Mistress by Midnight (26 page)

“I didn’t expect to stay away forever. But days turned into weeks, and somehow months turned into years, and I didn’t go home. I—somehow couldn’t.”

At twenty, Con had felt trapped in amber, a bug beneath the Berryman eyes, his every feeble attempt to twitch a wing impossible. He had dreaded returning, fearing his hard-won independence would soon evaporate under Marianne’s cool blue stare.

But he had a son. Con had come home for James, although it was too late.

“I knew your mother would take good care of you, and
good care of herself. She was very capable, much more so than I was. I was ashamed that I left her on her own, but angry at the same time. I didn’t want to have to depend on the Berryman fortune, so I set about making my own. I realize now how wrong I was, but I cannot change what happened. All the money I’ve made and the things I’ve done will never make up for walking away from you.”

“What about Bea? What’s going to happen to her?”

Con lifted a shoulder. “I don’t know. I’ve been assured she is happy as she is.”

“She
is
my sister,” James said, forcing Con to nod in the affirmative. “I told her I thought so. And she cried.”

There was too much smug satisfaction there for Con’s comfort. “Please let it go, James. This is not the time to tell her. Perhaps when she’s older.”

“A few years won’t make her any less of a bastard.”

Con inhaled sharply. “Don’t be cruel, James. She shouldn’t be made to pay for my mistakes.”

“I don’t know if I can keep it a secret. She’s not leaving until two days from now. She and Aunt Laurette are packing.”

Damn.
Laurette had kept her end of their deal to the day. Perhaps they could leave tomorrow. Today. He wasn’t sure he could trust his son to keep so momentous a revelation to himself. He had given the boy power over all of them.

Power to hurt as he had been hurt.

“James, Bea is innocent in all this. And you like her. You’re friends. Please don’t say anything to her.”

Con watched the calculation in his son’s eyes. It was like seeing Marianna all over again as James deliberated his fate.

“Mama knew, didn’t she? That was why she always tried to throw us together when Bea came to visit Aunt Laurette.” A shadow crossed his face and he stood up abruptly. “I don’t understand,” he whispered. “They were
friends. Best
friends.”

The last piece of the puzzle had snapped into place.

Con’s words had been broken, his sentences fragments. He’d done his best to explain why every important adult in the child’s life had lied to him, not that it made James’s expression look any less thunderous.

At last, Con let him go. But he had managed to get his son’s promise to keep Laurette’s secret, offering to share Marianna’s last letter when they returned home. When he read it, James would see his father was not a complete villain.

It was an extraordinary document, written in a spidery hand weakened by the fast-spreading cancer that ravaged her. Mr. Foster had remembered the letter’s existence and given it to him too late—after Con had made his ill-fated proposal to Laurette. It was clear Mr. Foster didn’t think Con deserved a word from his wife, but his attention to detail and loyalty trumped his antipathy to the man who had deserted his employer’s daughter.

In it, Marianna had told him not only about Beatrix, but her role in keeping the child’s existence a secret. More Berryman bribery, but he supposed even knowing he had another child might not have brought him home. Con wondered if Laurette would have answered differently if he’d had a plan for their child back when he first proposed. Probably not.

After he met with Foster, his fury had ignited all over again until he thought he saw a way to right the past. This year had taken a toll on his emotions and pocketbook, and still had come to nothing but resentment from his son, and Laurette’s permanent refusal of his suit.

It was time he gave up, this time for good. There was no point harboring hope.

He started back to the house, sticking his hand in his pocket, absently rubbing the skipping stone. In Greece they strung stones together to ease the edge of despair; Catholics had their rosary beads. Con settled for his River Piddle rock, smoothed by the rush of water and blessed with childhood joy. He’d need something the size of the Rock of Gibraltar to tell Laurette that James knew everything now.

He trusted James. They had shaken hands, and if Marianna had done anything, she had raised their child as a gentleman. But it was an enormous burden to place on the boy. The sooner Laurette and Beatrix left, the better.

Aram opened the front door to him, an act of unusual propriety. Con had told the servants this was to be as much a vacation for them as it was for his family, although Nadia and Sadie probably did not see it quite that way, as they turned out delicious meals in the newly-refurbished kitchen. But the atmosphere was relaxed, or he had meant it to be. Sunday lunch was to be a cold collation of greens from Mr. Carter’s neat garden, rolls and cold sliced ham. Perhaps it could be wrapped up as a picnic so he wouldn’t have to sit through what was bound to be a meal fraught with tension.

“Where is Miss Vincent, Aram?”

“I believe she is upstairs in her room, my lord. Packing.” The older man emphasized this last word.

“Yes. My little scheme did not go as planned, I’m afraid, and it’s bound to go worse. When Master James returns, could you see that Tomas or Nico—or both—distract him? They can take him somewhere with a box lunch. Anywhere. They can go riding. Caving. And have Nadia or Sadie look after Beatrix. Perhaps they can bake.”

Aram looked at his master. “It is too fine a day to spend indoors in the kitchens, my lord. And it is Sunday. The baking was done yesterday.”

“Well, then, take her for a nature walk or something. I want her kept separate from James. There will be no formal luncheon in the dining room today.”

Aram raised an eyebrow. He knew everything there was to know, and had urged Con to return home to his responsibilities for years. Aram’s own sons were the light of his life. Con wished he had listened to him sooner.

He took the stairs slowly, each foot quite unwilling to step on the next tread. Smart feet. Laurette would give him hell in a few minutes and he supposed he deserved every epithet she
was going to toss at him. But if she left tomorrow, perhaps disaster could be delayed if not averted altogether.

Her door was open. She stood over the array of muslins, silks and satins spread out on her bed and every available chair, a look of consternation on her face. “Oh! Con! You may come in, but please close the door.”

He did as he was bid, wondering what she would say next. Had Beatrix plagued her about the portrait? He thought not. She seemed too calm, although she was in the middle of crinoline chaos.

“I cannot possibly take all this home. People would talk, and I truly have no use for such finery. Perhaps you can give them to Charlotte Fallon. My neighbor on Jane Street.” Laurette blushed. “Of course, you can dispose of them any way you wish. It’s just that Sir Michael won’t buy her a stitch and she looks very shabby.”

Trust Laurette to be thinking of another woman whose man let her down. She had plenty of experience in that area. He cleared his throat.

“They are yours to do with as you want, Laurie. I’ll see to it. I have something to say to you. Please sit down.”

Laurette looked around the room and suppressed a laugh. It looked as though her closet had exploded. She watched as Con bundled up an armful of dresses from the chairs by the fireplace and tossed them to the floor. She wanted to chide him for his carelessness, but since the dresses really belonged to him, she kept quiet and sat down. She watched the muscle in his jaw leap as he grasped the mantel and then turned to her. She was not going to sit still for a lecture.

“You’re angry at me because I ran home. Well, don’t be. Just as I thought, the children did find the painting, but everything is all right. I didn’t make a fuss and Bea didn’t ask too many questions. She’s packing all the toys you bought for her now.” She frowned. He still was as tense as she’d ever
seen him. “You look like you’re the one who needs to sit down. What is it? I thought we came to an agreement.”

“We did. And now James is part of it.”

Her heart stilled. “What do you mean?”

“He knows everything. And that means you’ve got to leave tomorrow.”

“Everything?” Her voice was the faintest scratch.

“He guessed you’re Bea’s mother. I did not tell him, but I couldn’t lie.”

Laurette stumbled up. “Where is he? If he tells Beatrix—”

“He won’t. He promised not to. He’s off somewhere cooling his heels. I think he’s disgusted with the lot of us, his mother included.”

“Oh my God.” Her mind whirred, too fraught to give Con a piece of it. Her instincts had been right, and now everything
—everything
she’d ever gone through to protect Beatrix was at risk. Laurette had come to terms with the past, or thought she had until Con managed to revive it.

“I know it’s all my fault, Laurie. Every bit of it.”

Laurette was sick to her soul. Her worst fears could come true at any moment. She sank back down in the chair, heart now pounding like a cannon.

“I can get him out of the way today, and you can leave at first light. If we limit his contact with Bea—with you—I think he can hold to his promise until he works it all out for himself.”

How could an eleven-year-old boy keep such a portentous matter to himself? “What did he say?”

“A lot of hurtful things, at first. But I explained about Marianna. And his grandfather. He knows now the man was not a saint, nor, it turns out, was his mother. I had hoped to spare him.”

“Marianna took lovers,” Laurette blurted. She had never intended to speak against her friend to Con, for really, Marianna had tried hard to make up for the unhappiness she had
caused. She had been generous to a fault with Laurette and her daughter. What did it matter if she sought what comfort she could in the face of her husband’s abandonment?

“I know. People told me. I don’t have the nerve to hold it against her. I was no husband to her and never would have been even if she had lived. You are—you
were
—the only woman for me.” Con paced, his expression anguished. “But that’s not what we talked about. We talked about how she and her father conspired to keep the truth about you and Beatrix from me. I was as blunt as I could be about the circumstances of my marriage, Laurie. Imagine if you’re an eleven-year-old boy, hearing how you came to be, the result of desperation and guile. I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me.”

For a moment Laurette wanted to go to Con and put her arms around him. Only for a moment. Instead she sat, staring into the empty fireplace, her blood thrumming. She could leave right now, if it came to it, leave the rainbow of her “mistress” dresses behind without a qualm, but she’d have a more difficult task explaining to Beatrix why it was necessary to pack and flee in a whirlwind. Tomorrow morning seemed so very far away. She knew she wouldn’t sleep a wink tonight.

“We won’t eat together. There’s no use pretending everything is normal. I’ll tell Sadie to bring a tray up.”

“I’m not hungry.” She swallowed. “Should I talk to him?”

“I don’t think it will do much good. But you can’t make anything worse than I have.”

“I wish—” There was no point in complaining she wished Con had been honest with her from the first. If anyone had cause to protest secrecy and manipulation after all the Berrymans and his uncle had done, it was he. They would not be in this deceptively idyllic Yorkshire hell if Con had told her the truth, told her what he had planned. She would have never come, never allowed her daughter near him. “I’m sure it will be all right,” she said, not sure of any such thing. “He’s a smart boy. He’ll come to see that none of this is really your fault.”

Con gave her a bleak smile. “How can you bear to make excuses for me?”

Because I love you. I always have. I probably always will, but our time is past.

Laurette shrugged. “We’re old friends, after all.”

J
ames had already chucked his torn coat by the wayside, too hot to wear it another step. The sun beat down on his dark head. He may not have wanted his jacket, but a hat would not go amiss about now—the sun was fairly brutal. He swept his disheveled hair from his forehead, wishing he’d let Nico cut it.

The marquess—his father—had ridiculously long hair. He looked like a pirate. James cursed himself for trying to emulate the man, if only in his choice of hairstyle. His father was no one to copy. He walked away once from everything, and had let James walk away now.

When James was grown—well, he
was
already grown, even if he was still damnably short—he would honor his obligations. He kept his word and honored his promises even now, and that was what a real man did, wasn’t it?

He could hold his tongue. He could hold his tongue forever, for how could he even utter what he had just learned? Beatrix Isabella Vincent was his half-sister. According to his father, his mother and grandfather and evil dead great-uncle had swindled Con out of his youth and his one true love.

That was not exactly how his father put it. James had watched him edit his words carefully in an effort to paint a prettier picture. There had been mention of duty and folly, devotion and finance. All James knew was that his father was
in love with Aunt Laurette then and Aunt Laurette now. All this talk about helping an old friend during renovations to her house was just so much nonsense.

And Aunt Laurette was afraid Bea would hate her if she found out the truth—was terrified, according to his father. But James didn’t think she would. Bea loved her cousin.

No, not her cousin.

Her
mother.

Bea had done nothing but complain about her parents since she and Sadie had joined them on the road to Yorkshire. It was something she and James had in common, something that brought them closer. While it was acknowledged between them that James had the greater grievance—his father had gone missing for a whole
decade
and all James had to show for that time was a bunch of rubbishy stained letters—Bea’s parents were deemed more than unsatisfactory as well.