Her Secret Affair (39 page)

“That doesn’t matter.” Kern gave Hathaway a shake. “Just say it. Speak the truth for once in your hypocritical life.”

“All right, then! Isabel … is my natural daughter.”

The agonized declaration echoed inside Kern’s skull. He had known the truth upon seeing Hathaway’s bold signature in the church registry. Yet now Hathaway’s villainy jolted him anew. This was the man Kern had admired all his life.

Kern released his hold and walked away. Pacing the library, he fit all the facts together. “You are Apollo. Isabel was born of your affair with Aurora Darling. An affair which ended the night before your marriage.”

Hathaway stumbled to a chair and sank down, bowing his head and raking his fingers through his salt-and-pepper hair. “Yes.”

“At the time of your wedding I was only nine years old,” Kern said. “But I recall watching you take your vows at St. George’s. And thinking you were the sort of gentleman I wanted to be someday.” His tone hardened. “But the man I revered had left the bed of his mistress only hours before.”

“I did what I believed was right.”

“Right? You led me to think you were better than Lynwood. That you were a moral man, a man with a conscience. When all the while you were carrying on a flaming affair with a courtesan.”

“I loved Aurora. Leaving her was the most difficult decision I have ever made.”

“What about abandoning Isabel?” Kern’s voice vibrated with repugnance. “You had a daughter who needed you.”

“I didn’t know Aurora had become pregnant.” Hathaway lifted his head. “And for pity’s sake, she was a strumpet. To stay with her was unthinkable. I had no choice but to marry as I’d planned.”

As much as he hated to admit it, Kern understood Hathaway’s dilemma. Too well. Though Kern had broken his engagement to Helen, he had offered Isabel the dubious stature of his mistress. How did that make him any more noble than Hathaway?

“Once I found out about Aurora’s delicate condition,” Hathaway went on heavily, “it was too late to make other choices. By then my wife was also with child. I had to keep Isabel’s birth a secret. Lest Helen be tainted by my public disclosure of a bastard.”

“You could have visited Isabel without announcing it to the world.”

“I paid for her house, her clothes, her governess. I made certain she was raised far from the brothel.”

“She needed a father, not a bloody bank account.”

“Dammit.” Hathaway brought his fist down onto his knee. “Do you think her welfare has not weighed upon my conscience all these years? Why else do you suppose I brought her into my own household? It had little to do with those infernal memoirs. That was merely an excuse, a God-given opportunity to know my own daughter.” His voice broke and he buried his face in his hands.

Kern felt a grudging sympathy for the man. Clearly Hathaway had suffered for his sins. Yet there were too many unanswered questions. “So you and your brother Raymond had an affair with the same woman.”

A muscle jumped in Hathaway’s jaw. “I despised him when he took up with her, though I hadn’t seen her in many years. But I couldn’t blame him for being enticed by her beauty.”

“When you found out Isabel was searching for her mother’s murderer, you asked me to stop her. Was it only the discovery of your secret that you feared?”

Hathaway frowned at him. “If you think I believed Raymond had committed the crime, then you’re wrong. My brother is at times a weak man, but he did not poison Aurora.”

“Ah,” Kern said quietly, his gaze piercing the marquess, “but did
you
do the deed?”

Hathaway’s face went ashen. The mantel clock ticked softly into the silence. In the passageway beyond the closed door, muffled footsteps approached, then faded as a servant went by on his duties. “You would ask such a monstrous thing … of me?”

Kern hated himself for these suspicions. But if he hoped to protect Isabel, he had no choice. “You had ample reason to want Aurora dead. She knew your secret. She and one other confidant. Sir John Trimble.”

“He contacted you?”

“No. This morning, I visited Trimble. He’s been poisoned.”

Hathaway half rose out of his chair, his hands gripping the arms. “Good God! Are you quite sure?”

“The doctor said as much. He also said that in his delirium, Trimble mumbled the name Apollo.”

Hathaway gave a jerky nod. “Trimble came to visit me yesterday morning. He asked me a number of questions about my activities on the night Aurora took ill. I admit, I was furious with him.” Gazing steadily at Kern, the marquess added, “When he left here, Trimble mentioned that he felt queasy. You may believe that or not. I shan’t defend myself against so base a charge as murder.”

Kern believed him. Hathaway had not poisoned Trimble. Nor did Kern seriously think he had done away with Aurora. An affair with a courtesan did not rob a man of all honor.

Then who? Who was the culprit?

“While Trimble was here, did he visit Callie, Isabel’s maid?”

Hathaway shook his head. “Not to my knowledge. He came by shortly after you and Isabel left. I spoke with him, then he took his leave.”

Strange. Minnie had claimed Trimble wanted to question Callie. Had he done so without Hathaway’s knowledge? Was that when Callie had poisoned Trimble? Something didn’t quite fit—

Hathaway stood up, his granite glare fixed on Kern. “Speaking of Isabel, I demand to know your intentions toward her.”

“My intentions,” Kern said absently.

“Yes, by God. I despise the notion of Isabel being your mistress.” Breathing hard, Hathaway clenched his fists. “Even if she could never aspire to a nobleman, I had hoped for her to marry a man of means so that she might lead a life of decency and virtue. Now you have ruined her.”

“But—”

“I’m not finished. You have robbed Isabel of her future. Though the deed is done and it seems I must tolerate this affair, I insist that you treat her well. Or you shall answer to me.”

That fatherly fury had a curious effect on Kern. He felt his own anger slipping away. “Isabel will not be my mistress,” he said. “She’ll be my wife.”

“Wife?”

“I love her,” Kern said, a husky note entering his voice. “She’s taught me to heed my heart rather than the rules of propriety.”

Hathaway’s thunderstruck expression gave way to guarded relief. “Marriage. I would never have thought … But, yes, it might work. The two of you can move to the country for a while. The scandal will die down eventually. And Helen will accustom herself to the idea. I do believe she sorely misses her friendship with Isabel even more than she misses planning the wedding.” He walked to the old portrait of the beautiful, bewigged lady and gazed up at it. “Do you know, Helen is the only one who noticed the resemblance? And I couldn’t tell her how astute she was, that Isabel is her half sister. That is why Isabel looks so much like my mother.”

Kern joined him in studying the picture of Lady Hathaway. For the first time, he noticed the haunting similarity in the eyes and cheekbones, in the serenely smiling mouth. His chest ached. Isabel possessed that same refinement and proud will. Why had it taken him so long to see it?

“Isabel will be a duchess someday,” Hathaway went on. “Her Grace of Lynwood. No one will dare to snub her. And if they do, I shall take care of them.”

“No,” Kern stated. “
I
shall.”

Hathaway’s gaze took on the darkness of regrets. “Yes. You’ve earned that right.” He walked to the window and stared out into the gathering dusk. “She does not yet know who I am.”

I have no father. And should you seek to prove otherwise, I shall never, ever forgive you.

Kern remembered the tears glittering in her eyes. Now he understood why she had not wanted him to delve more deeply into her past. She was ashamed for him to see that her father regarded her as an embarrassment to be hidden away. “She will not be told, either,” he said. “Not yet, anyway. Perhaps in time, once all this trouble is past, she’ll be ready to accept the truth.”

Without turning, the marquess gave a curt nod. “I defer to your judgment on the matter. Let us hope that Minerva has the sense to keep her counsel, too.”

The statement jolted Kern. “Minnie knows your identity?”

“Yes, she and Trimble were the only ones. After Aurora died, I needed a way to get money to Isabel. So I contacted Minerva.”

“Money?” Baffled and angry, Kern stared at Hathaway’s back. “You’ve given no money to Isabel in the past year.”

The marquess pivoted around. “I have, indeed. Every quarter, I’ve deposited a thousand pounds to an account in Minerva’s name. She is to use the funds to provide for Isabel’s needs.”

Four thousand per annum—a comfortable fortune. Yet the house was run-down. The women had little to eat. Isabel had been forced to wear outmoded clothes. “Minnie didn’t give the money to Isabel. Minnie acted as if they were destitute.” Kern spoke aloud, his suspicions leaping. “Minnie was also the last person to see Sir John Trimble before he came here.”

“What are you saying?” Hathaway demanded. “That Minerva poisoned Trimble? But why?”

“Perhaps he asked her too many questions about Aurora’s death,” Kern said grimly. “Perhaps Minnie knows more than she’ll admit. Far more.”

A wild fear flashed in Hathaway’s eyes. “Isabel can’t stay there,” he said, striding toward the door of the library. “I shall bring her back here.”

Kern caught up to him. “She’ll know who you are, then. It’s best I go alone.”

“No,” the marquess said in a voice that brooked no argument. “I failed Isabel too often while she was growing up. This is one time I shan’t let her down.”

Chapter 21

Isabel felt his hand creep up her thigh. His palm left a clammy dampness on her flesh. His fingers latched too tightly, almost pinching her.

Justin?

She squirmed, trying to rid herself of the uneasiness, desiring to sink back into the hot well of arousal. But her body refused to cooperate. Gooseflesh scurried over her skin. His touch felt foreign somehow, disgusting. Acting on instinct, she clamped her legs together, locking him out before he reached his goal.

“Demned cold fish,” a man muttered.

Not Justin.

Stabbed by alarm, she forced open her heavy eyelids. And found herself looking into the foxy features of Terrence Dickenson.

Her lassitude vanished under a flood of awareness. A single candle illuminated her mother’s bedroom. The night rail had been drawn up to her waist.

Aunt Minnie held Isabel close, stroking her hair, crooning soft words in her ear. “There now, my little Venus, don’t take fright. You’re a ladybird now, just like your aunties. You’ll stay right here with us, enjoy the pleasures of many men…”

Aunt Minnie meant to turn her into a whore. Kern would not want her then. He would not take her away from this brothel. The horror of it resonated inside Isabel, emerging in a choked cry.

She threw herself toward the edge of the mattress. With her night rail hiked up, she moved quicker than before. The room pitched and swayed. She tumbled off the bed, landing hard on her shoulder. Too dazed to stand, she scrambled onto her hands and knees, heading for the boudoir.

Hurry. Get out. Find help.

Dickenson latched onto her legs. She fought him, kicking and scratching. Her nails gouged flesh. He fell back with a howl.

Sobbing and dizzy, she lurched toward safety. But Aunt Minnie blocked the darkened doorway.

“You cannot escape, child,” she said. “There’s nowhere to go.”

Isabel struggled to focus her whirling thoughts. “Aunnnt … Calllllie.”
Aunt Di. Aunt Persy.

Minnie smiled gently. “The other whores can’t help you. They’re fast asleep. I made certain of that.”

Hope trickled out of Isabel. Crouched on the floor, she pulled the skimpy night rail down around her ankles. It was all she could do to protect herself.

Justin. Oh, Justin.

But she knew he would not come for her. She had sent him away. Forever. She pressed her hands to her head, trying to steady the sway of her senses. Dear God. She had only her drugged wits to rely upon.

“You should have made certain of her compliance,” Dickenson complained, blotting the blood from the scratches on his face. “I tell you, she’s ill-natured enough to wither a man’s cock.”

“She’s more beautiful than you deserve,” Minnie retorted. “But never fear, her lack of cooperation can be remedied.”

Reaching into the pocket of her apron, Minnie drew out a spoon and a small vial. She uncorked the vial and walked slowly toward Isabel. “Don’t be frightened, my child. I’m not going to harm you. Only help you to feel better. A wee draught of this medicine and you’ll drift into dreamland, where only pleasure awaits you.”

Isabel waited until Minnie carefully lowered her bulk to her knees. As the older woman measured out a spoonful, Isabel lashed out and struck Minnie, aiming for her bandaged arm. Minnie shrieked. The vial and spoon went flying.

Isabel scrambled for the boudoir.

As she reached the doorway, someone caught a fistful of Isabel’s hair. Sparks of pain flashed through her skull. She fell backward against Minnie’s cushiony form.

Favoring her injured arm, Minnie called out to Dickenson, “Help me, you lout. Hold her.”

Dickenson wrestled Isabel down onto the floor. She continued to wriggle, but the attempt at escape had drained her reserve of energy. When Minnie tried to poke a spoonful of liquid into Isabel’s mouth, she resorted to her last line of defense.

She clamped her lips shut.

Minnie pinched Isabel’s nose. “You’re making this so difficult,” she muttered. “I only want you to stay here so that I can take care of you, be your mother. It’s what I’ve always wanted. But you won’t cooperate, and neither would Aurora. She wanted to move away with you, leave me here.”

Mama?

Isabel tried to capture the fleeting thought. Blackness encroached on her vision. The lack of air made her chest burn. When she could hold out no longer, she parted her lips for a breath.

Minnie pushed in the spoon. Isabel gagged as the sweetish elixir rolled to the back of her throat.