PortraitofPassion (18 page)

“So, I have finally met the beautiful Miss Morgan,” he said.
“The family is in quite an uproar over that one, I can tell you.”

“Oh?” Simon asked.

“Don’t play the simpleton with me,” Robert barked. “You know
perfectly well what I am talking about.”

Simon allowed a small smile to form and leaned back in his chair.
So this is the reason for the impromptu invitation
, he thought. Beatrice
had been invited so that Viscount Somerton, as head of the family, could assess
the situation for himself.

“What have you to say?” his uncle demanded when Simon
remained silent.

“What have I to say?” Simon thought about that. “I am truly
sorry if you are displeased by my relationship with Miss Morgan—”

“Displeased?”

“Please, sir, allow me to finish.” Simon leaned forward and
fixed his gaze upon his uncle. He wanted to be certain he, and through him, the
other members of the family, understood his stance on the subject of Beatrice.

“Proceed,” Robert replied more calmly, waving his hand in
the air.

“It is certainly not my intention to cause distress, but you
all need to understand that I will not allow Miss Morgan to be mistreated in
any fashion.”

“You will not allow?” his uncle demanded.

“I will not.”

His uncle leaned back in the chair, his gaze steady upon his
nephew. Simon waited.

“Do you seriously expect to flaunt your mistress in polite
Society and not bring down a rain of contempt upon her? Upon yourself? Upon
your family?”

“Miss Morgan is not my mistress,” Simon replied firmly.

“Do you deny that you have spent a number of nights under
Moorehead’s roof?”

Simon was not surprised that word of his whereabouts had
reached his uncle’s ear. He had hoped to keep his relationship with Beatrice
from prying eyes. He had attempted to arrive and depart again at dawn
discreetly, but he had known that keeping such meetings secret in London was
near to impossible. Servants possessed a web of gossip to put to shame even the
scandal sheets.

“I do not deny it,” he finally replied.

“Well, unless you have discovered a fondness for Viscount
Moorehead or one of his scullery maids, you have clearly made her your
mistress.”

“I intend to make her my wife.” Simon spoke softly. Even so,
his uncle jumped as if he had shouted.

“You what?” Robert came to his feet so fast his chair went
flying out behind him to crash into the wall.

Simon remained in his seat, calmly preparing for the
remainder of the eruption. He was not disappointed.

“Have you lost your mind? You would marry her? A woman of
low birth? Hell, a woman of unknown birth? You would sully your title? Bring
shame upon your house and your family? Good God, man, you would marry your
cousin’s leavings?”

“Be careful what you say!” Simon demanded, jumping to his
feet. He laid his hands upon the desk and leaned forward to glare at his uncle.
“You are speaking of my future wife.”

Viscount Somerton reached back to draw his chair forward and
fell into it with a grunt.

“Good God, it’s worse than we thought,” he murmured.

Simon turned and walked to the sideboard that he knew housed
Lord Piedmont’s brandy. He poured a healthy measure for each of them and returned
to hand one to his uncle before returning to his chair. His uncle drank half
the contents in one great swallow. Simon sipped his own and waited.

“Your aunt suspects Miss Morgan of dallying with you in
order to make Henry jealous, to force him to set her up in a house. Lady
Hastings believes that was her reason for following him from Paris, to
recapture his attentions, to entice him into providing for her.” His uncle was
clearly trying to make Simon’s declaration fit into the plot his aunt had
imagined. Simon could almost see his brain working, trying to sort it all out.

“Beatrice, Miss Morgan, was never Henry’s lover.” Simon
smiled as he remembered the morning she had used almost identical words. “
I
think you are a man who needs to be shocked.”

“Oh,” Robert waved his free hand in the air, “you’ve been
around enough to know that women will say whatever they think you want to
hear.”

“I was, and will always be, her only lover,” Simon replied.
When his uncle only looked skeptically at him, Simon raised his brow and gave a
definitive nod.

“Huh,” his uncle replied. “I guess you’ve been around enough
to know a virgin when you find one.”

“I have,” Simon agreed.

“What then?” Robert was calm now, ready to listen to Simon.
“Did she or didn’t she follow Henry from Paris?”

“No,” Simon replied. “She came to London to find a home for
herself and her family.”

“So, Lydia got that right then. My sister is adamant that
Miss Morgan’s arrival and subsequent befriending of both her children and you
is somehow related to Miss Morgan’s being after a house. Frankly I couldn’t
make heads or tails of her logic. But that’s the lady for you, gets an idea
into her head and won’t let it go.”

“I wasn’t aware Lady Hastings had returned to town,” Simon
replied.

“Just last evening.”

“Is she attending this evening?” If his aunt believed
Beatrice was attempting to attract Henry he had best keep the two ladies apart.

“Of course Lydia is here,” his uncle growled. “Where else
would she be?”

Simon was anxious to finish this interview with his uncle
and return to Beatrice. He finished his brandy and set the glass on the desk,
preparing to rise.

“Who is her family?” The question stopped Simon. He knew he
would be held captive in Piedmont’s study awhile longer. He debated how much to
tell his uncle.

“Her mother currently resides in Rome. From what I gather,
she was a gently bred lady who fell in love with a man below her station, a
secretary of some sort. It seems Mrs. Morgan’s family disowned her. She and Mr.
Morgan moved to the north to escape Society’s condemnation. Her father passed
away some years ago.”

“Yes, yes,” his uncle said. “But who are they?”

Simon thought of his suspicions regarding Beatrice’s mother,
that she had been a member of the
ton
, the daughter of a gentleman,
perhaps even a peer. He hadn’t asked Beatrice and though they talked of their
childhoods and their parents, she had shared no details that would reveal who
her mother was. Nor had she talked about her father other than the occasional
anecdote from her childhood, a remembrance of happy times together.

“I don’t know,” Simon admitted.

“How can you not know? How can you consider marrying a woman
you don’t know?” His uncle did not raise his voice, he seemed more confused
than angry.

“I do know Beatrice,” Simon replied simply. “I know all I
need to know about her to know I want to spend the rest of my life with her by
my side. The rest does not signify.”

“I suspect there is no talking you around?” his uncle asked.
It was obvious to Simon that he knew the answer already.

“No,” Simon agreed. “I leave on a business matter on the
morrow and when I return I intend to ask the lady to be my wife.”

“So you have not made an offer yet?” Simon saw the
speculative gleam enter his uncle’s eyes.

“Do not make mischief, Uncle,” he warned.

Robert rose to his feet and stretched his hand out to Simon
across the desk. “No, no. I won’t.” Simon placed his hand in his uncle’s great
meaty paw and when he would have withdrawn it, his uncle held tight. “I’ll warn
you, though, that your aunt has a bee in her bonnet about Miss Morgan. No
telling what the lady will do in your absence.”

Beatrice watched Henry and Julia Fairchild float about
together on the dance floor. She liked the young debutante and suspected that
Henry liked her as well. She wondered if there was any way he could marry the
younger sister rather than the elder.

“Good evening, Miss Morgan.”

The softly spoken words startled Bea and she spun around to
face the woman who had whispered them.

She was a petite older lady with brown hair pulled severely
back from her face and brittle gray eyes. She was dressed in a gown of mauve
silk and white lace, long, white gloves all but swallowing her impossibly thin
arms. Her skin was pale, nearly transparent in the candlelight, her thin, blue-tinged
lips compressed into a harsh line.

“Good evening,” Bea replied. She didn’t think she had been
introduced to the lady. She would remember her, remember those cold eyes.

“I did not believe you would come this evening.” The rasp of
venom in the lady’s voice startled Bea and she took an involuntary step back.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” Bea asked in confusion.

“I know you,” was the reply. “I would know you anywhere.”

And suddenly Bea knew. The lady standing before her with
fury radiating from her silver-gray eyes and hatred vibrating through her
trembling limbs was the Countess of Hastings.

Papa’s wife, Bea thought in horror.

“I know why you have come,” Lady Hastings said, her voice as
brittle as dried autumn leaves.

How many times had she imagined this moment? A hundred. A
thousand. All those years of wandering the continent with her family, never
settling long in one place, never putting down roots, always dreaming, hoping
and praying for the chance to return to Idyllwild. This bitter woman with her
greed and jealousy, her lies and faithlessness, had stolen Bea’s life.

There was so much Bea wanted to say. She wanted to scream,
to howl with rage, to cry in anguish. She wanted to beg.

She did not, could not. It was all she could do to remain on
her feet, to draw air into her lungs, to hold her head up and meet the lady’s
furious gaze.

“You will not have him,” Lady Hastings growled low in her
throat. “You will not make my son a slave to your perversion as your mother did
my husband. You will not drag him down into lust as that whore did.”

Bea trembled as the words registered in her sluggish mind.

“You are mad,” she whispered in shock.

“I know you. I know you for the whore you are.”

“I am not…I did not come to…I am…” Bea could not go on,
could not find the words to defend against the mad accusation. That this woman,
this lady, could think such things!

“You are nothing. Nothing. You are nothing but the git of
his whore.” Lady Hastings words roared through her. “Do you think your mother
was his only whore?Look around you, there are half a dozen of his
bastards in this room right now.”

And for one moment Bea looked away from the cold gray eyes
pinning her in place, looked about the room, as if expecting to see his
likeness in the nameless faces around her.

“Oh my God!” she cried out in shock. What was she doing? It
wasn’t true. It could not be true. Shame coursed through her. How could she
have doubted, even for one moment?

Lady Hastings’ dry laughter brought Bea’s anguished gaze
back to her. The lady was cackling, her thin lips pulled back in an evil
grimace, saliva pooling in the corners.

“My father loved us,” Bea whispered raggedly.

“Your father loved anyone he could…man or woman…it made no
difference.”

Bea did not even react to the words. They were ridiculous.
Lady Hastings, with her pasty skin and her cracked lips, was ridiculous. Bea
began to think that perhaps she was truly mad, deranged in some fundamental
way.

“I will burn Idyllwild to the ground before I let his whore
or her whelp step one foot upon the land.”

Bea imagined all her dreams, all her plans and hopes
drifting away like smoke in the wind.

“You will leave London and never return, never contact my
son again. And if you ever even hint to Henry that you are his father’s bastard
I will ruin you…you and that whore…do not be foolish enough to think I cannot.”
Lady Hastings’ words seemed to come to Beatrice as if from a dark cave, echoing
around her over and over again

An odd calm seemed to settle over Bea, warming her cold
bones, steadying her trembling limbs, slowing the rapid beat of her heart.

“No,” Bea said and her voice was strong, steady.

Lady Hastings blinked at her.

“No,” Bea repeated. “It will not happen as you say.”

“You dare…” the lady began.

“I dare,” Bea agreed, taking one step closer to Lady
Hastings, close enough that she could see that her pupils were the merest black
dots in her silvery eyes, close enough to see little drops of moisture beading
her upper lip. A strange, musky-sweet smell seemed to emanate from the lady.
Bea imagined it was fear. It gave her courage. “You will keep the promise you
made to my father. You will see Idyllwild returned to me.”

“Never.” The word was a vow.

“If you do not, I will do more than hint to Henry.”

“You think to blackmail me?” she asked in outrage.

“I think to right a wrong,” Bea corrected.

“Henry will not believe it,” Lady Hastings said, but Bea
heard the doubt in her voice.

“He will believe it,” Bea countered. “He will see it. It is
a wonder he does not see it already.”

Bea and her father’s widow stood silently staring at one
another in the crowded ballroom, measuring each other, seeking the advantage.

“I will retire to Idyllwild and you shall never see me or
hear of me again,” Bea promised even as she recognized all that she would lose.

“Henry will have to agree,” the lady finally whispered.

Bea only looked at her.

They both knew that Henry paid no attention to the business
side of his title. All decisions were made by this lady. The son would sign
whatever paper was laid before him. Bea’s plan, her mad scheme had hinged on
the fact that the mother was not in town. She had thought to have more time,
another week, perhaps two. Time enough to convince Henry to lease her living
rights to Idyllwild, time enough to see it done before the mother returned.

Now she would deal with the mother. It was fitting really.
After all it was the mother, her father’s wife, who had taken her home from
her. She should be the one to restore it.

“My solicitor will draw up the leasehold and have it
delivered to you in two days. You will leave immediately and never return and
never have contact with any member of my family again.” Lady Hastings glared at
her.

“A life estate,” Bea insisted.

“Oh yes,” Lady Hastings replied with a curl of her lip. “You
will live and die on that moldy decrepit estate.”

Bea suddenly had the oddest feeling that she had somehow
been outmaneuvered. But no. She had gotten what she’d always wanted. Never mind
the cost.

Lady Hastings looked past her and Bea turned to find Olivia
standing behind her.
How long has she been there?
Bea wondered in an
oddly detached way. How much had she heard? Simon walked up then to stand
beside his cousin.

“Mother,” Olivia said. “When did you arrive?”

“Olivia,” Lady Hastings greeted her daughter with a small
nod. “You will come to tea tomorrow. Two o’clock.”

“Of course,” Olivia agreed.

With a frigid look at Beatrice, Lady Hastings turned away.
She stumbled slightly and Simon held out a hand to steady her. She only glared
at his hand, straightened her spine and marched out of the ballroom.

“Beatrice,” Olivia said, reaching out to clasp Bea’s hand in
her own. “I apologize if my mother was rude to you.”

“Oh no, Olivia,” Beatrice replied though she only vaguely
heard Olivia’s words. Simon was looking at her as if he had never seen her
before. Bea wondered what he saw. Did he see the strange calm that enshrouded
her? Did he see the cold calculation in her eyes?

“What did she say to you?” Olivia asked and Bea could hear
the worry in her soft words.

“Would you mind finding Bertie for me?” Beatrice asked her
as she gently pulled her hand from the light grasp.

“Are you all right? Do you need to sit down?” Simon reached
out to touch her shoulder as Olivia walked away. Bea stepped back and his hand
fell to his side.

“I am fatigued. I should like to go home.” Beatrice could
not bring herself to meet his knowing eyes. Instead she looked down at her
hands, held tightly together against her stomach.

“Of course,” he agreed stiffly. Neither spoke again until
Bertie walked up beside them.

“Bumble,” Moorehead exclaimed softly when he reached them.
“You wish to leave? Crowd too much for you?” He drew her to his side with one
arm wrapped around her shoulder.

Beatrice held herself stiffly against him, feeling the first
cracks in the wall of cold calm. She took a deep breath, stiffened her spine
and finally looked up.

Simon and Olivia were looking at her, and she could see the
concern in both their gazes. She did not look, but she could feel Bertie’s worried
eyes upon her.

“I would like to go home.” She spoke the words to the space
between Simon and Olivia.

“Oh love,” Moorehead replied, and there was a wealth of
despair in the word. “I’ll be taking my girl home now,” he announced to Simon
and Olivia.

Beatrice withdrew from Bertie’s light embrace and his arm
dropped away.

“Will you make our goodbyes?” she asked Simon.

“Of course,” he replied.

Bea turned without a word and walked across the ballroom,
skirting the dancers flying about, their gowns twirling like a kaleidoscope of
color in the corner of her eye. She knew Bertie was behind her, could feel his
reassuring presence at her back.

Beatrice held on to her composure until Bertie had helped
her into the carriage, until she felt it begin to move, carrying her home.
Home, but not home.

She turned to Bertie and his arms were open, waiting to
enfold her in his comforting embrace. She latched on to the lapels of his coat
with both hands and buried her head against his chest. Her eyes were dry but
her body shook with the effort of not giving in to the anguish that coursed
through her. She was afraid that if she let go, if she let herself cry she
would wail and curse until she dissolved into nothingness.

“Nothing. You are nothing but the git of his whore
.
Do
you think your mother was his only whore? Look around you, there are half a
dozen of his bastards in this room right now
.”

“Oh Papa,” she whispered against Bertie’s massive bulk.

“Shh,” he soothed, “you’re all right now, Bumble Bea.”

“She is evil,” she cried softly. “I cannot understand how
she can be so evil.”

“Yes,” he agreed. He rubbed her back, all the while making
comforting noises, easing her pain.

“The things she said about Papa.” She leaned back to meet
his sad eyes. She did not believe her words. She had had a moment’s doubt, back
there in the ballroom with those deadened eyes staring at her. She felt guilty
for that doubt, ashamed.

“Tell me,” he urged. “Tell me all of it and we will figure
it out.”

Beatrice took a deep breath, moved to settle herself in the
corner of the carriage with her long legs tucked up to her chin, her arms
wrapped around her knees. Bertie reached below the hem of her skirt to remove
her slippers and she smiled at him, a wobbly smile, but a smile nonetheless.

“I didn’t see her coming,” she began. “I turned and there
she was, right beside me. And her eyes, oh her eyes. They were so cold, so pale
and dead.” She took a trembling breath, unable to erase the image of those eyes
from her mind.

“Where was Easton?” he demanded.

“He had gone to speak with his uncle,” she defended Simon.

“I did not know she had returned, not until I came out of
the card room with Olivia and she told me,” Bertie said. Bea heard the disgust
in his voice.

“It does not matter,” Bea hurried to assure him. “She knows.”

“We knew she would only have to see you to know you were his
daughter.”

“No, she knows why I have come,” she clarified.

“How can she know?” Bertie exclaimed.

“I am not sure,” Bea replied. “It matters not.”

“She was ever a wily woman, a suspicious woman.” Bertie
huffed out a breath and leaned back on the carriage seat.

“And in this case her suspicions were true.”

Bertie looked out the window, tapped his fingers
rhythmically upon his leg. Beatrice knew he was thinking it all out, putting
the pieces together and formulating possible strategies to combat this
unexpected development.

There was no need.

“It is done,” Bea said softly as she placed her hand upon
his tapping fingers.

Bertie turned back to her with a look of surprise.

“We have reached an accord.”

“What accord?” he asked.

“She will see Idyllwild returned to me and I will not tell
Henry I am his sister.”

“But you never intended to tell him,” Bertie replied. Bea
saw realization dawn in his eyes. “But Lady Hastings could not know.”

“No,” Bea agreed. “She could not know.”

“Will she keep her word?” he asked.

“We will know in two days,” Bea replied. Two days, she
thought with a pang. She wondered where the joy was. For nine long years she
had dreamed of the moment Idyllwild would be hers once more. In her dreams she
was always overjoyed.

“Two days?” Bertie asked.

“She said she would have the leasehold, a life estate,
delivered to me in two days.”

“What else?” Bertie asked.

“I am to depart immediately and never to return to London
nor have contact with Henry or Olivia.” Beatrice shoved aside the pain that
accompanied her words, buried it deep within where she had buried her grief and
her bitterness.