by Jane Lark
“Move this woman aside.” Pembroke thrust the words at Davis, his voice as full of denigration as his glare had been.
“Mama?” John dared to speak up, in a desperate whisper, and for that he received his own rebuke.
“What have I told you? You have no mother, John. Your mother is dead.”
Edward saw the plea in John’s wide eyes as he looked at Ellen, his lower lip quivering before it was caught between his teeth.
“We are going home,” Pembroke growled, his gaze visibly warning Ellen to stay back. “Get in the carriage, John.”
The boy didn’t move, braving defiance, despite his obvious fear, he just looked at his mother.
Still standing before Pembroke, her arms limp at her sides, Ellen appeared lost, bowled over by this force which she clearly had no capacity to fight. “John, I’m sorry, I…”
Edward moved and blocked the doorway, as the Duke of Pembroke took hold of John’s arm and drew him past Ellen, as though she did not even exist.
“You are not taking the boy.” Edward’s words halted the Duke’s stride and astonishment crossed his expression. It seemed Pembroke was unaccustomed to refusal.
“Who are you to order me, Marlow? You have no say in this.” The arrogant dismissing look the man gave Edward would have made most men quake in their boots, but Edward was not most men.
Edward felt the muscle in his jaw contract, his teeth clenching as he restrained the surge of anger, while his right hand tightened to a fist he itched to thrust into the bastard’s condescending face. But he would not be bear baited into blows which would make him the one at fault and play straight into Pembroke’s hands. Instead, squaring his shoulders, he met the Duke’s imposing stare, defiantly, and refused to be set aside. Schooling his voice to a deliberate, calm, clear depth, bitter with contempt, Edward answered, “You are in my home, and handling my wife’s son. I have every right.” His voice echoed about the hall. “Let the boy go. It is you who have no right here, Your Grace.” Edward used the title with disgust.
The Duke’s gaze narrowed on him, a silver-blue even paler than Ellen’s, the contrast made starker by the winged dark brows which lined them. Edward knew he was being measured and there was an odd light of some other thought at the back of the monster’s damningly hard gaze as Pembroke spoke. “What sort of man are you, to take a whore to wife? You’ll have nothing from me. Do you understand? You have taken on the wrong man, Marlow. I can crush you if I choose. You stole the boy. I have come to fetch him back. The child is mine. I have the legal right here, I...”
The sudden thrusting lance of pain in Edward’s chest must have shown on his face, for the man stopped talking as his mouth twisted to a sneer. Then he finished, “I see, she never mentioned that. Get out of my way, Marlow. This has nothing to do with you.”
Edward’s eyes left their clash with the Duke’s, flicking down to John.
Head down, eyes to the floor, John stood motionless in the Duke’s grip.
Edward looked at Ellen, accusation burning inside him.
“Is this true?” She was standing to one side, observing his bewilderment with a look of regret which spoke the answer, but he would have the words from her mouth. Damn her, why had she not armoured him against this? Why didn’t she tell me?
“Ellen, is this true?” he snapped at her.
She nodded.
Taking on the qualities of a hunting wolf circling its prey, the Duke glared at her, before turning back to Edward. “Step aside.”
What choice did he have? “This will not be the end of it,” Edward said as the Duke came forward.
“Come near the boy again and I’ll destroy you.”
Edward ignored him and pressed a reassuring hand on John’s shoulder as he passed. In return John gave him a forlorn look. Edward saw that John had known Pembroke would come.
John’s gaze turned to Ellen.
She moved, as though pulled in their wake by a magnetic force, walking past Edward.
She’d known it too.
“John!” At Ellen’s call, Edward turned to watch them in the courtyard. Ellen’s reservation had dissolved, she’d rushed forward and tried to take John but Pembroke pushed her away and signalled one of his footmen to hold her back.
Edward moved quickly, striding out to where the pitiful scene was unfolding. When he reached Ellen he pushed the Duke’s man aside, holding her about the waist himself while she writhed and tugged for freedom, crying out to John as Pembroke climbed up into the carriage after the boy.
The footman shut the door and her fight drained as quickly as it had come. On a sob she pushed Edward’s arm away and straightened, silent suddenly and apparently resigned. But belying the tears rolling down her cheeks, Edward saw her meet the bastard’s condemning gaze with a look that refused to be downtrodden.
The carriage drew into motion, lurching forward and Pembroke’s footmen caught the grips at the rear, hopping up onto the footplates as it pulled away. Ellen was watching, standing motionless, as the black shiny beast of a vehicle turned to pass beneath the arch of the raised portcullis. She followed then, slowly at first, lifting her hand when Edward glimpsed John at the other window looking back, as though she thought she could still touch John if she tried. Then as the carriage swept out of the confinement of the courtyard, the driver’s long whip flicked up in an outward lick at the two pairs of jet black horses’ backs and the carriage pulled into a quicker pace. The strike-strike pattern of the animals trot on the gravel filling the air, the coachman called them on.
Ellen began to run, her pace increasing with that of the carriage as she clutched at her skirt to draw it from her feet, running out on to the drive behind it.
“John! I love you! I love you! Don’t forget!” she called in a desperate voice as the carriage’s distance from her expanded, broadening by the second.
With the carriage pulling ahead steadily, Edward doubted John heard her.
Her hand still raised in its direction Ellen stopped, now silent again, watching the snake-like black sheen of carriage and horses trail along the gravel drive and over the brow.
When it disappeared from view, she instantly turned and walked back towards the house, passing him without any acknowledgement. But despite her silence he knew she was like a dam about to break beneath a flood of emotion.
Edward followed but said nothing, letting her lead him to the private drawing-room where they and John had shared so many happy hours.
Her fingers smoothing her dress and pelisse, her defensive shell rigidly in place, securing all her dammed up pain, she lowered herself into a seat, perching on the edge of the chair.
She was his ice maiden again, the real, living, breathing, Ellen, hidden behind her wall of perfect social etiquette. Her eyes lifting to his, dared him to ask his questions.
An hour ago they’d been like any normal family.
He shook his head, turning away and taking a moment to gain control over his own feelings. It seemed he was not as skilled in setting them aside as she was, nor so experienced in dissembling.
But then he’d not had as many opportunities for need, nor practice.
She lied to me.
He moved to the decanters which stood on a chest against the wall, glinting in the spring light that spilled through the tall windows, and filled two glasses with his brother’s French brandy. Then walked back to Ellen and held one out. “Take it.” When she did not, he thrust it a little forward, in a gesture that warned her not to anger him needlessly.
But the chink in her armour was visible as she took the glass—her fingers shook. She lifted the rim of the glass to her lips and sipped the amber liquid, her eyes cast down avoiding his gaze.
“Is he John’s father?” Edward could not keep the bitter accusation from his voice, he did not want to feel this way, but she had kept it from him. What was he supposed to think—feel? He felt deceived, betrayed and wounded.
What did I do to deserve lack of trust and lies!
Her eye
s shot to his, a mocking laugh escaping her lips and he suddenly knew the answer before she spoke. “No, Edward, he is not John’s father, he is mine. Everything I told you is true.”
Bowled over, ice cold shock raced from his gut spreading out across his skin. He’d married the daughter of the Duke of Pembroke. He dropped into a chair opposite hers, and threw back his brandy in a single gulp, while she broke into a barrage of indignant words.
“You are not often at a loss for words, Edward. I suppose you wish to know the whole of it now?”
He stopped her with a lifted hand, angry still, perhaps even more so. Why had she not trusted him with this? “All I wish to know,” he answered, “is why on earth you did not speak of this before? Did Gainsborough know?”
Her mocking laugh rang out again. “Why do you think his fortune bloomed? He was not a man of such great substance when he took me on. Have you known many other men keep their mistresses for so many years? He called me his treasure for more than one reason. He recognised me at once, and forced the General to hand me over with a sum the man could not ignore then proceeded to blackmail my father, knowing my father would not want anyone in the ton to know his daughter was so sullied. I think Gainsborough found it more satisfying to know who it was he fucked, than he did to actually fuck me.”
“Do not be coarse, it doesn’t suit you,” Edward clipped out, as he rose to pour a second brandy. Of course she’d used the word deliberately to shock him—to kick him back for accusing her.
“He has been taunting the ton for years, taking me into clubs and willing someone to recognize the treasure he had in his hand,” she continued. “No one ever did. He thought it a great game.”
And her father had let her endure it. Her hurt and anger washed over Edward, but he was not succumbing to pity again, she had lied to him, or at least withheld the truth.
He returned to his seat, swallowing a second measure of the fiery liquid to deaden his pain.
She’d betrayed him. Slamming the glass down on a table at his side, he couldn’t even look at her.
“I am coarse, Edward!” she snapped, bringing his gaze back to her angry glare. “Do you not even see it now? There is an empty casket in my family’s mausoleum which declares it!” Leaning forward, she deserted her glass of brandy, leaving it on the floor as her fingers curled about the arms of her chair and she glared at him, visibly daring him to accuse her.
How did she wish him to respond to that? He hadn’t a clue.
“He pretends you’re dead?” he echoed eventually, the disbelieving statement spoken from his confused, tangled thoughts. He was in shock. His stomach churned.
“I told you I wrote to my family when Paul died, that was true,” she began again, while his thoughts reeled on. “We’d eloped, Paul and I. What I did not tell you was that Paul was the sixth son of the Earl of Craster. He’d made an offer which my father rejected out of hand. Nothing but a first son and title would do for his exacting standards. I couldn’t give Paul up. We loved each other. My father wanted me to marry a man twice my age. I refused, and he locked me up, allowing me nothing to eat until I would agree to his choice. My maid took a message to Paul and through her we planned to elope. Three nights later we were on the road to Gretna.
“When Paul died, I had no idea what to do. I wrote to his parents and mine. I never heard from them. When I gave birth I wrote again, begging for their help. My father came. When he found me I had already become the mistress of the Lieutenant Colonel. He took John away from me. John was only a baby.” Her last statement was spoken with a note of deep despair, a reflection of the memory visible in her pale blue eyes. But swallowing it back, as she was want to do, and hiding it beneath her thickened skin, she continued, “He forced me to sign away any right to John, and refused to acknowledge me ever again. He said I had disgraced myself, and he would not let me disgrace my family, he said I was dead to them. But he still took John. On his return he put a notice in the paper saying he had an heir, born to his daughter who had died of lung fever, following her husband’s heroic death at Waterloo. They brought John up to think I was dead. Since then I have found ways to follow what they do. It isn’t hard, the Duke of Pembroke’s business is widely published.
“When I was mistress to the Lieutenant Colonel and the General, I found ways to watch John in the park when they brought him to London, then I sent word to my old maid who helped me meet him. He doesn’t even remember the day he found out he did have a mother, he was too young. By the time my father found out, John was old enough to remember me. My father dismissed the maid. Since then I have always been in contact with John, in secret. Occasionally I managed to see him but mostly I have written. I wrote to him at the school often. For me his voice was such a blessing. When the King heard him sing once, he insisted my father enrol John at Eton and let him sing at the chapel.”
“And now?” Edward found himself prompting, absorbed in her hideous tale. “John knew Pembroke would come, didn’t he?” Her gaze met his, the wall down, her soul visible.
“Yes. He asked me two days after we reached here. I made a promise that he would not. A promise I knew I could not keep. But I wanted him to be happy for as long as we had. I didn’t want him to spend these days living in fear of what was to come.” Her eyes again dared Edward to challenge her for lying.
“But if you had told me.” Edward sat forward, his voice no longer accusing but chiding.
“I thought you may send him back. My father is a powerful man. I did not want to take the risk.”
Tipping his hands up in a gesture of disempowerment Edward eyed her with the hurt pain lying in his gut. “Do you still trust me so little? You wound me, Ellen. What have I done to deserve it? I’ve stood by you at every turn.” He confronted her, injured pride heavy in his words, but his body shifted regardless, rising, itching to be closer to her as he crossed the short distance between their chairs and squatted onto his haunches before her, his hands gripping hers in her lap.
Her fingers squeezed his, in apparent acceptance of his unspoken offer of forgiveness and reconciliation. The pale, crystal-like sheen in her eyes caught the light from the window as her gaze met his. “I wanted to. I did. But Gainsborough had—”
She got no further as he pressed his forefinger to her lips for a moment. God, when was he going to stop hearing that bloody man’s name from her?
“I am not Gainsborough,” he growled releasing his impatience as he let go her hands and stood, turning back to pour himself another drink. He would not be compared to that man.
“I know.” She had stood too, wishing to placate him, he could tell from her voice. “But can you blame me for my hesitation? I hardly knew you really. You are the first man since Paul—” Her voice broke for a moment before she continued. He refused to look at her, knowing if he did he would let her get away with insulting him again. Comparing me to Gainsborough, “—who has offered me true kindness. You have no power to fight against him, Edward. My father has an army of lawyers. There is nothing you could have done. He was right, he has the legal standing over John. I foolishly gave it to him. He would have found us sooner or later, even if we had moved on. What was the point of telling you? It seemed better to make the most of the time we had.”
“If it was a fait accompli, why even take John from the school.” Turning, his refilled glass in his hand, Edward eyed her with an expression he was sure still showed his disappointment. He’d not once let her down. He’d trusted her, but she had not returned his faith.
“Because Gainsborough knew where John was. You forget Gainsborough was not just losing me but losing his power to blackmail my father. Gainsborough would have tried to get to John first. He’d threatened to do it dozens of times if I didn’t do what he wished. That night when he told me he knew about us, he said he had sent men for John. He threatened to hurt John if I saw you again. I do not like my father, but I know he will keep John safe. John is his heir you see, my father had no son. If John cannot be with me, he is safer with
him.”
Edward downed his drink. Another nail in the coffin then, the man would not easily let his heir go. “You have sisters, I remember.”
“Yes three, younger than me, all wed now.”
“You are in contact with them?”
She shook her head as though his suggestion was absurd. “As far as I know they think I’m dead. I thought it best to leave it that way. You forget how I was living. It was hardly something I would wish them to know.”
“While you’re left to suffer at the hands of vile brutes. Do you really think so poorly of yourself? I thought we’d begun to cure your self-loathing. It is like you are intent on doing some ridiculous penance. As though you think you deserve to be treated ill while your family live on in luxury without a care. Do you think this is all your fault?”
“I chose to run away with Paul,” she answered quietly, holding his gaze uncertainly.
“Ellen.” He set aside his glass and stepped forward, bracing her arms. She looked away. He shifted his grip to her face, cupping her jaw in his hands and turned her back. “This is not your fault. It is obvious to me now any blame lies firmly at your father’s door. Give me time to think and we will work out how to respond, but I refuse to let him keep John.” Her eyes opening wider, the pale blue caught the light from the window as she took a steadying breath. Her fingers closed over his then and drew them down.
“You will never cease to amaze me, Edward. I don’t understand you sometimes. How can you not continue to blame me for this? I am the spurned daughter of the Duke of Pembroke, and you are not daunted by it?” Reaching up onto her toes she kissed his lips briefly, then, with a silly burst of fearful laughter and a shake of her head, she added, “If you can find a way to get John back you shall not simply be my hero, I shall bid to the church to have you sainted. And do you know what the most surprising thing is? I really think perhaps you can.”
“I am known for my determination, Ellen. Perhaps I should have warned you of that.” He felt a nervous laugh rise from his chest too, at the sheer audacity it would take to go up against a man like Pembroke. But God, if she finally came to believe in him it would be worth it, and it had to be worth it for John.
