Seduced by a Scoundrel (35 page)

His brother looked up sharply. “How the devil would you know?”

“I’ve had the both of you watched.”

James gave a low whistle. “You really do despise us.”

Drake took a long swallow from his glass. Though the fine French brandy slid like silk down his throat, he grimaced. What the devil had possessed him to come in here, to sit down, to converse as if they could one day know the true camaraderie of brothers? They shared the same blood, but little else.

“He’s rigid-minded and controlling, but he really isn’t as awful as you think,” James said, leaning back, his face earnest. “We’d play chess of an evening or argue politics. He’s as well read as any lecturer at Oxford, and he has an amazing grasp of numbers. He’s published treatises on mathematics.”

Drake had read those papers. He’d never admit to anyone—least of all this pampered nobleman—that he’d felt a sharp craving to debate those complex theories with the genius who had written them. But James had been the sole recipient of their father’s attentions.

Searching himself for resentment, he found a hollow longing, a sentiment that annoyed him. “So if you two get along so well,” he asked in a brusque tone, “why the hell did you leave?”

James fixed him with a lordly stare. “As I said, I wish to know my brother. And I shall.”

“We’re too different to be friends,” Drake said, finishing off his drink. “Let’s leave it at that.”

James gave a taunting laugh. “Don’t get your back up, Wilder. And I shan’t impose on you for very long. It’s past time I set up my own household.”

Seizing the chance to change the subject, Drake asked, “Have you asked her to marry you?”

A faint flush mottled James’s cheeks. “The duchess?”

“Who the hell else?” Reaching for the decanter, Drake refilled his glass. “Surely you’ll want her in your house.”

In one quick swallow, James emptied his glass. His voice mocking, he said, “She deserves better than to be shackled to a cripple for the rest of her life.”

“I’ve a suspicion she doesn’t look at it that way.”

“We’ll have our affair and nothing more,” James muttered, wheeling forward to pour himself another drink. “Then she can walk away whenever she likes.”

Drake couldn’t let Alicia walk away.
Fool!
Why did she have such a stranglehold on his heart?

“Don’t be an arrogant ass,” he snapped, with the uncanny suspicion that he meant himself. “You shouldn’t make that decision for her.”

“And you’re the expert on women? If you had half as much brains as conceit, you’d have gone on your knees to Alicia, begging for her forgiveness.”

“I don’t kneel before any woman.”

Snorting, James pointed to the doorway. “Then you should tell her so yourself.”

Drake turned in his chair to see Alicia standing on the threshhold.
Damn.
Had she heard him?

The lamplight from the corridor limned her slender form and haloed her golden hair. One of her hands clutched the doorframe as if she needed support. She wore the same rose-pink dress, though now it was rumpled as if she’d slept in it. Her face was too pale, her breathing too fast, her expression too anguished.

She
had
heard him.

Cursing himself, he sprang up and strode across the room to take her arm. Her skin felt chilled and her body trembled. “You look as if you’re about to swoon,” he said.

To his surprise, instead of recoiling or lashing out in anger, she merely stared at him as if trying to see into his soul. In a low voice, she said, “Drake, I must talk to you.”

“We’ll go upstairs.” This might be his chance. If he could get her alone, he could soften her, charm her, convince her that besting his father no longer mattered to him.
She
mattered.

“No.” Pulling away from him, Alicia walked into the chamber. “This involves James, too.”

James?

In baffled anger, he strode after her. What had James to do with that stupid remark about not kneeling before any woman? Unless something else had upset her.…

She glided to his brother and touched his hand. His brow furrowing in concern, James took her hand in his. “Alicia? What is it?”

“I must read something to both of you. This.”

For the first time, Drake noticed the paper she clutched in her other hand. He craned his neck to view it—a letter, the ink faded, the handwriting feminine with fancy curliques. Burning to know what had put her in such a state, he reached for the letter, but she held it to her breast.

“I must ask you to listen while I explain certain matters,” she said. “Ever since this afternoon, I’ve been thinking, remembering. And one of the things that came to my mind was a packet of old letters that Mama has always kept hidden. They were written by her childhood friend, Claire.”

Alicia paused, gazing at him with that strange seriousness. Drake hardened his jaw to subdue his impatience. “And?”

She walked slowly back and forth. “Claire Donnelly was a poor Irish orphan, a maidservant in the country house where Mama grew up. When the girls became fast friends, Mama convinced her parents to relieve Claire of her duties and raise her as their own daughter. And so the two girls studied together, learned etiquette and the ways of a lady. Then when they were sixteen, Claire fell in love with Lord Hailstock. They eloped to Scotland to be wed.”

James blew out a breath. “Father’s first wife. He certainly never told me she was a commoner.”

“So much for his exacting standards,” Drake muttered.

His brother flashed him an annoyed glance. “Save your comments. Alicia is distraught enough as it is.”

She was, and Drake couldn’t understand why. He couldn’t see how reciting family history had any benefit to either James or himself.

“Lord Hailstock and his wife remained in Scotland for a time,” she went on. “They lived there for nearly a year—until her death.” Stopping in front of Drake, she let her fingertips brush his lapel, the brief touch having all the substance of a butterfly’s wing. “It was the same year that you were born.”

Something in her purposeful tone caused a stirring of disquiet in him. He glanced at James, who leaned forward in his chair, his gaze intent on Alicia.

“So the wretch cheated on his bride,” Drake said, forcing a laugh. “That doesn’t surprise me.”

“It does me,” James said, his face serious. “I tell you, it isn’t like him.”

“Well, clearly he did so at least once,” Drake said flatly. He took hold of Alicia’s elbow. “This is all very interesting, but you needn’t distress yourself over a tragedy that happened a long time ago. You should lie down and rest.”

She pulled away. “Will you cease your patronizing remarks and listen?” she said sharply. “What I’m trying to tell you … what this letter
confirms
 … is that you are
not
Lord Hailstock’s bastard.”

Her words struck Drake like a blow. Did she trust his word so little? Through gritted teeth, he said, “We’ve already discussed this point. He
is
my father.”

She glanced worriedly at James, then back at Drake. “I know,” she said in an urgent tone. “What I’m saying is … you are his lordship’s
legitimate
son.”

Chapter Twenty-six

Her heart beating in her throat, Alicia watched Drake. He stood unmoving. His narrowed eyes showed only the blankness of shock.

Silence shrouded the chamber. The coals hissed on the hearth; a clock ticked on the bedside table. James wore a stunned expression, too, his brow furrowed, the glass forgotten in his hand.

“Give me that letter,” Drake said, his voice tight.

She handed it to him. Her legs as weak as a newborn kitten’s, she sank into a chair and watched him scan the girlish penmanship. The small square of paper looked flimsy in his big hands. Yet it carried a weighty revelation.

“What does it say?” James asked in a low, shaken tone. “For God’s sake, read it aloud.”

Drake thrust the letter back at Alicia. “You do the honors.”

She wished to heaven she could spare James. Before coming here, she had given serious thought to burning the letter. But there had been enough lies already. Enough secrets.

Wetting her dry lips, she lifted the paper and gave voice to the words that were already burned into her mind:
“‘Two nights ago, at midnight, I bore Richard a healthy son. Oh, my dearest Eleanor, I do wish you could see my precious boy! He is a wee mite, black of hair and blue of eyes, and I fancy I can hear you say he looks so like his mama. Richard cares not what I call him. So I have named him Drake, for my da, God rest his soul.

“Yes, it pains me to write that Richard has no interest in his son. In my letters these past months I have hidden my unhappiness, but now I must reveal the sad state of my marriage, for I am dying. And I fear Richard will deny our son.

“He accuses me of having lain with another—not true!—and declares that my vulgar blood caused a wantonness in me. This he would say, though I did guard my innocence until we plighted our troth at Gretna Green. From the start, he was jealous of every man I might speak to, whether he be footman or cleric. We were not wed a month when he returned home early from his business ventures to find a tradesman in my bedchamber, having just finished repairing the flue in the chimney. I was there, too, paying the man. Richard railed at me, and thenceforth he suspected me of the worst possible betrayal.

“Ever since, the coldness of his gaze chills me. To no avail have I begged my husband to give his blessing to our darling son. But he will neither hold Drake nor look at him. Though I will plead to my last breath, I cannot protect my child much longer. With each passing hour, my lifeblood ebbs and with it, my strength. Being alone in the world, I have no recourse but you, my dearest Eleanor. You must hide these documents, let no one see them, in particular not Richard. Safeguard them for my son, so that if the need should arise, he may prove his claim to Hailstock.

“Bless you, my lady, for helping me in my most desperate hour.’”

Alicia slowly lowered the paper to her lap. The anguished words haunted her. “The letter is signed,
‘Claire, Lady Hailstock.’”

Drake stood staring, his chest rising and falling beneath his linen shirt. For once in his misbegotten life, he looked too confounded for words.

No, she thought with a giddy sense of unreality. Drake was
not
misbegotten. He was Lord Hailstock’s
true heir.

James braced his arms on the chair. “So where are these documents?” he demanded, his face ashen, his voice harsh. “A marriage certificate, I presume? And proof of birth?”

“I don’t know,” she said with a helpless shake of her head. “Mama is … not herself this evening, so I doubt there is any purpose to asking her.”

Drake prowled the chamber, his footsteps loud on the bare marble floor. He tunneled his fingers through his hair, mussing the black strands. “This must be a hoax. Muira Wilder bore me. She wouldn’t have lied about that.”

“Perhaps she was warned to keep silent,” Alicia suggested. “Perhaps she’d been told you would be taken from her if ever she revealed the truth.”

“Warned,” he said through clenched teeth. “By whom? Hailstock? If he’d wanted to get rid of Claire’s child, he could have smothered him.”

James brought his fist down on the arm of his chair. “My father is no murderer,” he flared. “He wouldn’t kill a baby.”

“We seem doomed to disagree about his character.”

The two men glared at each other. As if they would come to blows rather than help her find a way out of
their
dilemma.

“Stop, both of you,” Alicia said sharply. “Your quarreling only makes matters worse. Drake, did Muira Wilder ever say anything at all that might verify this story?”

“No. Nothing.” Then he stopped pacing, his gaze unfocused, as if he were looking inwardly at his past.

“You’ve remembered something,” she said.

“It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Tell us anyway.”

Drake paced to the window, opening the shutters to stare out into the night. “On her deathbed … when she told me to go to London and see my father, she said, “‘I nivver could carry a bairn, lost so many till ye came along. Ye were my blessin’, my gift from heaven.’”

His husky Scottish lilt caused a prickling over Alicia’s skin. As did the message …
I nivver could carry a bairn.
“There, you see?” she said, a tremor in her voice. “She raised you, but she
didn’t
give birth to you.”

He shook his head. “She meant I was her only surviving pregnancy. She’d suffered a few miscarriages before I was born, that’s all.”

But Alicia saw the doubt in him. The subtle change from disbelief to cautious acceptance. Would he rejoice now? Would he seize his chance to exact the most punishing revenge of all?

She prayed he would not be so cruel to his brother.

James made an impatient sound. “We must find the documents proving the validity of this claim. Is Lady Eleanor truly so unbalanced that she cannot remember where she put them?”

“She has moments of sanity,” Alicia explained. “We shall have to wait for one of those times.”

“God!” With an angry push, James sent his chair careening across the chamber. He caught the wheels and spun to face her. “I cannot sit idly by, wondering if my father did such a deed. Have you searched your mother’s chambers?”

“Yes. I did so when I looked for the letters.” To steady her nerves, Alicia took great care in refolding the letter. “You should know, James, that your father has been seeking these documents, too.”

He wheeled closer. “What do you mean?”

Before she could reply, Drake pivoted. “Alicia came upon him poking through the study at Pemberton House. He
said
he was looking for some old papers that belonged to her father.”

“That isn’t all,” Alicia added. “Yesterday evening, while Drake and I were gone at the circus, his lordship came here and badgered Mama about a letter. I’m sure it was
this
letter—”

“The wretch came into my house? He upset your mother?” His hands clenched, Drake took a step toward her. “You ought to have told me so immediately.”