The Forest Lord (4 page)

But she had not grown quite impervious enough. She was still capable of feeling betrayed.

"You knew?" she asked in a whisper.

"No. I only suspected." Claudia gazed down at her hands as if reluctant to speak. "I know you do not remember much of what happened during the child's birth. You were delirious, and it was not going well. My brother—your father—insisted upon employing the services of a local midwife rather than a physician. The woman sent me from the room when the child was born, despite all my pleas to stay by your side." She looked up, allowing sorrow to shadow her eyes. "Afterward your father came to tell me that he had spoken to the woman, and that the child… had not survived." She reached for
Eden's hand. "I could not bring myself to doubt him, though deception… had occurred to me. I never saw the child—or the midwife—again."

Eden
's profile was bleak.
"My father?"

"If he deceived you, my sweet child, it was for the best. You were… very ill before and after the child's birth. You wanted nothing to do with its father. And Lord Bradwell himself was… not well."

She saw that point strike home.
Eden never showed that she missed her father. He had been half mad ever since that night at the inn on the way to
Gretna Green.

In the year after
Eden's marriage to Winstowe, Lord Bradwell had gambled and caroused his way through his fortune and all his unentailed lands. Claudia remembered how he'd deteriorated, driven by guilt and shame, only to disappear from sight and cut off all contact with his only child. He was rumored to be dead, or living in exile on the continent. Even Lord Bradwell's solicitor had no news of him.
Eden had stopped inquiring years ago.

"He gave my son away,"
Eden said. "That changes nothing. I must find him."

"Find your son?"
Or your father?
Thank God that either will be nearly impossible
. "Did Spencer tell you where to look for him?"

"No. It does not matter. I shall find him."

"But why,
Eden?"
Claudia leaned close, filling her voice with sympathetic persuasion. "Think of the child. Surely he is better off wherever he is, among those who raised him.
Whatever his reasons, your father would have seen to it that he went to a good and decent family, with means enough to raise him properly.
He does not know you—"

"I am his
mother
."

"And who was his father?"

Stricken,
Eden closed her eyes. "You think I could not love him because—" She shook her head. "You are wrong." She opened her eyes again and held Claudia's gaze, her elegantly curved brows drawn in an expression that was almost savage. "Can you think that I am the same naive girl who came to
London five years ago? After all you have taught me?"

Claudia could not mistake the edge of mockery in her voice. The cynicism of lost innocence underlay everything Lady Eden did, everything she was.

Except in the matter of her resurrected child.

"You know nothing of children," Claudia said with deliberate coldness. "You never behaved as if you wanted any."

"There are still things you do not know about me, Aunt."

But I know that in five years of marriage, Spencer never gave you a child. I believe I know why. Yet none of the lovers did, either.

God knew that she had taught
Eden to be careful.

"A woman alone," she said, "left as Spencer has left you—"

"Nearly penniless?"

So
Eden was not unaware of the state of her finances, though she had lived as though the money would last forever. Claudia admitted she bore some of the blame for that; she had indulged the girl too much. But she could also supply the remedy—once she had put an end to this madness about
Eden's son.

"Spencer left many large debts of long standing," she said. "The creditors will be sending in their bills now that he is dead."

"Yes. But I suspect that is not your greatest concern, Aunt. Can it be that you fear for my reputation?" She
laughed,
the throaty, musical sound that drew men to her like bees to a blossom.
"That I shall somehow ruin myself by suddenly producing a son who is not my husband's?"
Her smile held a wild, irrational edge. "Everyone knows that Lady Eden Winstowe is almost beyond redemption. Why should the
ton
be shocked?"

"Even a liberal society has its limits," Claudia said firmly. "You have always taken my advice before, and I give it to you in all familial affection. Your position may be more precarious than you will admit, now that your income is so vastly reduced. Do you wish to be ostracized by the ton?"

Eden
lost her smile. That point, too, hit its mark. "I have friends—"

And have you not learned how little such friendships can mean
? "In this last year, Spencer was more intemperate than ever before. You know that he was not right in the mind. He accumulated the sorts of debts, and
reputation, that
caused much ill will among those who were once his friends. The
ton
was already beginning to cut him,
Eden. You were simply too involved in your own affairs to notice, but it would have affected you soon enough. And now… think, my dear. You must have time to consider carefully. This is no time for rash action."

She gestured about the room, at the fine furnishings and rare antiques. "You can no longer bear the expense of running such an extravagant household. Your father's investments have failed. The income from your marriage settlement has fallen to a trickle, and not enough remains to pay your debts and continue in any fashion that would maintain your place in Society. Nor can I help, for my own jointure…" She paused delicately.

"I know, Aunt. I have done my best to repay you for all you have done, but now… I do not know how I shall help you to maintain your own establishment."

"That is of no moment, dear Niece. But how can you consider bringing an innocent child, raised by simple folk, into this questionable situation?"

Eden
's face had grown unreadable once more. "We shall sell this house and the furnishings and move to more modest lodgings."

"Where?
In Hans Town, perhaps?
Would you really care to receive your fashionable friends draped in dull mourning garb, no longer able to join in their scandalous conversation and too impoverished to charm them with expensive entertainments?"

Eden
stood again, her swift movements belying her apparent calm. "I am well aware of the necessities. I will reduce the staff as well, though it grieves me. We must sell Spencer's horses and three of the carriages. That alone will settle many of Spencer's debts, those that cannot wait."

"And what of your own?"

"What do you suggest, Aunt? If we cannot afford to live as we have become accustomed to do, and we are in such danger of being cut by the
ton
, then where are we to go? I can think of but one place that remains mine without encumbrance."

Claudia tried not to shudder. There was, indeed, one sanctuary open to
Eden, a place to which she had sworn she would never return. One Claudia dreaded with equal fervency.

Hartsmere.

Not that Lord Bradwell had believed his daughter would return. He had come to hate the place as much as his sister and daughter had. But he had been determined to give
Eden some refuge of her own in the event of dire need. Hartsmere was unentailed, and had become part of the marriage settlement; Spencer had only its income while he lived.
Income that had rapidly diminished to nothing.

"Surely you cannot be serious," Claudia said.

Eden
closed her eyes. "Have we any choice? Papa made certain that it would come to me upon my husband's death, and it cannot be touched by our creditors."

"Spencer had no experience or interest in management, and never put a penny back into that estate. It must be in ruins. I will not allow you to make such a sacrifice when there is a far more sensible solution."

"Pray tell me, Aunt. If there is another way—"

"The Marquess of Rushborough."

Eden
blinked, as if the thought had never entered her mind. Perhaps it hadn't. She'd broken with the marquess as soon as Spencer became ill.

Claudia was not so imprudent. "Do you think that the marquess has forgotten you in one short month? He was very much in love with you, Eden—and do not pretend that you were indifferent to him. He was not your usual flirt. I have no doubt that, if you were to approach him—"

"Spencer has just died,"
Eden
interrupted,
her voice unsteady. "I am in mourning. You say that you are afraid of my scandalizing the
ton
by finding my son, but begging support from Rushborough is acceptable?"

"The marquess can be most discreet. And it is not his mistress he would be supporting, but his future wife."

Eden
gazed unseeing about the room. "What has Rushborough told you of his intentions?"

"His actions are more eloquent than any words could be. Naturally you must maintain a show of mourning your husband. But I have every confidence that if you provide the smallest encouragement, Rushborough will propose—and marry you as soon as you put away your widow's weeds. Until then, he will not allow his beloved to live in disgrace or poverty."

Eden
's expression
relaxed,
and Claudia was certain she had won. Everything she had said was true. "You see how this solves all our problems. You will have the life you deserve, with no fear of debt. As a marchioness, you shall be—"

"No. I am sorry, Aunt, but it is too soon. I cannot ask so much of Rushborough. And before I see him again, I must find my son."

"I thought we had discussed the folly of such a scheme."

Eden
's expression took on the willful, reckless look that Claudia had seen more and more frequently. "It is no scheme, Aunt. It is my firm resolve."

Claudia kept a tight rein on her temper. Once, six years ago, she had forcefully tried to dissuade a young girl from throwing her life away, and her protestations had only driven
Eden into her lover's arms. The same thing might happen again if she pressed too hard.

But once
Eden returned to Hartsmere, she would not be able to bear the place for long. Soon she would be desperate to take her aunt's advice, as she had done for the past five years, and accept the marquess's generosity.

And
Eden's hopes of finding the boy were slim. She might search for years and never locate him. By one means or another, Claudia would steer
Eden's thoughts away from this lunacy.

This incalculable danger.

"Very well," Claudia said. "If it is your wish to go to Hartsmere, there is much to be done, many preparations to be made—funeral arrangements and lawyers to consult. We must write the steward at Hartsmere to inform him of your return." She took
Eden's arm. "Leave it all to me, my dear. You need rest."

As if to give the truth to her words,
Eden swayed on her feet. The fight had gone out of her, now that she believed she had her way.

"You will not wish to go upstairs quite yet. Sit quietly and reflect, and Bailey will bring you a soothing glass of wine."

With a faint murmur of thanks,
Eden assented. Bailey hastened to do Claudia's bidding; he knew who had taken the reins of authority in this household.

Once
Eden was well settled, Claudia went into the study and unlocked Spencer's desk with the duplicate key she had obtained during his illness. It wasn't difficult to find the letter; Spencer had not been a particularly clever man
nor
a very imaginative blackmailer. She still did not know when or how Spencer had come by the missive. He had made good on his threat to tell
Eden of her son, but he was quite unable to savor his victory in hell.

Claudia folded the paper tightly and pocketed it among her skirts. She had a letter of her own to write, and its recipients had best be wiser than Spencer Winstowe.

Eden
's first glimpse of the estate was a view from the
bumpy unpaved road that descended into the little valley from the rolling fells surrounding it. The coachman reined in his team, taking the slope at an easy pace. Everywhere the world was white with recent snow, and the sun showed no signs of emerging to melt it away.