Much Ado About Rogues (28 page)

Regina leaned in to kiss her husband’s cheek.

“Thank you for that, Puck. There was some good to be found in all of this, and I suppose that’s it,” the marquess said on a sigh. And then he continued his story.

He pretended to court Adelaide, just so that he might be near Abigail. But eventually Adelaide discovered his duplicity, and was incensed to think she could ever be overlooked in favor of her “half-wit sister.” Abigail was a pretty doll, not real. Adelaide was fire and excitement, vibrant and alive. She was prettier, smarter and much more worthy of his affection.

She set out to prove this to Cyril, playing on her resemblance to Abigail, and for a while did succeed in turning his head. He could kiss Adelaide and pretend she was Abigail. He could do more than dream about her; he could touch her, take her, slake some of his abhorrent need in her, and lie to himself. He could believe he had been mistaken, that it was Adelaide that he loved.

For a time.

But at last he woke up to the insanity he was living, and dumbfounded Adelaide by asking for and receiving Abigail’s hand in marriage. She would never be his wife in anything but name, but he needed her close, needed to see her every day, know that she was happy.

Adelaide angrily confronted him about what she called his “perversion of the soul” that had him wedding one sister while bedding the other. She would tell everyone, and he’d never be able to marry his
beloved.
Why, he wouldn’t even be allowed to see her again, Adelaide would make certain of that!

However, she proposed, in return for her silence, he could promise to finance her need to be an actress, her need to be free and unfettered. In addition, she would continue to
service
him when his lust for the flesh grew to be too much for him. After all, she never planned to marry and had need of a protector. Her body, anytime he wanted, any way he wanted; her silence, for his money.

The marquess was a man torn between his love for a woman who could never truly be his and his base and twisted obsession for a dangerous and unique woman he could desire, but not love.

Ashamed, and fearful of losing Abigail, the marquess agreed to the arrangement.

But the day of the wedding, when he’d lifted the heavy white veil back from his new bride’s face just after they’d signed the church registry as man and wife, it was a highly amused Adelaide who was standing there, now the Marchioness of Blackthorn. She’d convinced Abigail to remain at home, hidden in Adelaide’s room, with her father none the wiser and telling the guests that his daughter Adelaide had taken ill and would not be at the ceremony. Nervously waiting at the altar, the marquess had not even noticed Adelaide’s absence.

She had written her own name in the marriage register. She’d tricked him to save him from himself, she told him, admitting that the substitution had been the inspiration of a moment just that morning and, she thought, rather fun—didn’t he think it was a delicious joke? No one else would ever know, she promised him, no one else could ever know, but
he
would, and he would always take care of her, grant her every wish, or else the world would know of his unnatural desires.

And no one else ever knew. The vicar had been silenced with a heavy purse. Adelaide’s father hadn’t even proved that difficult; it was enough that he was now rid of both his daughters, as his new and fairly horse-faced wife loathed the two beautiful young girls equally.

Adelaide had what she’d always wanted, that unfettered and extravagantly financed life she craved. Abigail was safe, petted, cosseted. And the marquess? God curse him, he admitted shamefacedly, he had what he wanted, as well. Abigail, all to himself, to love her and nourish his soul…and Adelaide, to quench his physical frustrations.

And then Beau had been born while Adelaide was off touring Scotland with her troupe, and everything had changed again. When the marquess saw his infant son, he at last woke from what he now called his “terrible dream,” realizing the full consequences of the deception. He wanted to tell the truth at once, acknowledge his legitimate heir, but Adelaide countered that she would tell the world that he had raped her, and in her sister’s presence; he would be exposed for the sick and twisted creature that he was. Why, he could be taken off to prison.

Society was already shunning him, she’d reminded him, making disgusting remarks about his reasons for taking on a beautiful but clearly simpleminded bride. What would happen to Abigail if the truth came out? Would she be taken away from Blackthorn and put somewhere safe from his perversity? Somewhere such as an
asylum?
Is that what he wanted for the woman he supposedly loved? Because Lord knew Adelaide had spent enough years forced to watch over her sister; she had her freedom now and would not be shackled once more to a sickly half-wit.

And then she had left Beau with him and gone off yet again, not returning for more than two years, this time with a dark-haired infant she’d named Don John.

Clearly Jack was not the marquess’s son, but he took the child, his son’s half brother, and found himself bowing yet again to Adelaide’s wishes. Her demands and, God curse him, his twisted desire for her. The cottage was built for her use, and she showed every sign of wanting to remain at Blackthorn. She doted on her sister, she played at loving mother to her adoring sons, and she once more found her way into the marquess’s bed. Puck was the result of that long and bizarre summer, and by now it was too late to go back, change anything.

He still loved Abigail, but it was now the love of a brother for a sister, as it was Adelaide who lived in his mind, tormented his soul. He’d thought he’d wanted purity, when it was really Adelaide, with her many moods, her teasing ways, her clever passions that held him captive to his folly. She was his disease, and he had no cure.

“Next year,” she would tell him. “I’ll soon be too old for the stage, and then we will put things right,” she would assure him. “When Abigail’s health is better, dearest, we will correct our past mistakes when she is well again. I fear for her life if we were to do it now.” And more than once, “I’ll be invited to London, I know I will. Once I’ve played at Covent Garden, I will ask no more of life and will do as you say. Just one more year, please!”

Excuse after excuse, year after year. If she didn’t agree, he knew he couldn’t set things right. So he indulged her, financed another summer spent touring the countryside. And then another. Another.

Adelaide always seemed to know when she was in danger of outstaying her welcome. She’d swoop in, and then, just as Cyril prepared himself to speak of serious matters, she was gone again. If he pushed too hard, she would stay away for a year, driving him insane to see her again. He soon learned not to push too hard.

He was trapped; all of them were trapped in lie after lie after lie. And so it went on, until and after the boys weren’t boys anymore; they were well on their way to becoming men. With each year that passed, it became more difficult to consider revealing the truth. He’d left it all too late; he couldn’t possibly tell them now. His boys were educated, they had generous allowances, there was nothing he hadn’t given to them, save his name. Knowing he was lying to himself as well as to his sons each time Adelaide deigned to return to Blackthorn, the marquess grew to loathe her more, because he still desired her so much.

Until, suddenly, one day, he didn’t. She smiled, and he did not succumb. She teased, and he found her tiresome. She came to his bed, and he felt physically sickened. She threatened…and he found he could no longer concern himself with her threats. He could even put his finger on the moment he awoke from the last of his dream, to know it had been his nightmare.

It had been the moment she’d sent Jack away, sacrificing her son in some twisted attempt to hold on to Cyril.

Abigail had been retreating more and more into a small world, to the point where she barely knew him; she could not be harmed if the truth came out, if he revealed the lie of his marriage to her, acknowledged his sons. And those sons, no longer powerless youths, would protect her. There would be more scandal, yes, and those who would never truly believe, who would continue to shun them as bastards. But the titles would be theirs. In Beau, Blackthorn would have its first good, solid steward since Cyril’s father had been alive. The title, the line, would endure.

It was never too late to right a wrong.

At last, years too late, he’d found the courage he needed. But he would have to speak with Jack. That had to come first. He had to be made to understand that he was not only the child of his heart, proving the marriage would mean he, too, would be considered by law a son of the house. God only knew how many peers were the product of their mothers and somebody other than their husbands. The Harleian Miscellany was only one example. Jack must be made to understand this, but Jack refused to be found. And then there was the war, and his sons had scattered everywhere.

He’d first summoned his sons to the estate the previous spring, to at last tell them the truth. But then Abigail had died, and Adelaide had returned to Blackthorn for the funeral, slipping almost seamlessly back into his life as he grieved, nearly convincing him that revealing the truth at that time would only hurt Abigail’s memory. Besides, who would believe him, even if Adelaide admitted the truth, as well? Her father and stepmother were dead, the vicar was dead. Marriage lines could be forged. It was all simply too convenient to speak up now, with Abigail just in her grave.

Still, he’d written his explanation of what had happened, given it and the marriage lines to his solicitor, and for the past year and more that man had been petitioning the government and the church to have Oliver LeBeau, Don John and Robin Goodfellow Blackthorn declared his legitimate heirs, with Beau immediately being named Viscount Oakley, Jack and Puck to be addressed as Lord Don John Woodeword and Lord Robin Goodfellow Woodeword.

What the marquess did not say, but Tess was certain they all knew, was if Beau were then to die without male issue, Jack, the true bastard, would come into the title, and not Puck. Jack would never allow that! If he was going to protest, quit the room, this would be the time. Tess could scarcely breathe, and did not dare to look at him. But he remained silent, and the marquess continued with his story.

“Unfortunately, all of this is far from settled fact,” the marquess said wearily. “My solicitor has told me we will need to have your mother’s sworn statement as to her part in the deception. As late as last evening, she continues to refuse.”

And you, my lord, just very recently suffered what could very well have been a fatal riding accident,
Tess told him silently.
Why? Why won’t she allow the truth to come out? It was one thing when she was young, and insisted on her freedom. But why not now? She could be the marchioness, with all that entailed—the greatest role of her life. It makes no sense.

The marquess struggled to his feet and walked over to Beau, who had stood quietly throughout the long explanation, his lips so tightly pressed together the skin around his mouth had gone white.

“I remember the day you were beaten so horribly. Because of me, Beau, because of my weakness. I can’t ask for your forgiveness, and I can’t promise that you will ever bear the title you so clearly would serve better than I have done.”

Beau nodded shortly. “I long ago made peace with who I am, sir. And it is only because I was one of Blackthorn’s bastards that I am blessed with my wife, who is worth ten titles. There’s nothing to forgive.”

“Very prettily put, brother,” Puck said, joining them beneath the portrait. “I can say the same. It would appear our mother was correct in one thing. I don’t know that I would ever have been there for Regina when she so badly needed me, were it not for my bastard status. I wouldn’t change a single day spent as
le beau bâtard anglais.
I might regret a few of the more silly ones, now that I am a happily wedded man, but I enjoyed them quite a little bit at the time. It would be lovely to be Lord Robin, more than wonderful to be officially recognized as your son, sir, but legitimacy in the eyes of the world means nothing compared to what I already have.”

Tess searched in her pocket for her handkerchief, and wiped at her eyes. Beau and Puck had made touching, totally believable speeches. Bastardy had made strong, sensible men of them. Watching their wives join them, lovely and gracious and clearly deserving of their unexpected good fortune, was wonderful to see.

Jack, however, remained where he was, still saying nothing.

The marquess hugged his sons and then approached the son of his heart. Jack quickly got to his feet, and Tess as well, slipping her hand into his and squeezing it tightly. “Sir,” he said quietly.

“Son, I’m so sorry. For everything. I have always been proud of you for who you are, what you’ve made of yourself. You have a spirit and fire and courage I envy, as I have lacked all three my entire life. I’ll never know just what your mother told you to have you leave, or what it cost you to return here at last. Seeing your son, that fine boy you entrusted into my care, warmed my heart as it hasn’t been warmed in a long time. For him, for this woman standing so protectively beside you, please let me attempt to make amends to you in some small measure for all the hurt you suffered thanks to your mother and me. Please.”

Tess held her breath.

“Sir,” Jack said at last, “you have nothing to make up for, not in any way. You opened your home to another man’s child, opened your arms to me, opened your heart to me, when you had every reason to turn me away. I can only thank you. I owe
you,
sir. I thought I owed you my absence, but I was wrong. So very wrong. But you, sir, are wrong now. I have no right to legitimacy simply because Adelaide was marchioness when I was born. I won’t accept that.”