which could have been arranged ahead of time,” Sarah said. “Were none of the servants suspicious?”

  “The lower staff believe she was genuinely with child, and Her Ladyship’s personal women will be absolutely loyal. Two of them have been with her since she was born. Thus, all the witnesses would only swear to every circumstance of the lying-in, and the earl would see me damned for questioning it.”

  The bit jingled as his horse tossed up its head to stare off into the distance.

  Her heart lurched in alarm. Guy leaped to his feet and strode across to the gap in the rocks. Sarah scrambled up to join him.

  The Rectory roof glimmered faintly in the valley far beneath them. Rooks wheeled over distant woods. The horse shook its ears and began grazing again.

  No one was coming.

  Yet Sarah felt filled with foreboding, as if the monster came to life again at the center of the maze.

  “Then all we really have is Mrs. Siskin’s story?” she asked.

  Guy lifted his mount’s reins from the bush and gazed out over the shimmering summer. Something close to heartbreak lurked in his eyes.

  “I love you,” he said. “Whatever comes of all of this in the end, never forget that, Sarah. I love you and only you—deeply, absolutely, and with all my heart and soul—and always will.”

  MOOREFIELD Hall basked benignly in the sunshine, a beautiful house that deserved to ring with happiness. Sarah’s new gown was the most elegant she had ever possessed. The deep blue set off her pale complexion, robbing attention from her freckles to emphasize the smooth, creamy texture of her skin.

  While they had all prepared in the grandest inn in Plymouth for their assault on Lord Moorefield, Guy had also produced a lady’s maid, who had dressed Sarah’s hair into a flattering new style. She knew she looked her best and there was great confidence to be found in that, even when in the presence of her far more beautiful cousin.

  Yet Sarah felt only dread.

  Radiant in ivory and white, Rachel clung to Sarah’s arm. Her blond curls framed her face in breathtaking perfection. She looked fragile, wide-eyed, and innocent—trailing a broken wing like a ringed plover—in spite of her obvious underlying excitement and determination.

  Elegant and deadly, Guy walked beside them. They were all shown up into a fashionable parlor to wait for His Lordship.

  Lady Moorefield already stood at the window. She turned to greet her unexpected guests and give them all a tight smile.

  “The earl will be here presently,” she said. “Pray, won’t you sit? Though if you have business to discuss, Mr. Devoran, it can only be with my husband, surely?”

  A vision of masculine perfection, his impeccable coat exactly fitting, his waistcoat a glory of subtle—but ruinously expensive—white-on-white embroidery, Guy bowed over her hand.

  “I would never insist that a lady remain in any situation that makes her uncomfortable, Lady Moorefield, especially in her own house. However, while we await the earl, may I convey a message from my aunt?”

  The countess glanced up at his face, then folded into a chair. “The Duchess of Blackdown?”

  “I understand that Her Grace knew your mother quite well?”

  She frowned. “My mama has been with the angels these ten years, sir.”

  Guy sat down and crossed his legs at the knee. “Nevertheless, the duchess extends an invitation for you to stay at Wyldshay, whenever you might find convenient.”

  “I must own myself quite startled,” Lady Moorefield said. “I had not been aware of the duchess’s interest.”

  “Perhaps because you’ve not made many friends since your marriage,” Guy said blandly. “Also, as it happens, Lady Crowse will be taking her own townhouse throughout the next Season. Should you find the idea appealing, she would enjoy another lady’s companionship. In which case, you would never lack for friends or protection.”

  Lady Moorefield stumbled to her feet, forcing Guy to rise also. “Please offer all appropriate appreciation to the duchess and Lady Crowse for their kind invitations, Mr. Devoran. However, if I wish to stay in London, I may do so with my own family, though I cannot think why anyone should imagine that I should not wish to remain with my husband and our little son.”

  Guy bowed his head. “As you wish, ma’am.”

  “What the devil is this about, Devoran? I’m a busy man, sir.”

  Sarah glanced over her shoulder as Lord Moorefield stalked into the room, his face thunderous.

  Guy bowed. “Just a friendly call, my lord. We’ve just come from Wyldshay. The duke and duchess convey all that is proper. You remember Mrs. Callaway, of course?”

  Lord Moorefield looked Sarah up and down as she curtsied. “I can’t say that I do, sir!”

  “Perhaps you didn’t notice me, my lord,” Sarah said. “I was here with the house party from Buckleigh.”

  The earl dismissed her with the wave of one hand. “Of course, ma’am. Charmed.”

  “Mrs. Callaway is a close friend of the St. Georges,” Guy said. “This is her sister, Miss Mansard.”

  Giving the earl an angelic smile, Rachel curtsied. A servant entered with wine and cakes. Everyone sat down.

  “May I offer my condolences on the unfortunate loss of your gardener, Moorefield?” Guy continued. “A skilled man, sadly lost, so I hear, in a local brawl?”

  The earl leaned back comfortably in his chair. “Killed by revenue officers, sir, as you’ve no doubt already heard. There’s not a man in Devon that doesn’t take part in the local trade. Impossible to stop them, I’m afraid.”

  Guy stared vacantly at the wine in his glass. “Then Croft has taken many secrets to the grave with him.”

  “Secrets, sir?”

  “So I understand,” Guy said mildly. “Though nothing, fortunately, that’s lost forever.”

  Lord Moorefield stared at his guest’s impassive face. “I don’t
imagine for one moment that this is a simple social call, Devoran—”

  He broke off as Rachel leaped up and dropped her plate, scattering cake across the carpet. She lifted her chin like an avenging angel, a vision of gold-and-white fury.

  “No, it’s not! Mr. Croft stole my baby and gave him to you, and I demand to have him back.”

  Sarah caught Rachel’s hand. The countess set her plate on a side table, her fingers shaking, but Moorefield threw back his head and laughed.

  “So the St. Georges befriend madwomen now! Who is this creature, Devoran?”

  “I’m the baby’s real mother,” Rachel insisted. “That’s why we’re here, to get him back, however much you try to claim him as Lord Berrisham.”

  “Rachel!” Sarah tugged hard, and her cousin sat down, her face mutinous. “Don’t!” she whispered. “You promised!”

  Ignoring the ladies, the earl took a delicate bite of cake, then shook crumbs from his fingers. “You support this unfortunate woman in her outrageous claims, Devoran?”

  Guy stared absently at the ceiling, though a small muscle had tightened in his jaw. “Since they are true, yes, of course.”

  “Hah! I’m not sure whether to dismiss this as an inappropriate jest, or call you out. The charge is obviously preposterous!”

  “I wish that were so,” Guy said. “Of course, all the direct witnesses—Croft, who paid for and stole the baby; Mrs. Medway, the midwife who delivered him; your wife’s maids, who concealed her false pregnancy—are all either sadly deceased or loyal to the point of death.”

  “You’re mad, sir!” Moorefield surged to his feet. “You insult me to my face in my own home?”

  Guy leaned back and stretched out his legs. “I also, unfortunately, insult your wife, so you may be certain that I would never bring such charges without proof.”

  “There is no proof,” the earl replied with deadly calm. “Furthermore, in spite of your care in reminding me of your illustrious relatives, you would be wise to remember that Fratherham is my wife’s father, and I’m a peer of this realm.” He snapped his fingers in Guy’s face. “I can break you like this.”

  “Dear me,” Guy said.

  Moorefield flushed with anger and stalked away. “I’m also at a loss to know why you would take any interest in this chit’s wild claims, except perhaps from some personal malice toward me. Out of jealousy?”

  “Over your orchid collection?” Guy asked lazily. “Or over your happy circumstances in life?”

  Moorefield struck one fist into the other. Sarah held her breath. Guy wants this! He wants the earl to lose his temper!

  Yet Rachel tore her fingers from Sarah’s grasp and flung herself into Guy’s arms, forcing him to explode from his chair to catch her.

  Sagging dramatically in his embrace, Rachel turned to face the earl. She looked magnificent: beautiful, wronged, all fragile porcelain and gold, her hair a gilt halo against Guy’s dark jacket.

  “You don’t understand, Lord Moorefield,” she said. “Mr. Devoran is my baby’s father.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  SILENCE SHOCKED THROUGH THE ROOM AS IF AN EARTHQUAKE had struck. Sarah flinched. Huge, blinding birds dived at her head and tore pecking into her heart. Yet nothing moved, except for Guy helping a white-faced Rachel to a seat.

  “Berry is Mr. Devoran’s son,” she repeated. “We were cruelly parted, but we’re to be married now and the wedding’s to be held at Wyldshay at Christmas. You cannot gainsay the claim of the baby’s real father, Lord Moorefield.”

  The earl sat down, his face white. “Is this true, sir?”

  Guy glanced down at him and smiled. “Alas, truth is a strange commodity, though my wedding arrangements are not quite so precisely arranged as yet.”

  “Then you do not deny it,” the earl said. “Yet you can hardly—”

  “Yes, he can,” Rachel interrupted. “Though I was his mistress, I cannot be ashamed of it. Even my cousin knows it. Look at her! You’ll see the truth of what I say in her face.”

  The earl gazed at Sarah for a moment, while her heart pounded. Then he sat back, arms folded, and laughed.

  “So I perceive, ma’am.”

  As if ceding the field, Guy strode away to the window. Dark and elegant, he stood quietly gazing out. Rachel dropped her head into both hands and started to weep.

  “Good God!” Moorefield said. “Tears!”

  Furious, devastated, Sarah walked over to her cousin and sat next to her. Rachel took her proffered handkerchief and sobbed quietly into the little square of cotton.

  There’s a child at the heart of all of this, Sarah reminded herself, an innocent little boy!

  Still laughing, the earl poured himself more wine. “So your mistress comes to you with a wild tale of losing your little bastard. I’m amazed that you would choose to marry such a careless chit, sir. But I will certainly not give up my son based on such bizarre speculations.”

  Guy spoke over his shoulder with icy precision. “You will not—however tempted you may feel—insult Miss Mansard. It is not my wish to meet you at dawn, Moorefield, but I will if you insist.”

  His face still creased by his grin, the earl pushed to his feet and marched up to the fireplace, where he stood with his hands clasped behind his back.

  “Then as I guessed, sir, you cannot answer me and I believe we’ve said enough. You’ll be pleased to leave my house before this absurdity gets out of hand, and you may take your two harlots with you.”

  Guy stared casually out through the glass. “You will, in particular, not insult Mrs. Callaway. You may feel secure in your claim to the child, but the grave often speaks in unexpected ways.”

  The countess shivered. “No! How can you prove anything?”

  Guy turned and smiled at her with what looked like real kindness. “I regret to embarrass you, Lady Moorefield, but such are the vagaries of fate. The midwife’s sister wrote out a complete account of what happened.”

  The earl guffawed. “A forgery, if such a document even exists! You’ll have to do better than that, sir, before you attempt to steal my son.”

  “This sister lives,” Guy said.

  “But the midwife herself is dead, and any of a thousand dockside bawds would tell a lie for three shillings.”

  “I did not mention,” Guy said quietly, “anything about the midwife’s sister’s location. And we stray, most unfortunately, into dangerous ground once again. If you imply that I would pay for false witness, you impugn my honor far more than I intend to insult yours.”

  “Nonsense! You have no proof worth discussing, Devoran, and you know it.” The earl tugged hard at the bell cord. “If you persist in this gibberish, we may indeed name our seconds and I shall kill you.”

  Guy bowed. “It’s to your credit, my lord, that you haven’t tried murder thus far—unless Croft’s untimely death was not a coincidence, after all? However, I don’t believe we’ll need to resort to violence, or not quite yet. I can prove that this lady is the child’s mother, and I don’t believe you would wish the world to know the whole story by indulging in anything as public as a duel.”

  Sarah pressed her hand to her mouth. She felt ill. He’s bluffing. He’s bluffing. No one will believe Mrs. Siskin or Rachel, and Lord Moorefield will call Guy out and kill him.

  “And it is all nonsense!” Lady Moorefield, her skin chalk white, pointed one trembling finger at Rachel. “Lord Berrisham will be an earl one day, but this woman would publicly brand him a bastard, instead? What mother would rob her own child of such an inheritance?”

  Rachel looked up, her lovely hands clenched into fists, her face stained by tears. “I would, because Moorefield Hall isn’t my baby’s true birthright; Birchbrook is!” She glanced toward Guy. “Mr. Devoran’s inheritance isn’t entailed. He can leave it in any way that he wishes.”

  The earl raised a brow. “That so, Devoran?”

  Sarah gulped down a fierce pain. He must have told Rachel this in Hampstead—

  Yet Guy’s eyes r
emained quiet and dark. “Yes, as it happens, but if we’re to fall back on the judgment of Solomon, there’s a far better test than the wealth or position the child may inherit.” He flashed a bright smile as if to share a wicked joke. “Though that might be quite soon, should either of us die in a merry little meeting at dawn.”

  The earl chortled. “So what the devil do you have in mind, sir? Shall we threaten to cut the child in two with a sword?”

  “No,” Guy said. “Bring him in here and let him choose his own mother.”

  “No!” Rachel cried faintly. “He’s not to be frightened!”

  “Ah,” the earl said. “Thus speaks true maternal devotion, or are you afraid of the test, ma’am?”

  A footman appeared at the door. “You rang, my lord?”

  “You will show these persons to their carriage,” the earl said. “But first you will instruct Miss Davy to bring Lord Berrisham in here without delay.”

  His face impassive, the footman bowed. “Very good, my lord.”

  Guy strode back to Lord Moorefield. “The child is not to be frightened or coerced. You agree?”

  “Why not? The test will only demonstrate to the persons gathered in this room that you’ve completely lost your mind.”

  “Nevertheless,” Guy said. “We shall try the experiment.”

  The room lapsed into silence, until a tentative knock sounded at the door. The earl called out permission to enter. Betsy Davy walked in, leading little Lord Berrisham by the hand.

  She glanced at the assembled company, then bit her lip and curtsied to the earl. “Yes, my lord?”

  He ignored the nursemaid and spoke to the child. “You see three ladies in this room, sir. One of them is your mother. You will please go to her.”

  The little boy’s mouth quivered and he buried his face in the nurse’s skirts.

  “He’s afraid!” Rachel gave Guy a pleading glance. “Don’t you see! He’s afraid!”

  Guy shook his head at her, walked up to the little boy, and crouched down.

  “It’s all right, Berry,” he said quietly. “You don’t need to do anything and no one’s going to hurt you, but perhaps there’s a lady in this room that you’d like to have tell you a story, or sing you a song?”