by Olivia Drake
His voice rattled through the small storeroom. He closed the door, and the lock clicked into place.
Impotent anger and black despair clashed within Damien. He damned himself for falling into a trap.
The trap that kept him from the son he’d come to cherish and the only woman he’d ever loved.
Chapter 22
A frosty December wind buffeted Sarah. A decidedly English chill invaded her bones. Shivering, she gripped the frog fastening of her hood and tilted her head back. The three-story town house was built of stark red brick. Gray stone framed the tall windows, and four Corinthian columns supported a lofty portico.
Number Twenty-Six, Hanover Square. The London residence of the Duke and Duchess of Lamborough. And Blanche Coleridge, the dowager duchess. Damien’s mother.
The sense of purpose that had brought Sarah halfway around the world abruptly deserted her. She wanted to turn and flee. Merciful God, what if the dowager took Kit from her?
Looking toward the hired hack waiting at the curbstone, she saw Reginald rub a circle in the frosted window. His lips formed an encouraging smile. He’d held her tight when the charred bones of a man the size of Damien had been found among the dozen people burned in the hotel. Reginald had assisted her in arranging the burial. He’d been wonderful on the long voyage, a father to Kit and a friend to her. Perched on his lap, the baby pressed his alert face to the window. He looked so like Damien that Sarah’s throat squeezed tight. No, the dowager wouldn’t want Damien’s son. But she’d be forced to acknowledge him as the heir.
With renewed resolve, Sarah took a chilly breath, mounted the steps, and grasped the brass knocker. Her firm rap resounded. The door opened smoothly on oiled hinges. A portly man in the pristine black garb of a butler looked down his ruddy nose at her. White cherub curls crowned the orb of his face.
“May I be of assistance, madam?” His cultured tone daunted her, but only for a moment. This must be Bromley, Damien’s sole ally in the household.
“I should like to speak with the dowager duchess.”
A slight frown furrowed his brow. “Her Grace isn’t accepting callers today. If you would care to leave your card...”
“I’m sure she’ll see me.” Sarah’s chest tightened. “What I have to say concerns her son Damien.”
Bromley’s bushy brows lifted in startlement. “Lord Damien? Do come in, madam...”
“Miss Sarah Faulkner. I’m afraid I haven’t a calling card. I’ve come straight from India.”
The butler ushered her inside and took her cloak and gloves, then showed her to a drawing room. He surreptitiously glanced over her gown of untrimmed gray velvet and her blond hair drawn into a knot at her neck. Curiosity gleamed in his pale blue eyes, but he merely said, “Please make yourself comfortable, Miss Faulkner. I shall see if Her Grace is available.” Bowing, he went out.
Too nervous to sit, Sarah paced the opulent gold-and-white room, then peered into the foyer. The only sound was the tick-tock of a case clock. Silver ribbons draped a Christmas tree. Alabaster statues stood frozen in columned niches. Marble in a checkerboard design of black and snow gleamed as if no mortal feet had ever desecrated its perfection. The grand staircase led her gaze upward to an arched and gilded ceiling and a chandelier that glistened like an elegant arrangement of ice crystals.
The effect was lovely...and very, very cold.
Yearning for the warmth and vitality of India, Sarah shivered again. She imagined Damien as a boy in this frigidly formal atmosphere, skipping down the steps, racing along the echoing corridors, leaping out at Bromley...
Despite his atrocious upbringing, Damien had become a fine man, a man of honor and of sensitivity. Snippets of memory flared like bright stars inside her.
How I wish I could be the man of your dreams.
But he was. He’d died before he’d learned it was true. The need to tell him ached like an eternal wound. So many things had been left unsaid.
I never envisioned needing a woman as much as I need you.
Sorrow misted her eyes. Would she ever grow accustomed to Damien’s absence? Would she always turn around and expect to see his smiling dark eyes, his bold grin beckoning to her?
I worry about whether or not I’ll be a good father.
How capable he’d become at caring for Kit, at delighting in his son. With bittersweet bliss, Sarah pressed her hand to her belly. Damien hadn’t lived to learn that she nurtured within her womb the child conceived in their last joyful joining.
She walked to the hearth and rubbed her hands. The coal blaze warmed her fingers, yet she still felt chilled. The chimneypiece of pearled marble towered to the ceiling. This must be the fireplace into which the duchess had hurled the drawing Damien had done as a seven-year-old boy yearning for his mother’s love.
The thought pierced Sarah’s grief with the arrow of anger. It was time the dowager faced the truth about her second son.
“Miss Faulkner.”
In the doorway stood a woman, thin and snowy-haired, clad in a magnificent aquamarine crinoline. A string of flawless pearls looped her slim white throat. Hardly the formidable dragon Sarah had envisioned, the dowager walked into the room, her steps small and precise, as if she was concentrating on not stumbling.
Hands as pale as parchment lifted a silver lorgnette. She peered at Sarah, looking her up and down. “Kindly state your business. It is quite annoying to have one’s schedule disarranged to accommodate uninvited guests.”
The numbness left Sarah’s tongue. She tightly clasped her hands before her. “Pardon me, Your Grace. I have news of the son you drove away ten years ago.”
“Impertinent chit.” Blanche shook the lorgnette. “Who are you? His mistress?”
Sarah’s cheeks flamed. “I’m someone who cared very deeply for Damien. He certainly had little enough love in his life.”
The duchess made a dismissive snort. “Save your sentimental judgments. Give me your report and be gone. What has the boy done now? Been tossed into debtors’ prison? Indicted for murder? Or has he sent you here to plead for my forgiveness?”
“Damien is dead.”
The golden eyes sharpened. One pencil-thin eyebrow arched. Blanche lowered the lorgnette and walked slowly to a tall window, her face turned to the sumptuous draperies. For a startling instant, Sarah fancied she saw the heaviness of grief slump the dowager’s shoulders.
“I always knew that boy would go to an early grave. He was as rash and worthless as my father.”
Her rancor in the face of news that would set most mothers to weeping stirred the storm of Sarah’s resentment. She stepped toward the dowager. “You’ve no right to speak of Damien that way. You should be proud of him. He died a hero, saving me and his son from a fire.”
The dowager whirled so fast she wobbled. She clutched at the windowsill. “His son?” she said in a strange, wavering croak. “I don’t believe it.”
Sarah’s stomach lurched with uneasiness. “Yes. His name is Christopher, but we call him Kit. Your grandson is waiting with a companion in my carriage.”
Blanche stood frozen, her face a mask of icy hauteur. Then she made her way to a gilt table and rang a tiny bell.
Bromley appeared in the doorway. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“Fetch the child from the carriage outside.” She waved her lorgnette. “Well, go on. Be quick about it.”
Bowing, the butler hastened away.
The dowager swung back to Sarah. “How old is the boy?”
“Nearly eight months.”
“He’s just a baby, then. Was he born in India?”
“Yes. In Meerut, just before the mutiny began.”
Lifting her lorgnette, Blanche again subjected Sarah to a lengthy examination. “And you’re the mother? At least you’re a comely type. So, did you manage to dupe my son into marriage or not?”
“No, but I –”
“Just as I thought,” said the dowager in a scathing tone. “You’ve come to beg for money. How many pieces of silv
er will it take to buy your silence?”
Sarah’s palm itched to slap the woman. “None. If you’d allow me a word, I might correct your misconception. Kit isn’t mine. His mother was killed in the Indian mutiny. But he is Damien’s lawful son and heir.”
“Oh?” A wealth of mockery enriched the word. “So you’ve brought him here out of the goodness of your heart?”
“Yes,” Sarah said firmly. “I promised Damien I would care for Kit. And I shall. I know you won’t wish to be saddled with him.”
Despite Blanche’s hostile stare, Sarah refused to lower her eyes. A thought shook her. The duchess’s rigid expression held an echo of Damien in anger, the same hard cheekbones, the same fearless gaze. He’d learned his arrogance at her knee. Only as a man had he learned to open himself to love.
Bromley ushered in Reginald and the baby. Trembling with anxiety, Sarah hurried to them. Kit’s chubby face and dark eyes peeped from his winter wrappings. Seeing her, he cooed and smiled. Tendrils of love wreathed her in dismal doubts.
Damien had been right. She shouldn’t have brought Kit back to England. Position and privilege couldn’t take the place of heart and happiness. Would the dowager accept him?
She unwound his muffler and unbuttoned his tiny sailor coat. Her troubled gaze met Reginald’s grave face; then she turned and nearly tumbled over the dowager, who’d moved up behind her. An odd sensitivity touched her thin lips.
“Show me the lad,” she demanded.
Sarah reluctantly held him quiet for the dowager’s inspection. Blanche raised her lorgnette. The brief softness vanished into hard curiosity. “Why, he has a foreign look about him.” Still peering at him, she took a step nearer.
Babbling gaily, Kit leaned toward her. His tiny fist closed around her rope of pearls. He yanked and the necklace broke. The beads flew everywhere, pinging onto the floor, rolling under chairs and tables. Just as fast, he stuffed one into his mouth.
“Kit!” Sarah pulled his hand away and stuck her finger inside his mouth. To her horror, she couldn’t find the orb.
“My pearls!” the duchess wailed. “Bromley! Find my priceless pearls!”
Even as the butler rushed inside, Sarah hastened to Reginald. “Oh, dear God, he must have swallowed one. Will he choke?”
The doctor examined the cooing baby. “There’s nothing to worry yourself about. It seems to have gone down easily enough.”
“Nothing to worry about!” exclaimed Blanche. “Those pearls are a Lamborough family heirloom, a perfectly matched set.”
“And you shall recover all of them.” A twinkle in his blue eyes, Reginald regarded the butler, scrabbling on the floor for the pearls. “When we return to the hotel, I shall administer a dose of castor oil. That should bring the pearl out Kit’s other end.”
The duchess wrinkled her aristocratic nose. “How disgusting. I might have known Damien would sire an ill-mannered child.”
Sarah hugged Kit close, unmindful that he pulled at her hair. “Don’t you dare hold an infant responsible for an accident.”
Blanche pivoted toward her. “Who was his mother?”
Sarah girded herself for battle and said defiantly, “She was Damien’s wife. Her name was Shivina.”
“Shivina? What sort of name is that for an Englishwoman?”
“She wasn’t English. She was a Hindu woman.”
“A Hindoo?” The word rolled like poison off the duchess’s tongue. Her lips formed a curl of shocked disgust. “The child has mixed blood? Take him away. I don’t want the boy.”
“Fine. Just acknowledge him as heir and I’ll raise him. I have copies of the marriage and birth records right here.” From her reticule Sarah pulled out both documents, unfolded them, and handed them over for the dowager’s inspection.
The papers shook in Blanche’s age-mottled hands. “These must be a forgery,” she said hoarsely. “I shall summon a constable and have both of you clapped in Newgate.”
Leaning on his cane, Reginald came forward. “If I may be permitted to speak, Your Grace. I stood with Sarah as witness to the marriage.”
The duchess eyed him as if he were a loathsome spider. “And who might you be?”
“Dr. Reginald Pemberton-Sykes, lately of Her Majesty’s services in India.”
“Bah. I have only your word on that.”
“You may write and verify the records with the Indian registry office,” Sarah said. “Lord Canning himself signed the special license.”
“Lord Canning.” Blanche flung both certificates onto a gilt chair. “He’s a weakling, a skirt-chaser like most men. Likely Damien bribed him to sign the document.”
“That doesn’t make it any less legal and binding,” Sarah said.
“Humbug. I shall petition the Queen to annul the marriage.”
Alarm jolted Sarah. She mustn’t let the dowager cheat Kit out of his inheritance. If only there were a way to ensure his fortune and to take the spiteful woman down a peg in the process.
Could she convince her to accept Kit? By informing her of Damien’s innocence in his father’s death? It was worth a try.
“Perhaps you’ll change your mind,” Sarah began. “I should like to bring up another matter—”
“Mama!” A fair-haired man dashed into the room. A hat and coat were tangled in his arms, and a red scarf dragged behind him. “Anne won’t let me go out into the garden.”
Blanche’s taut expression eased. “Please return to your room, Christopher. I have guests.” Though her voice was firm, her command held a note of tenderness.
Sarah’s attention sharpened. He was the Duke of Lamborough, Damien’s older brother. Frail in build, Christopher was a pale shadow of Damien and a taller version of their mother. His fine-boned features held an almost feminine softness, and a pout thrust out his lower lip.
“But I want to go out,” he said plaintively. “It isn’t fair...” His voice trailed off as he spied Kit. “Look, Mama, a baby! Can I touch him? ‘
Without waiting for approval, he dropped his coat in a heap on the floor and moved toward Sarah. His clear blue eyes glowed with delight, and he brushed a hand over Kit’s silky black hair.
He turned his awed face to Sarah. “What’s his name?”
“He’s Christopher, too, but we call him Kit.”
The duke wheeled toward the dowager. “Mama, just think, the baby has my name. You said we would get a baby someday.” A young woman rushed through the doorway, and he motioned excitedly to her. “Anne, come here and see the baby. He has my name!”
Wringing her slender hands, she came forward. She had chestnut hair and brown eyes, dark velvet-wing brows, and sweet, if not beautiful features. She looked cautiously at the dowager. “I’m so sorry, Your Grace,” she murmured. “He wanted to go into the garden, but it was time for his medication. When I returned with the pills, he was gone.”
“Never mind,” Blanche said, her keen eyes on the duke, who chortled when the baby grasped his finger. “It’s more important that Christopher meet his nephew.”
Her calculating expression shot trepidation through Sarah. Surely the dowager wouldn’t change her mind about wanting Kit...
Anne turned wondering eyes to the baby. “His nephew? Has Damien come back, then?”
“No.” Blanche pulled Anne aside and murmured. “He’s dead. This is his son.”
Shock and curiosity sparkled in Anne’s eyes, but she merely walked to her husband’s side and smiled at the baby, then at Sarah. “May I hold him, please?”
Sarah hesitated for only an instant. “Of course.”
Anne gathered Kit close and sat on a gold-striped settee. Christopher trailed after her. “I want to hold him, too,” he said, his expression turning sulky.
“In a moment,” she said. “Babies are very delicate creatures. We must be careful with them, much more so than with dolls. See how I support him under the arms? He likes to stand, but I imagine he can’t do it on his own yet.”
The duke and duchess bent together, one f
air head and one chestnut. Kit reveled in their attention, babbling his pleasure and batting first at Anne’s yellow hair ribbons, then at Christopher’s watch chain. The duke laughed when the baby pulled out the timepiece and sucked on the gold casing.
Anne’s gentle devotion to her husband touched Sarah’s heart. What a sadness that a child had never come from the marriage. The greatest joy in her own life was knowing that, come summer, she would bear Damien’s baby.
The dowager stood by the hearth and watched her son. The chilly arrogance of her age-worn features had given way to the slackness of despair, the hopeless love of a mother for a damaged and blameless child.
The resentment inside Sarah melted into pity. The feeling surprised her and dulled the edge of her fury. So Blanche was capable of a mother’s love, albeit an obsessive love focused on her elder son. Sarah felt a sudden reluctance to blame the old duke’s death on Christopher. Yet how could she let Blanche go on believing falsehoods about Damien? How could she let Kit bear the taint of a father who’d supposedly committed patricide?
The dowager turned to Sarah. “The child will stay here,” she said in an undertone that the others couldn’t hear. “I shall dispatch a footman to fetch his things.” She picked up the silver bell from the table.
“Don’t,” said Sarah in panic. Dear God, she couldn’t settle Kit under the wing of a woman who had despised his father. The dowager only wanted him as a plaything for Christopher. “I never meant to leave Kit here,” she said in a strident whisper.
“You forget yourself, Miss Faulkner. The boy is my grandson.”
Unflinching, Sarah met the dowager’s icy glare. “That may be the unfortunate truth, but I shall protect him from you for as long as I can.”
“Listen to me, you impertinent—”
“No, you listen.” Fear made her bold. “Damien entrusted his son to my care. His last wish was to secure Kit’s position as his heir. That acknowledgment is all I require. I can’t trust you to give Kit the love he needs.”
