“I am quite positive it would be appropriate to begin at the beginning,” he said evenly. “You do not mind if I take a drink while we converse, I trust?” He rose before she had the time to reply and made his way to the corner bar. “Would you care for something, Aunt? I could ring Chauncy to bring in some tea.” He glanced at her over his shoulder.
“Nothing at all.” He heard the groaning of the chair as she shifted. “Well, the beginning. Let me see.”
She still had her ringed finger to her lips in apparent deep thought when Jonathon returned to his seat. He wondered what could be so “delicate” that even Aunt Harriet could not bring herself to utter the words. He couldn’t remember a time when she had been rendered speechless, and he grew more and more apprehensive as the silence stretched on.
It was annoying, he finally concluded. Not frightening. Not intimidating. Merely, annoying. She sat there like a butcher waiting to chop off the chicken’s head. Well, he would sooner be nabbed by robbers than stick his own neck under the hatchet. He sipped on his sherry with mustered calm.
“I suppose I must start at the beginning.” She sighed as if this fact, a fact Jonathon had voiced what seemed like eons ago, pained her greatly and took much effort on her part.
He sat with his back as straight as a train rail and his expression just as unbending. He sipped again on the warm sherry.
“You see, Jonathon, it is Geoffry. Harold is not his father,” she blurted out.
Jonathon’s composure went awry. Sherry threatened to spill forth from his lips as he tried desperately not to choke. He managed to swallow the liquid without too much trouble. “What are you trying to say, Aunt Harriet? That he…that you…”
Lady Wescotte’s eyes bulged with understanding. “No, no,” she assured him hastily. “You misconstrue me. Neither am I his mother,” she elaborated. “No one besides your father and me— and now you, of course—knows this. Neither Geoffry nor Marie has the slightest inclination. We all thought the less who had knowledge, the better.”
Jonathon studied his aunt. For a moment, she seemed truly uncomfortable, yet he knew right through to his bones that she had an ulterior motive for this conversation. She wanted something from him, but he could not comprehend just what he could possibly have to do with Geoffry being an adopted child.
He emptied the contents of his glass into his mouth. “Why are you telling me this?”
Lady Wescotte expelled a large amount of breath. “Geoffry’s father was your own.”
Chapter Five
Aunt Harriet’s declaration rose and hung in the silence between them. Time crawled on its belly, frightfully slow, and with caution.
Jonathon did not know whether to believe her or have her flogged. The latter truly would be deserved. He was never one silly enough to believe his father did not have faults, but loyalty was definitely not one of them—especially after he had evidently sacrificed much for the sole good of Lark, a child who was not his own.
But why would Aunt Harriet lie—a bald-faced lie such as this, and against her own brother? Even the likes of she would not do such a thing. There would be no advantage in it.
“I know it must be difficult for you, but, on my life, it is the truth.”
Jonathon’s thoughts clanged to a close as his aunt’s words broke the heavy silence. Heat rose within him, creeping up his neck, consuming his ears. “It will be your life, Aunt Harriet, if this is not the truth.” He held his voice even and deadly, his eyes steely and implacable. She needed to know it was a fool’s errand she was carrying, if this not be the truth.
Her eyes darted nervously for a moment before she inched her way forward in the chair. “I thought you might not believe me, so I carried along the proof,” she said, her tone now back to business.
Jonathon looked on while his aunt shuffled through the documents she had placed on his desk. It occurred to him then that she had been clutching these same papers while Smythe had read the terms of Peter Rexley’s Will.
The rustle of the papers grated on Jonathon’s over-sensitized nerves, and the urge to rip the information from her chubby hands germinated inside him. He worked the muscle in his jaw to keep from carrying out the heinous deeds his mind concocted.
“Ah, here are the ones I seek,” she said with satisfaction. She handed him the sheaf of papers and settled back into the chair.
The whine of the leather irritated his every sense, his usually unruffled composure gone on holiday.
“They should show you all you need to know.”
He read the first document with much interest. It was a birth certificate naming some unbeknownst woman as the mother of “Geoffry Hammond”. “Father” was listed as unknown. He raised his gaze to Lady Wescotte but she stopped him from speaking.
“Before you say a word, look at the other document.”
He slid the birth certificate to the back and gazed at what appeared to be an adoption decree. It named Harold and Harriet Wescotte as the legal parents of one Geoffry Hammond, newly named Geoffry Wescotte. An addendum was attached that instructed one Peter Rexley, Lord Somerset, to pay an annual sum of one hundred guineas until Geoffry reached the age of ten and seven.
Disbelief dueled with acceptance inside him.
“So you see, Jonathon, I was quite on the up and up.”
His gaze darted to Lady Wescotte. She looked quite satisfied with herself, which tweaked Jonathon’s already shortened temper.
“What do you want, Aunt Harriet?” He bit out.
She started, and he felt a twinge of satisfaction at having shaken her with his caustic tone. She had no regard whatsoever, and he did not feel like extending her any courtesy. His father was gone aloft; it accomplished naught good to reveal the man’s sins, save to cause anguish to his family, so why would she do this now? It was heartless and cruel.
“W-well, to see to it you fulfill the terms of your father’s agreement. It is the proper thing to do, you know.” She seemed quite surprised to have to utter her request aloud.
The blood pounded in his ears. As if he needed to be reminded of his responsibilities. He had done nothing but fulfill responsibilities since the day his father saw fit to lock himself behind the walls of Somerset Hall. And now, on top of it all, Harriet the Fatted Hen had just laid this egg. Fulfilling responsibility was the last thing Jonathon wanted to do, but regardless of the turmoil churning within him, he knew responsibility was what he must needs deal with. Like it or not, that was the stuff he was made of.
He pushed the chair from the desk and stood. Glancing at his empty sherry glass, the fleeting desire to be more like one of Cyril’s cronies waltzed through the halls of his mind. How nice it would be to drown his responsibility in a bottle of sherry—or brandy—or a good stout port, for that matter.
He dropped the papers. “Leave these here with me, and I will see to them and get back to you.”
She struggled to her feet. “But, but…”
He let out an impatient sigh. “But what, Aunt Harriet?”
“These are my only copies,” she said with deflated vehemence.
Unblemished rage consumed Jonathon’s body. The pulse in his head boxed his temples. “Are you insinuating I might destroy them?”
“Of course not, Jonathon. No need to get testy. I am quite sure you are an honorable man.” Silence hung like the blade of a guillotine. “Well, I shall leave you to it then,” she ventured, although she remained motionless.
At length, she inched her way around the chair. “Yes, I shall leave you to it.”
~*∞*~
The sun hung low in the western sky, and the air caught a chill. Still, Jonathon sat in the quiet solitude of his study. There were moments when he could hear Marie or Cyril, or some other member of the household making their way past his door, but no one dared enter, and he had no inclination to leave his solace.
A determined rapping came at the door but Jonathon ignored it. Moments later, it came again.
“What is it?” He bellowed
impatiently.
Chauncy opened the door and came in with a polite bow. “The others are preparing to take tea. Would you care for any, my lord?”
“No.” Jonathon did not favour his butler with a glance.
“Would you care for me to build a fire? There is quite a chill in the air this eve.”
“I am well aware of the weather, Chauncy. Leave me be.”
“Very well, my lord.”
Jonathon listened for the doors to click closed before he ventured to look about the room. The shadows had grown long, and despite his thick velvet coat, he could distinguish the drop in temperature. He had no inkling as to how long he had been sitting, staring, sifting through the papers his aunt had left him.
If he were to believe what he had read, Bentley Smythe knew all about this deed in which the late Lord Somerset had been involved. Jonathon wondered to how many other sordid family secrets Bentley Smythe was privy. The solicitor must not have exaggerated at all when he had said he was more than family solicitor to the Rexley household. By Jove, he had enough ammunition to ruin the entire lineage if he so chose.
Jonathon raised himself out of the leather chair. His joints were stiff from sitting, and his knees cracked in protest to the movement. He wrapped his arms around himself and vigorously rubbed each arm. Perhaps he should have allowed Chauncy to lay a fire.
He made his way to the fireplace and lit the oil lamp on the mantel. The room illuminated immediately, and Jonathon wished his life could be so easily lit.
A few unused logs remained in the hearth bin. Jonathon staggered them in the fireplace and kindled a small fire. As he warmed his hands, his gaze traveled to the portrait of his father. It was an old portrait, done soon after he had married. The image captured a radiance reflected in Peter Rexley’s eyes that had been snuffed out long ago. Could his father have been so unhappily married that he would shame his wife by having an affair? All evidence pointed to that end, yet Father had been so devastated by his wife’s death that his all-consuming grief pointed to a man completely devoted. One completely devoted did not father illegitimate children. It all did not make sense.
And what of Lark? Did Geoffry’s parentage have anything to do with Peter Rexley’s devotion to protecting her, saddling Jonathon with her?
The image of Lark rolled into his mind on a storm cloud. Was there no end to this turmoil, to his father’s secrets?
The cloud burst and rained terror and uncertainty. What if she and Geoffry were connected in some way? Perhaps that was the reason her life was in danger. Would revealing her identity put the boy’s life in jeopardy also? Surely, his father would have disclosed such a thing. But evidently, there was much his father had deemed fit not to disclose.
Jonathon’s stomach felt as if a wash maid had put it through the laundry wringer. His gaze fell and rested on the stack of condolence missives sent by friends and peers. He took them in his hand and made his way back to the desk.
As he sifted through them, he wondered how many of the people had actually known his father. How many had even set eyes on his father in the past decade? Peter Rexley had been shunned. It had been a constant struggle for Jonathon to retain the family dignity. Cyril was no help in that department. And friends? Well, there were very few of those. He had become so wary of everyone over the years. The members of the ton seemed so hypocritical in the way they had rejected his father, that Jonathon had found it difficult to allow himself to trust anyone enough to make friends.
He read the next missive.
“To the bereaved family of Peter Rexley, Lord Somerset. Jonathon, it is with condolences I send this missive regarding the loss of your father. If there is anything I can do in your time of mourning, please do not hesitate. My condolences to Cyril and the balance of your kinsmen.
—Drew Hollingsworth”
“Now there is a friend,” Jonathon announced to the empty room. Drew Hollingsworth. A friend no respected member of Society would claim, but a loyal friend nonetheless. Working for the London Gazette made the ton quite wary of Hollingsworth, but Jonathon found the news-writer to be much more constant than many a titled gent.
Jonathon tossed the missives onto the desk sending them sliding halfway across the heavily polished mahogany. Mulling in self-pity was accomplishing nothing. He needed to take action.
He would contact Bentley Smythe first thing on the morrow, and he would find out more on this business with Aunt Harriet. That done, he would find some way to appease the biddy without engaging her thoughtless wrath. All he needed, on the brink of marrying a mute, while hiding that very woman in a wing of his own house, was Harriet parroting off like some angry bird.
He stormed to the doors with renewed conviction and flung them open. “Chauncy!”
The butler appeared out of nowhere. “You bellowed, my lord?”
Jonathon eyed Chauncy’s bland expression and felt the tension drain from him. He smiled. “Yes, Chauncy. I did. I shall take some tea now, if you do not mind.”
“Of course, my lord. Will you be joining the others or would you take your tea in your study.”
“No, no. In my study. I think I have had enough of family for one day.”
“I quite understand, my lord,” Chauncy turned precisely on his heel and made his way across the Great Room.
Chapter Six
A knock on the door stole Lark’s breath. It was Lord Somerset. She had not seen him for almost a fortnight—the most harrowing two weeks in all her memory. Lord Peter had lived alone, so once the few servants were retired or gone, the entire house had been hers to roam. But in these weeks since Lord Peter’s death, Lark had been forced to remain silent in all her doings, tiptoeing through the wing with the ease of an elephant on the shells of eggs. She had not even been allowed to venture to the sanctuary of her peaceful library.
Jonathon entered, sharply dressed and ready for the day, a fact she could now describe in great detail. In the weeks they had been sequestered, Rebekka had coached Lark in the likes of fashion and other matters with which she would have to be flawless in order to enter Society. Lark had tried to tell her maid that she was serious when she had said she would not marry the brute, but Rebekka had worn them both ragged with all the reasons Lark would have to comply with Lord Peter’s wishes. The most effective being the sacrifice he had made to ensure Lark’s safety.
It was true, she did owe Lord Peter that, and so she had studied diligently. If she had to live the rest of her days with the new Lord Somerset, she wanted to, at the very least, show him she would do all she could not to embarrass him.
Now, as he stood before her, all the hurt and anger he had dealt her swelled once more and eclipsed the affection she had once—and possibly, still—held for him. She lifted herself gracefully off the chaise and forced a smile.
“I daresay your mathematical is the standard of precision and grace, Lord Somerset, and your Hussar boots are well kept.” She graced him with a formal curtsy and waited while Rebekka translated what she had said with her hands. “But, I must remind you, I will still not become your wife.” She hoped her knowledge would cut him to the quick for treating her like an imbecile.
~*∞*~
Jonathon did not know whether to laugh or thrash the gel into submissiveness. As the abigail relayed his betrothed’s words, he suddenly remembered a time when Lark was merely five. He and Cyril had been running in the fields on the Blackwell property, trying desperately to keep a kite in the air. Small Lark had wanted to help. A smile drew to Jonathon’s lips as he remembered the haughty little sprite’s reply to their denial of her wish.
“I must not only play with dolls! I can run and hold a string just as well as you, and if you do not take it back, I shall tell Mama.” She had pouted, her chubby face transforming into an almost perfect sphere. What an impudent little minx she had been.
Goodness! He had quite forgotten that. She could speak well enough then. What was the problem now? Had she been injured in the fire?
He studied he
r petulant expression, the way her eyes steeled with tenacity. Quite charming, really. Still and all, he refused to be undermined by the likes of her. He would not be saddled with her if he could help it—and if he could not, well, he’d be damned if she would refuse him.
He turned and spoke to Rebekka. “Is there any way to communicate with her?”
Lark groaned and slumped back onto the chaise like a spoilt child who had just been told, no. Rebekka laughed, and Lark shot the abigail a scathing look.
“My lord, you must remember Lark can hear perfectly well. If you speak to her, she will respond.”
Confound it! Of a certain, he had known she could hear—that was not quite what he had been asking.
Frustrated, he crossed the room in short order and came to stand above Lark. She lifted her gaze to him.
“I know you can hear me, Miss Blackwell. I meant; is there anyway at all I can learn to understand your replies. You seem to converse well enough with your abigail. You see,”—he motioned towards Rebekka—“it is quite irritating to have to rely on your abigail to translate your hand gestures.”
Jonathon watched Lark’s demeanor go from self-assurance to sadness. Her cornflower blue eyes, once sparkling, were suddenly crestfallen. What had he said?
She was doing it again, flinging fingers and hands in foreign gestures. He looked to Rebekka for guidance.
“Lark begs your forgiveness and asks if you might return another time. She is quite tired.”
“She has not—” he stopped himself and drew his attention to Lark. “You have had leave of me for near a fortnight, yet you grow weary so soon? I trust our marriage will be difficult to endure if my presence weakens you that much.” He bowed politely and made his way to the door. “Rebekka, I would bid you come to the library when you have attended to Miss Blackwell.” He quit the room without a further word to either of them.
~*∞*~
Lark threw herself back on the chaise. “Oh he is heartless,” she wailed with her hands. “He is so terribly, terribly awful. I shall never survive. Why did Lord Peter have to meet his demise?”
The Resurrection of Lady Somerset Page 5
