One Night of Sin (21 page)

“Pray, forgive me, Lord Alec, but I have been asked specifically by His Grace to ensure that nothing should be taken from the house.”

“Is that right?” Alec exclaimed. “My brother fears I might rob him and sell his goods for a few quid while he’s away?”

“So it would seem, sir. Terribly sorry. Not ‘rob,’ to be sure. Perhaps ‘borrow.’ My lord has ‘borrowed’ things before.”

Becky’s eyebrows arched high as she glanced at Alec in question. He scowled.

“Quite.”

“I’m very sorry, sir.”

“Not at all, old boy. Not your fault. Simply doing your duty and all that.”

Mr. Walsh raised an eyebrow at Alec’s placating tone, instantly alerted to some sly business afoot. The old fellow had served the family for all of Alec’s lifetime, after all; whatever tricks Alec had up his sleeve, old Walshie had seen them devised when he had been but a grinning boy, honing his charmer’s slick devices to an art form over the years.

There was no getting past the man, hang it all.

“Might I have a word with you, Mr. Walsh?” Alec grasped the butler’s bony elbow and took him aside, gesturing to Becky to wait.

“Indubitably, Lord Alec.”

“Look here, old fellow,” he said in a confidential tone. “This young lady currently finds herself in the direst of straits. I know what you’re thinking, but trust me—she’s not. She happens to be the granddaughter of an earl.”

“Naturally, sir. And which earl might that be?”

Alec glowered at the old fellow’s skepticism. “Talbot. But you are not to tell a soul, on your honor.”

“Not even His Grace?”

“Especially not His Grace. No one,” he said emphatically. “It’s like this, old boy. The chit’s got nothing but the clothes on her back, and as you can see, they are in tatters. She happens to be in considerable peril, and right now I’m all she’s got.”

“Oh, dear.”

Alec frowned. “I’m doing my best to sort it all out for her, but in the meantime she’s got nothing to wear, nothing to eat—”

“I say,” Mr. Walsh interrupted, “is that your blood all over your shirtsleeve or someone else’s, Lord Alec? What on earth happened?”

“Bit of a scuffle. Don’t worry. It’s just a scratch. I told you, she’s in danger. There are rather . . . unpleasant individuals after the girl. She’s got no one.”

Mr. Walsh looked at Becky with new concern.

“I cannot imagine, surely, that either Robert or Bel would refuse this girl help, especially with all their running about after the poor.”

“Well, you do have a point. If she is in peril . . .” He shook his head.

“I mean to take a few items of clothing for Miss Ward to wear until she has been restored to her home. You will not stand in the way, will you?”

Mr. Walsh hesitated, but only because he had his orders and was obsessive about his duty.

“Look at her, man,” Alec urged him. “Is she not an angel?”

The butler glanced at Becky again, deliberating. “I assured His Grace that I would not allow any of your—pardon, sir—shenanigans, while he was away.”

“No shenanigans!” Alec vowed, holding up his right hand. “It’s not for me, it’s for her. Robert would not turn away a poor young damsel in distress, and as for Bel, she’s the size of a barn with the babe due.”

“Sir,” he chided.

“You know it’s true. It’ll be months before she can fit back into her gowns, and by then her whole wardrobe will be out of fashion, anyway. Have a heart, man. Where’s the harm? We both know the duchess has got at least two rooms full of clothes—”

“Oh, very well,” Walsh relented, pursing his lips. He glanced at Becky, a glimmer of softhearted sympathy peeping out from beneath his haughty facade, then he snorted. “I’ll summon one of the maids to assist. This could be a rather large endeavor. Your young lady,” he said pointedly, “is an utter mess.”

In a struggle between pride and practicality, the latter won out in Becky’s bosom as Alec, the maid, and Mr. Walsh all conspired to fill a fair-sized trunk for her with the duchess’s borrowed clothing. Alec ignored the fact that a male had no business anywhere near an unmarried young lady in her chemise and brought his famed taste to bear in what looked beautiful on a woman. Becky endured as best she could while the celebrated dandy thrust his discerning choices into her hands and threw others out of her reach. “No. Not that one, it’s horrible. Try this, try that. No, not that color. Dreadful. Ah, better. Very smart. Now, that is very fine, indeed. . . .”

At last the trunk contained everything from stockings, shifts, and underthings to a silk wrap, kid leather slippers in three different hues, gloves, two wide-brimmed hats and a poke bonnet, a yellow parasol, four simple morning gowns, a few walking dresses, dinner dresses, promenade gowns, and two carriage dresses.

Still more luxury followed as several liveried footmen served them breakfast in the pale blue morning room. The white-wigged footmen marched through the tall white doors bringing coffee, tea, freshly squeezed orange juice and pastries, covered silver dishes containing sausage, beans, eggs, and warm toast with butter.

Dressed in a loose-fitting day-dress of sprigged muslin, Becky glanced at Alec. He had gotten rid of his bloodied shirt and coat and donned some clothes of his brother’s, which fit well enough, but which he complained were “dull, dull, dull.”

The Paragon Duke, as Alec informed her Hawkscliffe was nicknamed, apparently dressed too conservatively for his youngest brother’s flashier style.

Now Alec, with a bored flick of his hand, directed the servants to put the food on the table instead of the sideboard. It was plain that he was thoroughly accustomed to this treatment, being waited on hand and foot.

Lord,
Becky thought,
if I had lived like this all my life, I’d be spoiled, too.

Maybe it wasn’t “spoiled,” after all, she mused as she gave the footman a quick smile of thanks; instead, perhaps it was a matter of being taught from the cradle to look at life and one’s role in the world in a different way. Though half aristocrat herself, she was surprised to realize that she could get used to this. Usually she clung to the commoner’s half of her nature, as well she might after her titled grandparents had rejected her, but there was something to be said for hedonism.

The meal did much to lift their spirits. Alec downed large quantities of food and coffee, and Becky found she had more of an appetite than she had expected.

“Who is that?” she asked at length, nodding to the portrait above the alabaster chimneypiece of a grand-looking lady with a mischievous glint in her dark eyes.

Alec paused, barely glancing at it. “That’s Mother. She left when I was young.” He resumed eating.

“Left?”

He shrugged. “Died. Whatever.”

She was taken aback. “Well, which? Left or died?”

“Both. Left, then died.” He wiped the corners of his fine mouth with his linen napkin and coolly inquired, “Do you really want to know or are you just asking?”

She furrowed her brow, regarding him with puzzlement. “I think I really want to know.”

Alec poured himself another cup of coffee. “Quite a romantic tale,” he said with breezy nonchalance. “When I was fourteen, she went racing off on some adventure with her paramour, the Marquess of Carnarthen. Her true love. He fathered two of my brothers—half brothers, technically. The twins.”

Becky stared at him with her eyes like saucers.

“Mother and Lord Carnarthen ran away to France to rescue aristocratic children from the guillotine. They had quite a lot of friends in Paris who had been murdered by the mob. Many of the nobles’ children had been taken into hiding by their servants and were unaccounted for. Mother felt it was her duty to help her slain friends’ offspring, so she endeavored to locate them and bring them over to England.”

There was something odd about his speech, as though he had memorized it by rote.

“Together they made a few trips back and forth across the Channel, bringing the children over on Carnarthen’s ship. One day she never came back,” he said frankly. “Got caught in her good work, it seems, and put before the French firing squad.”

Becky gasped.

“Carnarthen had been dealing with the smugglers who let them come ashore in their port, and was too late in his attempt to rescue her.”

“Good heavens!” She set down her fork and looked from Alec to the craftily smiling duchess on the wall. “I—I’m so sorry. I don’t know what to say.”

Alec looked at her intently. He did not look at all aggrieved, but surely the loss caused him profound pain.

“Don’t you ever miss her?” Becky attempted in a soft tone.

“Not really,” he replied.

She could only stare at him in startled confusion.

He twirled his fork with deft, idle fingers. “I hardly ever think of her at all.” He paused and rested his chin on his hand. “Why should I? She didn’t think of us.”

Becky winced; Alec studied her as she lowered her gaze.

“How many brothers did you say you have, Alec?”

“Four, and one sister. Jacinda. Your age. She was only two when Mother left.”

Becky took a steadying sip of tea. “I see.”

He was watching her with a covert intensity that made her certain he wanted something very specific from her in response—almost as though he were testing her—but she was bound to fail because she did not know what it was he wanted her to say.

“You look shocked.”

“I am.”

“What do you think of my story?”

She shook her head guardedly. “You London folk are—different.”

“You’re not so put off about the marquess, are you?” he asked lightly, leaning back in his chair in a leisurely pose. “Because, I hate to say it, but the truth is we all have different fathers—except for the twins, who came as a matched set, obviously, and Robert and Jacinda, who are both his brats.” He nodded at the portrait of a stiff, unhappy-looking man on the opposite wall.

THE EIGHTH DUKE OF HAWKSCLIFFE
, the gold nameplate beneath it read.

“Poor bleeder,” he continued, as though he were talking about someone else’s family. He stared at the duke’s portrait for a long moment. “Never said a word to me, but at least he had the decency to acknowledge us all as his own. Couldn’t have borne with the scandal, don’t you know.”

She cleared her throat, half choking on her tea. “So, you’re saying h-he wasn’t your real father?” she asked ever so cautiously.

“No, poppet,” he drawled. “My real father caught Mum’s eye one night treading the boards at Drury Lane in the role of Hamlet.”

Becky was not a fainting female, but if she were, this would have been a perfect moment to ask for smelling salts. “An—actor?”

“Yes.” Alec’s smile was sugared treachery. “Sir Phillip Preston Lawrence was his name. All the ladies were quite smitten with him while he was in his glory. I’m told I look just like him.” He shrugged and sipped his coffee. “I wouldn’t know. Never met the chap.”

“I see.” She dropped her stunned stare to her plate.

He laughed. “Now I’ve shocked you.”

She looked at him uncertainly. “Are you bamming me with all of this?” She knew he loved to make jokes—

“Afraid not, Becky-love. It’s all true,” he said with a world-weary smile. “The whole ton knows about it. At least mine’s better than Jack’s. Jack’s the second-born, you see—Mother’s first indiscretion, and, Lord, it was a big one. She chose well when she decided to pay His Grace back after finding out about his mistress.”

She sent him a questioning look, bracing herself with a wince.

“Jack’s real father was an Irish prizefighter called the Killarney Crusher.”

“Good God!” She quickly covered her mouth.

“At least Jackie inherited his father’s fighting spirit. And a pair of fists like cannonballs—which was fortunate, because he needed them, you see, to constantly fight off all the lads at school who went around calling our dear mama the ‘Hawkscliffe Harlot.’ ”

Becky let out a small sound of distress and closed her eyes for a second. Maybe Alec’s life had not been as perfect as it looked at first glance.

He lounged in his chair, studying her with an expression of jaded amusement, but resentment shot like daggers from his eyes when he slanted another careless glance toward his mother’s portrait. “You must admit it’s charming how the lady got around. Quite picaresque. I can remember being nine or ten years old . . . I used to sit with her, you know, while she would get ready for her evenings out on the Town. Watch her putting on her makeup and her jewels, and telling me who would be at the party.”

“You . . . were close to her.”

“Close?” He paused, his stare far away. He shook his head, his long lashes veiling his eyes. “She was the sun and moon to me,” he said softly after a moment. “I was her favorite.” He sent her a whimsical half smile. “From the time I was knee-high, she used to call me her sunshine-boy. ‘My little hero.’ ” He let out a low laugh and skimmed his fingertips restlessly across the white damask tablecloth. “I was her jester. Her confidante. If the duchess fancied herself an Aphrodite, I suppose I was just the little Cupid flying around to attend her whenever she was bored.”

Becky just watched him, waiting. At length, her calm, open silence urged more detailed revelations from him.

“Jack used to kick me around and say I was attached to her apron strings,” he admitted after a cautious moment, “but of course, Jack hated her.” He shrugged. “Jack hated everyone. Still does. Not me. I felt important because of her. She would tell me things she couldn’t tell anyone else. I was the only one who could cheer her up when Society gossip had made her cry, or when some man or other had disappointed her, or when she fought with her husband, or when her eldest son shouted at her to stop disgracing the family. She counted on me—and of course, she gave me everything I wanted. Bribes, I suppose, to ensure that at least one person in the family stayed on her side.” He sent Becky a cynical smile.

She ached, gazing at him. The hidden anger in the depths of his dark blue eyes had emerged, and his smooth tone was edged with razor sharpness. So, he was angry at his dead mother, she realized. It was easy to understand why. From the way he described it, the duchess had treated him like a coddled pet while it amused her, heaped her adult problems on his tender child’s heart, and then walked away from him without much difficulty when some new pleasure beckoned.