Love's Price (Lord Trent Series) (13 page)

“Where are you from, Mr. Stewart?”

“My estate—it’s called Brookhaven—is a few hours south of London.”

“Miss Stewart grew up there?”

“Yes.”

“Why did she leave?”

“It’s a rather difficult story,” Stewart contended. “I would hate to bore you with the details.”

James was instantly alert. “Is there something in Miss Stewart’s background I should know? She serves as my ward’s companion. If she’s not suitable for the position, I ought to be apprised, don’t you think?”

“Well...”

“Spit it out, Mr. Stewart.”

“I’m loathe to get her into trouble. The scandal wasn’t her fault, and I wouldn’t want you to...
blame
her for it.”

“For what?”

Stewart dithered, looking torn, and James was incensed. Was the pathetic weasel deliberately attempting to have Helen fired? What kind of
cousin
was he?

“Tell me, Mr. Stewart. I haven’t got all day.”

“There was a situation involving her mother.”

“What was it?”

“As a girl, she traveled to London for her debut. She was introduced to...ah...an aristocrat who took a fancy to her. She wasn’t chaperoned as carefully as she might have been.”

“What are you insinuating? That the man seduced her?”

“Yes, I guess I am.”

James didn’t know how Stewart accomplished it, but he blushed, as if embarrassed by the admission, but James was positive the revelation had been intentionally made.

“I gather that the father didn’t marry the mother.”

“No.”

“So Miss Stewart is illegitimate.”

“Yes.”

“And who was the dastardly cad you’re claiming to be her father?”

“I’m not sure it would be appropriate for me to say.”

“Then why bring it up at all? Unless you’re just trying to annoy me and waste my time?”

Stewart flushed an even deeper shade of red, and he gazed at James, pretending to be confused about how to proceed. Finally, he sighed and confessed, “You probably know him. He’s quite notorious.”

“What is his name?”

“Charles Sinclair, Earl of Trent.”

James was so astonished that he was amazed he didn’t collapse onto the floor in a stunned heap. Somehow, he managed to remain poised and in control. His face was an expressionless mask—even though, inside, he was teeming with rage.

Lord Trent was the blackguard who had run off to Paris with James’s mother, then abandoned her once she discovered she was increasing with his bastard son.

Trent—the most infamous rogue in the land—was Helen’s father? Beautiful, wonderful Helen Stewart was Trent’s natural daughter?

If James hadn’t been so determined to keep Mr. Stewart from witnessing any reaction, he might have been ill.

James detested Trent as he detested no other human being. James’s entire gambling scheme was implemented with one goal in mind: to gain some vengeance by financially ruining Trent.

James wanted to deny the truth about Helen, wanted to tell himself that Nigel Stewart was lying, but he thought about her and realized that—with her golden blond hair and big green eyes—she was the spitting image of Trent and of Trent’s son, Phillip Sinclair.

Did she carry the
mark
on her wrist? He’d never had cause to check, but he wouldn’t be surprised to find it on her arm.

Was she aware of her connection to the Sinclairs? Had she ever been apprised that they were related? And what did the news mean to James?

He was overly infatuated with Helen. Would her antecedents change anything between them? Would he be any less besotted? Any less obsessed?

The answer was a resounding
no
, and if he could learn that she was Trent’s child and still desire her as much as he did, his fixation was very dangerous indeed.

Obviously, Mr. Stewart had exposed the secret for a reason. He wanted to shock James into terminating Helen. But why? What purpose would be served by such reprehensible behavior?

“Lord Trent is an acquaintance of mine,” James stated.

“Then you know what he’s like.”

“I certainly do.”

“I hope this information won’t reflect badly on Helen. As I said, she can hardly be blamed for her mother’s conduct two decades ago.”

“She has been an exemplary employee.”

“So...you won’t be firing her?”

“No.”

“Oh, I’m so relieved to hear it. I haven’t seen her in ages, and I’d hate to have my sudden appearance create any difficulties.”

“You seem to be a prosperous fellow, Mr. Stewart, which indicates that Miss Stewart is from a family of some affluence. How is it that she’s here alone in the city, and reduced to working for a living?”

“As she was growing up, my grandfather provided for her and her sister—she has a twin sister named Harriet—but when he died, he hadn’t made any arrangements for them. My father was the heir, and he chose not to continue supporting them.”

“He
chose
not to?”

“I’m ashamed to admit it, but he was awful about the whole affair.”

“I concur. So Miss Stewart and her sister were cast to the winds of Fate?”

“Yes, but I feel terrible about how they were treated, and now, with my father having passed on, I’d like to make amends.”

“Would you?”

“Yes. I’m here to notify her that she’s welcome at Brookhaven again. Will she be having a holiday soon? My mother and I would love to have her visit.”

“I don’t let my staff have time off,” James lied.

He was actually quite a generous boss, always agreeable when servants had family events or tragedies to attend. But at finding out that Helen had people who would take her in, he was unaccountably disturbed.

She stayed with him because she believed she had nowhere else to go, and he didn’t want Stewart offering her a different option, a different life.

If she knew her cousin was wrangling to bring her back into the family fold, what might she do? The next time James aggravated her, the next time Miranda hurt her, she’d have a waiting refuge, and he’d have no way to stop her from fleeing to it.

And what about Trent? Phillip Sinclair was on a mission to locate Trent’s scattered children. What if Helen learned that Trent might set up a trust fund for her? What if she learned she could have a dowry? She’d be able to...to...marry! The notion was alarming on so many levels that he couldn’t tabulate them all.

“I realize I’ve imposed horridly,” Stewart was saying, “but might I speak with her before I go? I promise I’ll be brief.”

James was about to deny the request, when the butler strolled in and announced, “Miss Stewart is here, milord.”

When Nigel Stewart had initially arrived, James had asked the butler to escort Helen down to the library, and inwardly, he cursed the man’s competence. Just once, couldn’t he have failed at his task?

As Helen entered, James rose and Mr. Stewart rose too, but his back was to her. James watched her approach, keen to witness her reaction to Stewart. According to Stewart, she and her sister had been disowned. What would be her response now—all these years later?

“Miss Stewart,” James said, “you have a visitor.”

“
I
have a visitor?”

“Yes. You remember your cousin, don’t you? At least, he claims to be your cousin.”

Mr. Stewart spun around, and on seeing him, she was clearly stunned.

“Nigel?”

“Hello, Helen.”

She didn’t come any nearer, so Stewart walked over to her, his hands extended, his smile wide and seeming to be genuine.

“This is a surprise.” Her tone was neutral, her movements giving nothing away. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been searching for you.”

“Why?”

“My father passed away.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.” She didn’t look sorry at all. “My condolences.”

“So there have been many changes at Brookhaven.”

“I take it you’re in charge now.”

“Yes.”

“You always wanted to be. I’m glad you’ve finally gotten your wish.”

James interrupted. “Mr. Stewart would like you to come home for a visit.”

“Really?”

Helen gazed at James, but he hadn’t a clue as to what she was thinking.

“I told him,” James added, “that it wouldn’t be possible. At the moment, Miss Wilson simply can’t spare you.”

“I see.” Helen turned to her cousin. “Thank you for coming, Nigel. Thank you for inviting me.”

Mr. Stewart’s color was high again, and he was obviously annoyed over having his scheme frustrated—whatever that scheme might have been.

“But you must be due a break. I couldn’t bear to disappoint Mother. She’s so eager to have you back where you belong. And Harriet too of course.”

Helen asked James, “Do you suppose I could go for a few days after Miss Wilson’s wedding?”

“Perhaps,” James said noncommittally.

“When is it being held?” Stewart inquired.

“In the fall,” Helen replied.

James stood, wanting Stewart gone. “You’ve taken up enough of my time, Mr. Stewart, and Miss Stewart has duties to attend.”

“I understand.” He squeezed Helen’s hands. “It’s marvelous to see you again, Helen.”

“And to see you, too. Say hello to your mother for me.”

“I will.” Stewart peered over at James. “Would it be all right if we correspond?”

“I’ll reflect on it.”

Stewart forced a smile, bowed stiffly, then the butler showed him out.

James and Helen tarried, listening as he departed. She appeared pale and frozen, like a marble statue.

Once it was clear he’d left, she murmured, “May I be excused?”

“No.”

James walked to the door and pushed it shut.

Helen started to shake.

She hadn’t imagined she would ever encounter any of her family again, and to have Nigel suddenly pop up—without warning or notice—was extremely disconcerting.

Seeing him was like seeing a ghost. All the injustice she and Harriet had endured came surging back. The humiliation of that last afternoon at Miss Peabody’s school was so fresh in her memory that the wounds might have just been inflicted.

She must have looked faint because Westwood ordered, “Sit down. Sit—before you fall down.”

He guided her to a sofa and eased her onto it.

Her head was spinning, her ears ringing, and she was very dizzy, but he was in front of her, waving a glass of brandy under her nose.

“Drink this,” he instructed. “It will calm you.”

She clutched her trembling fingers around the glass and gulped it down. Since she rarely imbibed of spirits, the alcohol had a potent and immediate effect. Instantly, her quaking stopped, and she was more herself.

“I’m assuming,” he said, “that you were shocked to see him.”

“That would be putting it mildly.”

“I didn’t realize you would be so undone, or I wouldn’t have sprung him on you like that.”

“Had I been given a month to prepare, I doubt I’d have been ready.”

Westwood pulled up a chair, and he moved it very close so their feet and legs were entwined.

“Tell me about him. Tell me what they did to you and your sister.”

It seemed as if he truly wanted to know, but she never discussed her family, how she and Harriet had been treated, how appalling and lonely it had been.

If she told him, what would he think?

He was fond of her, and though it was foolish and wrong, his heightened interest was the only thing that made her life bearable. If she confessed her past, and he was condemning or judgmental, she’d be crushed.

At the same time, the notion of unburdening herself was so tempting. She’d often yearned to talk with someone who might commiserate and advise.

Could it be Westwood? Could he be a confidante and friend?

She decided to take a chance, to discover where it would lead, and she began speaking. As Westwood sat quietly, holding her hand, she shared the entire narrative, and by giving her his undivided attention, he provided her with precisely what she’d needed for so long.

He
listened
. He really listened, and the fact that he did was a kindness that no other person had ever extended to her. It was a gift she would always cherish.

When she finished, she felt as if a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

“Uncle Richard claimed that my father was actually the earl of Trent. Do you know him?”

“Yes, I know him,” Westwood carefully said.

“Could it be true? Could Lord Trent be my father?”

Westwood clasped her arm, and he studied the birthmark on her wrist. It was shaped like a figure-eight, and she and Harriet both had one in the exact same spot. He traced his finger over it.

“I have no idea if he’s your father,” he ultimately responded. “I suppose anything is possible.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

For an eternity, he stared at her, then he asked, “Would you like to visit Brookhaven?”

“I’m not sure.”

“It might be stressful for you.”

“It might be.”

“Or it might be beneficial. You might come to terms with what happened. You might find some peace in your heart.”

“I might. I can’t decide right now. I’m too overwhelmed.”

He assessed her again, and he seemed to be taking her measure, calculating the odds for a gamble she couldn’t fathom.