A Worthy Wife (10 page)

“We understood he gambled.”

“He gambled and drank and whored. We all felt sorry for Elizabeth, especially after her daughter died.”

Kenyon and Aurora looked at each other. “Her daughter died?”

“That’s right, an infant. Less than two, to my recollection. I have the letter she wrote to thank me for my condolences. Never threw anything away. My girls can find it if you want.” Lady Anstruther-Jones puffed on her pipe, sending smoke rings to the tops of the trees. “Elizabeth was always a melancholy sort of female, never robust. She seemed to lose heart after the little girl’s death, and passed on not long after.”

“And their other child? Who took care of her?”

“Other child? I don’t remember another child, boy or girl. No, I would have known because my maid’s sister was their nursemaid. There was just the one, and Elizabeth doted on her, more’s the pity.”

Aurora could not understand, could not think what questions to ask. It was Kenyon who persisted. “And
Halle? What happened to him? Could he have had a lucky streak, or a windfall at business?”

“Him? He took up opium, like other weak-willed wastrels before and after. That would have taken any brass he got his hands on. He died a few months after Elizabeth, to no one’s regret. We had to take up a collection to bury the ne’er-do-well. No, if you’re looking for a fortune, you’ll have to seek elsewhere.”

Kenyon thanked her, somehow, and got them through another few minutes of Lady Anstruther-Jones’s reminiscences and advice, invitations to call again, and congratulations on the marriage, while Aurora caught her breath. White-faced and trembling, she managed to exchange parting pleasantries as if nothing of moment had been discussed. Finally the curricle was brought round and Kenyon handed her in.

He couldn’t speak of what they had learned, not with Ned hanging over the back of the seat, but he could deuced well glare at his wife and the burden she carried. “Damn, I told you not to find favor with anything!”

Her nerves stretched as thin as the ribbon holding his cursed quizzing glass, Aurora snapped back, “What was I supposed to say when it landed in my lap?”

“Anything, by George, but ‘Oh, what a nice monkey’!”

Chapter Ten

“No, I
refuse to believe it.” Aurora needed both hands to hold her teacup steady. They were in the sitting room of their hotel suite, trying to make sense of Lady Anstruther-Jones’s information.

“Hortense may be many things, but she doesn’t lie. She’d lose all credibility if she fabricated her stories.” Kenyon was pacing between the fireplace and the window, window to fireplace. He was giving Aurora the headache, atop her other woes. He was also in the way of Tarlow, his valet, who was carrying the earl’s belongings back across the hall, into the other suite.

Aurora waited for the valet to leave with his latest armload of folded shirts. “I cannot accept that Aunt Thisbe would have taken in any but her own sister’s child.”

“She might have believed what she wanted to believe. A childless woman with the opportunity to raise an infant after years of barrenness? She would have turned a blind eye to anything.”

“No. Aunt Thisbe is a scientist, a searcher for truth. She would not have practiced such a deception.” Her cup rattled in its saucer.

“Then why was she so quick to change the infant’s name? The adoption was not necessary if the McPhees were legal guardians.”

“I can understand why, if my father’s name was in such ill odor. Perhaps he had creditors who would have dunned Uncle Ptolemy. Either way, Aunt Thisbe spent hours telling me stories of her sister, so I would remember the mother I never knew.”

“Very well, she did not know,” he conceded. “She
thought she was taking in Elizabeth Halle’s daughter. But face facts, Aurora, that daughter was dead. Someone else saw an opportunity to get his by-blow out of India, and leapt at the chance.”

“No, again,” Aurora insisted. “I have my mama’s letter saying that she was sending me to Aunt Thisbe. She was not well enough to raise an infant, she wrote, and conditions in India were too unhealthful for a child. We always assumed she knew she was dying and wished her baby’s well-being secured before it was too late. She loved me, my mother did. It’s in her letters, along with the tearstains. I’ve cherished that knowledge my entire life and you shall not steal it from me.”

It was bad enough to learn that her father was a wastrel, but Aurora had always known that, in her heart. Aunt Thisbe and Uncle Ptolemy had shielded her from the worst facts, but Aurora had heard the truth in their voices when they referred to him as “that dastard Halle.” But to think that the pretty young girl in the portrait with Aunt Thisbe was not her mother? That her beloved aunt and uncle were not even blood kin? Aurora could not bear the idea.

“It’s not I who would take your birthright from you, Aurora. It’s everyone who knows the truth.” He poured himself a glass of cognac, wishing he could offer one to his wife, whose voice was beginning to quaver.

“Birthright? I have my birth certificate.”

“And Lady Anstruther-Jones has a letter from Elizabeth Halle herself saying the child was dead. You have
that
child’s birth certificate, not your own.”

“No! I am who I am!”

“Dash it, Aurora, you don’t know who you are! You could be anyone, though the blond hair and blue eyes would point to English parents.” He turned and saw his valet making another trip. “Dash it, Tarlow, put that down and have done!” he shouted when the gentleman’s gentleman would have edged past him with his traveling lap desk. The valet carefully placed the heavy cherrywood piece on a table near Aurora and fled.

“Shouting at servants is not going to alter the situation,” Aurora chided the earl.

“Tarlow is used to it.”

Lord Windham resumed his pacing, but still heard her sotto voce: “I daresay he is.” He took out his quizzing glass to stare her down, but Aurora’s eyes were closed. She refused to watch his furious pacing or listen to his logic. “My mother must have had a reason for her deception, she must have! I wonder if Lord Phelan knew. He helped bring me home, Aunt Thisbe always said.”

“Or his brother. What was Ramsey’s brother’s name? Ratchford?”

“George, Lord Ratchford, died some years ago. The only times I ever saw him or the son who inherited the earldom were when Ratchford Manor was thrown open for public days. I cannot imagine any connection, other than that the Ramseys and the Balcombes were neighbors. I never even knew either of the brothers had a
tendre
for my mother until this week.”

“But Ramsey would know. Thunderation, I should not have been so quick to let him disappear with Podell. At the very least, I could have shaken some answers out of your sham soldier.”

Aurora’s eyes snapped open. “You think there is a link between Lieutenant Podell and my parents in India?”

“If there is, it’s Phelan. The whole argle-bargle is too smoky by half. Would you mind if I traveled back to Bath tomorrow to see what answers I can find? You could stay here, seeing the sights, while I went.” And she could make micefeet of her reputation and his fortune. “On the other hand, would you mind coming along? Your aunt and uncle would be more forthcoming, I think, with you present.”

“I would be glad to go. My whole world is turned upside down, and I won’t feel sane until it’s righted.” Aurora felt better now that they had a starting point, a plan of action. She needed the safety and security of her old home, to touch the familiar. She needed the comforting reassurance of her aunt and uncle, for she was certainly not getting any solace from her husband. Why, he hadn’t taken her hand to help her from the carriage, letting the hotel’s footman do the honors. And he hadn’t
so much as smiled at her once since they’d left Lady Anstruther-Jones’s house. Worst of all, his valet was moving his belongings across the hall.

“Are you still angry about the monkey, Kenyon? The groom did say as how your curricle could be restored. And Ned is out right now, ordering a cage and finding how to feed the little creature and care for it. I promise Sweety won’t be a problem to you.”

“Sweety? The simian is a spawn of Satan, and I could purchase this whole blasted hotel for what I’m having to pay in damages. What the devil were you thinking, woman, letting a monkey loose in the lobby?”

“I wasn’t thinking anything until
you
shouted for the manager, demanding he change your rooms again. You frightened poor Sweety into jumping out of my arms.”

“Poor Sweety?” he shouted, then, struggling, managed to moderate his voice. “Poor Lady Wystanly’s poodle. Poor Mr. Harris’s toupee. The poor chandelier, the poor carpet, the poor ornamental fountain that will never come clean. And poor me, who has to pay for the entire mess. And a restorative holiday in Brighton for the manager. But, no, I am not still angry about the monkey. Your Ned and Sweety can both don Windham livery and little red caps and go begging on the steps of Whitehall. I would not care.”

“Then why are you in such a pique?”

“Madam, if this is a pique, Trafalgar was a picnic. But you do not understand, do you? Let me explain. If you are not Aurora Halle McPhee, then we are bloody well not married! That is the name on the license, the name the vicar gave when you made your oath. Our marriage, which has now been published throughout the kingdom and entered into the Anstruther-Jones arsenal, can be set aside in an instant. We can ignore the discrepancies, of course, and soldier on, except for the children—our children, which we’d dashed well create if I stayed in this room one more night. Those innocents would be illegitimate, and I will not have it, do you hear?”

The Prussian dignitaries in the next room heard.

“But nothing is proved, and no one needs to know.”

“Phelan Ramsey knows the truth, I’d wager, even if
your aunt and uncle do not. Who’s to say that five years down the line, or ten, he’d not decide to try his hand at blackmail? Or else he might let something slip while in his cups, or to his cronies at a card game.” Kenyon laughed bitterly and threw his empty glass into the fireplace. “First my son, then my wife. The devil take it, am I destined never to know who anyone is?”

“You have a son?”

“I told you I had an heir, right at the church.”

“You said you had an heir of sorts. I thought you meant your brother.”

“Think about it—my brother wouldn’t be in line for the succession if I married you and had a son. Remember, I thought you were carrying Podell’s child, so I could not have offered for you unless I had an heir of my own, lest your misbegotten babe step into my title. Podell’s get as Windham would have six generations of Warriners spinning in their graves. I was praying for a girl—the odds are even at least—in case something ever happened to Andrew.”

“You have a son,” she repeated. “Andrew? Where is he?”

“At school, of course. He’s eight. No, he must be nine by now. I don’t know. My secretary keeps track of those things. But don’t go getting all teary-eyed over him. He’s not one of your foundlings. He has everything a boy could need.”

“Except a father who loves him, it seems. How far away is his school? How often do you visit?”

“He stays with a respectable family when school is not in session. They have children of their own, and write that they think very highly of Andrew. There is no reason for him to travel to Derby. And I rarely know whether I’ll be there or in London, at any rate. This is less disruptive for the boy.”

“For the boy or for you, my lord? My word, I suppose whole school terms can go by without your seeing him.”

It was more like whole years, two since the child had been sent to school, almost never before that. Facing away from the condemnation he knew he’d see in her
face, Kenyon said, “I refuse to discuss my relation with my son, Aurora. It is no concern of yours.”

“How can you say that, when he is now my son, too?” She set her cup aside and fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief to blow her nose. “But of course you do not believe he is yours, do you? What, do you think Genevieve played you false?”

“Hah. I know the jade played me false. She ran off with her lover, remember? But no, I thought the boy was mine at the time of his birth. If nothing else, Genevieve was born knowing the importance of bloodlines and successions. She did not set out for London and her various affairs until after the heir was begotten, as far as I know. Of course she could have been carrying on with the servants in Derby, but I like to think she was too proud for that.”

“Then why do you question Andrew’s birth?”

Still facing away, leaning on the mantel, the earl stared at the fire. “It’s not his birth that I question, it’s his identity. Genevieve took my son to London with her. She must have loved him, which is the only thing I have ever admired in her character. Either that or she hated me so much. Her French
emigré
lover’s wife had died in childbirth, about the same time Genevieve gave birth to Andrew. That infant survived, and when my wife got to London, she played at being mother to both boys. At first I thought she was consoling
le duc
, then advising him about nannies and such. About that time, D’Journet decided to throw his lot in with Napoleon, hoping to get back his lands. When he returned to France, Genevieve went with him, with both infants. She took all the Warriner family heirlooms she could carry, to buy favor with the emperor. My money was going to England’s enemies, and she must have known how that galled. My brother was risking his life defending the kingdom, and my wife was supporting the Corsican upstart.”