Guilty Series (47 page)

“Thank you, Doctor Ogilvie,” Ian said. “I'll show you out.”

The two men started toward the door, but the doctor paused on his way out the door and turned to Dylan once again. “Mr. Moore, before I go, I would like to say that my wife and I so enjoy hearing performances of your work. We saw you conduct your Twelfth Symphony at Saddler's Wells some years ago, and it was a wonderful experience. Quite moving.”

“Thank you.” Dylan was always gratified to know people appreciated his work, but he hoped the physician would not ask the inevitable question—when he would conduct again. “I am glad you enjoyed it.”

The doctor departed with Ian, and Dylan dismissed Phelps from the room. He then turned to Tremore, who was seated in one of the velvet chairs by the fireplace. Hammond, being on hostile terms with his brother-in-law, had not ridden with them to Portman Square in the duke's carriage.

“Well?” Dylan asked as he sat down carefully in the padded bench at the foot of his bed. “Which do you want to know first, why I got into a stupid pugilistic contest with Sir George, or why I was with Hammond?”

“No man should stand down when another man publicly calls him a coward, but you could have called him out another way, my friend. Boxing? You are damned fortunate that your hands are not seriously damaged. As for the other, I recognize that carousing with Hammond has an appeal for both of you, but I do not understand it. When this news gets out, Viola will know you were with Hammond, yet—”

“The unhappiness between a man and his wife is not my business, nor is it yours, Tremore, as much as you love your sister. Hammond and I are acquaintances, not friends. We both need men of good character to be our friends.” Dylan smiled. “How are you, my friend of good character, and how is my sweet, violet-eyed duchess?”

“My duchess,” Tremore answered with the pointed emphasis that always amused Dylan when he needled his friend about Daphne, “is in excellent health. A bit queasy in the mornings, of course,” he added, his face taking on that rather sheepish expression of a man whose wife was pregnant, “but otherwise, she is well.”

“I've already wagered on a son,” Dylan told him. “I do not believe you would have it any other way.”

“A daughter would make me equally happy, I assure—”

“Heavens!” a horrified voice interrupted from the doorway. Grace was standing there, one hand on the doorjamb and the other holding the edges of her white dressing gown together. She looked more beautiful than ever, with her hair in a thick plait over one shoulder and her bare feet peeping from beneath the hem of her plain white nightdress.

Both men stood up. Dylan did it too quickly and grimaced, aware of every place Plowright had danced fists across his ribs. She gave a cry and ran to him at once, glancing over the bruises on his face and bare chest with alarm.

“Are you all right? I heard all the commotion, servants running up and down the stairs, and I got up. Osgoode told me you had been in a fight.” Grace lowered her gaze to his hands. “Oh, no,” she choked. “Dylan, what have you done?”

That was the first time she had ever said his name. She had been so angry with him only a few hours before, yet here she was, soft, tousled, and pretty, smelling like pear soap and looking worried. Worried about him. A grin spread across his face.

“Steady on, Grace. A few bruises, I grant you, but nothing broken. I shall be right as rain in no time. Look.”

He held out one bandaged hand, flexing it to show her there was nothing broken. She hesitated, then gently took his hand in both of hers, staring down at the white linen strips that bound it, touching a smear of dried blood on his finger the doctor had missed. The noise in his head quieted, and he forgot all about the pain in his body.

Suddenly, she let go of his hand and looked up at him, frowning. “Have you no common sense?”

“None,” he confessed, liking the way she got that little dint in her chin when she frowned. He began to smile, watching her.

“You are a composer, in heaven's name! What are you thinking to engage in fisticuffs? You could have been…you might have…your hands…oh, Dylan, really!”

She was angry now, angry enough to be sputtering. She pressed her lips together, and her frown deepened. He knew she was trying to impress upon him just what a stupid thing he had done and how angry she was about it, but try as she might, she just could not look stern. Her mouth was too full, her eyes too soft. She looked ferocious enough to intimidate a puppy.

He wanted to plant a kiss right on that pursed-up mouth. The thought of it was enough to raise the heat in his blood and ease away the pain in his body with much more pleasurable aches, and he knew he was on the mend already.

A polite cough reminded him there was someone else there. He looked up to find Tremore standing by his chair a dozen feet away, watching them.

Grace gave a little gasp. She clutched the edges of her dressing robe together, realizing that they were in Dylan's bedchamber and that she was in a state of dishabille. She ducked her head, her cheeks flaming. “Forgive me,” she mumbled and turned away, rushing past Tremore and out of the room.

The duke watched her go, then turned to him, one eyebrow lifted as if in inquiry.

Dylan's grin vanished at once. “Believe it or not, she is not what you think.”

“It is not my place to think anything.”

Perhaps, but Dylan could read his honorable friend's mind like a book.

Another one.

Given what he had just witnessed, Tremore's conclusion was inevitable and accurate, given Dylan's intentions. Despite that fact, he was angry at the implication and felt compelled to deny it. “She's not my dollymop.”

“I did not say she was.”

Dylan ignored the mild reply. “She is not anything of the sort. She is a respectable widow of good family.” What was he saying? He didn't know anything about her family. “Nothing is going on.”

“Moore, you do not have to explain anything to me.”

“Of course I don't,” Dylan snapped. “I know I don't.” Then why was he? The duke was looking at him with an impeccably neutral countenance. “Damn it, Tremore, must you always be so damned polite? How we remain such excellent friends baffles me.”

Before the duke could answer that, another voice spoke. “Politeness is generally regarded as a favorable trait, Dylan,” Ian said as he walked through the open doorway. “Some of us work to cultivate it.”

Dylan ignored that, still looking at Tremore. “She is not my mistress.”

“Of course not.”

“What mistress?” Ian looked from one man to the other. “Of whom are you talking?”

“You missed the angel in a white nightgown who floated through here a few moments ago,” Tremore told him. “Lovely eyes,” he added with a sudden grin. “Compose a sonata about her yet?”

Dylan saw no humor in that question. He remembered full well the night two years before when he had teased and goaded the duke about Daphne, actually provoking Tremore to a fight just for the fun of seeing the other man lose control. Tremore had not found it amusing at the time, though he seemed to be taking enjoyment in turning the tables.

“Not a sonata,” Dylan replied, answering the question in all honesty. “A symphony.”

“Good,” the duke said unexpectedly. “About damned time you composed something of substance again. If that young woman inspired it, so much the better.”

“What is all this about?” Ian demanded. “Do you have a woman living with you again?”

“A very lovely one,” Tremore put in. “Blond. Green eyes.”

“I'm shocked,” Ian said, sounding anything but. “As I said, some things do not change.”

“She is not living with me!” The statement was so ridiculous that he amended it at once. “I mean, she is, but not that way. Not the way the two of you are thinking.”

Ian gave a laugh of disbelief. “And pigs fly.”

Dylan let out his breath in an exasperated sigh. Perhaps this was the right moment to tell his brother and his best friend what would inevitably become common knowledge anyway. Hell with it. “Not just a woman,” he corrected. “Grace is governess to my daughter.”

“Daughter?” the two men said together.

He rather enjoyed their momentarily shocked faces. “Yes, gentlemen, my daughter. Isabel is eight years old, her mother is dead, and she was placed on my doorstep by a French Catholic nun two weeks ago.”

Ian started to speak. “But how—”

“I have hired a governess for her,” he went on, cutting off his brother's inevitable questions before they could be asked, before Ian could tell him what he thought was right for Isabel, what was wrong with Grace living in his house, before he could be tiresome and proper and inconvenient. “I intend to make provision for the child out of my allowance from the family estates as well as my own rents and income, so it is a good thing you are back from Venice. We shall both need to sign documents with the attorneys. I shall have them drawn.”

“Before you do that, it has to be established for certain that you are the father of this child,” Ian said.

“She is mine.”

“How do you know?”

“If you met her, dear brother, you would not ask such a ridiculous question. And I do not wish to discuss the issue of her paternity any further.”

“If you expect additional funds from the family estates to pay for her, you had better be willing to discuss it. How can you possibly know this child is yours?”

“I am his daughter! I am!”

The voice that spoke caused all three men to turn to see another female in white nightdress standing in the doorway, one much darker, much younger, and much more fierce when she scowled than the previous one. Isabel's small hands balled into fists as she looked at Ian. “He is my father, and don't you dare say he's not!”

Dylan grinned.
Take him on, my girl,
he thought with approval.
Take him on.

“I'll be damned,” Tremore said under his breath.

“Good Lord!” Ian said, staring at her. From the sound of his voice, no additional convincing would be required.

Isabel ran to Dylan. She wrapped one arm around his hips and glared at her uncle. “I look more like him than you do,” she cried and pointed an accusing finger at Ian. “How do we know you're really his brother?”

Tremore choked back a laugh. “Excellent point.”

Ian stared at her for a moment, then lowered his face into his hand. “I suppose something like this was bound to happen sooner or later,” he muttered against his palm.

Isabel looked up at Dylan and frowned at him. “You got in a fight.”

“Yes, I did. I am going to be well again though, thank you for asking.”

“What about your hands? Are they all right?”

“Yes.”

“You look awful, Papa.”

Dylan knelt to her eye level. “Are you not supposed to be asleep at this hour? What are you doing down here, eavesdropping on conversations?”

“I always eavesdrop on conversations. How do you think I find out things? Besides, it's your fault I'm not asleep. Who could sleep with all this excitement going on?”

“Nevertheless, it's back to bed for you, little one. I have to tell your uncle Ian all about you.”

Her chin quivered. “I am your daughter!” she cried, as if she needed to convince him when he was looking into a face so much like his own. “I am.”

He lifted his bandage-wrapped hand and smoothed her hair back, feeling deuced awkward. “I know.”

She glanced at Ian with resentment. “Don't let them say different.”

“I won't.” Dylan turned her toward the door. “Back to bed,” he ordered with a gentle push, watching her go out the door.

Ian closed the door behind her. “Well…” he began, then stopped.

“Astonishing,” Dylan murmured. “Isabel has managed to do something I have failed to do all our lives, Ian. Render you speechless.”

Tremore spoke. “Moore, I vow I thought that child was going to go at your brother with fists flying. She looked just like you with Plowright earlier.”

“She did,” Ian admitted. “By God, she did.”

Dylan smiled a bit ruefully. “Did I mention she composes brilliantly?”

There was a long silence, then Ian drew a deep breath. “Well,” he said again, sinking down in the nearest chair, “that settles the matter, I think.” With his usual diplomatic talent for understatement, he added, “This has been quite an evening.”

 

“Here. I've finished this silly assignment.” Isabel thrust the slate toward Grace and walked away, her shoes thumping on the floor as she returned to her small rosewood desk. She flung herself in her chair, crossed her arms, and gave her governess a resentful glare. “Are we done yet?”

“After over a month as my pupil, you should know such conduct does not work, Isabel,” Grace reminded her, refusing to be provoked. The child was still fighting against the structure of her new life, a life with rules that were enforced. Today, Isabel had decided to test that enforcement by reverting to her former behavior, being insolent with both Grace and Molly, and being a thorough brat.

Grace glanced toward one corner of the nursery, where Molly sat doing some mending. Molly was looking at Grace, and when she met Grace's eyes, she shrugged as if she, too, was baffled by the child's behavior.

After several more trips to the agencies, Grace had made Molly the child's nanny on a permanent basis, for the housemaid had proven to be kind, patient, and stubborn enough not to give in when Isabel tried to rule her. Surprisingly, or perhaps because she feared the dragons that she'd seen Grace interview at the agencies, Isabel had accepted the arrangement.

“She was like this when she woke up, Mrs. Cheval.”

Isabel sat up straight in her chair. “Like what?”

“Cranky,” Molly answered.