“For God’s sake,” Gabriel snapped, weary of the suspicion, “I hired the woman only weeks ago; I would have been hard pressed to father a six-year-old boy on a woman whose acquaintance I have held for little over a month.”
Still Westwood looked unconvinced. “By your own admission, there is much you do not recall,” Westwood said. “And…the boy bears a striking resemblance to you.”
For just a moment, there was a queer ache in Gabriel’s chest, a sort of pitiful lurch somewhere in the vicinity of his heart. Perhaps a part of him wished it could be so—wished for a moment that Matthew washischild, that the past could somehow be pulled apart and stitched back into something better and brighter. But there was no use in it, nothing to be gained from such a foolish fantasy.
“Mrs. Hotchkiss is a widow,” he said pointedly. “And even if we somehow knew one another in those years that I cannot recall—which she has never given me the slightest reason to suspect—don’t you think that a woman of her station would clamor to have a man of mine claim her child? It would mean security for her, and her child, for the rest of their lives.”
Abashed, Westwood tossed back the last of his liquor. “I suppose you’re right,” he said. “It was just an idle thought.” He rose from his chair, setting aside his empty glass. “I’ll visit my sister tonight. With any luck, tomorrow I ought to have an answer for you regarding the governess and nanny.”
“I beg you, tell her as little as you can manage,” Gabriel said. “The very last thing I need is my condition bandied about all over London.”
“Of course,” Westwood said. And then on his way out the door, simply to be maddening, he added, “What are friends for?”
Chapter Sixteen
Matthew was howling as though he were being beaten. Although she was certain that was not the case, it wrenched Claire’s heart to hear it.
Probably it also wrenched his lordship’s eardrums, for he poked his head out of his study, catching sight of her as she proceeded down the hallway toward the nursery, and inquired, “Whatisthat unearthly racket?”
“It’s Matthew,” she said. “I’m very sorry. I’ll go calm him down.” She ducked her head as she passed, silently stewing. She had never expected Gabriel to have fully anticipated the travails that would ensue with the addition of a child to his household, but she was fairly certain that he was now regretting the impulse that had led to Matthew’s residence in his home.
Gabriel muttered something beneath his breath and retreated once again into his study, closing the door against the continued wails emanating from the nursery.
At the very least he had done exactly as he said he would—she could not guess from whence he had sourced them, but the very morning after Matthew had arrived, two women had shown up on the doorstep with pages of references between them. Matilda and Agnes—the Misses Perry—sisters who had gone into service, now served as governess and nanny to Matthew.
They had seemed amiable enough, pleasant girls who looked as if they adored children, and Matthew had taken to them almost immediately. Claire had found it unaccountably difficult to leave her son in the care of other women—it had been hard enough to leave him with Anne, but at least Anne had the benefit of being a relation. Still, any time after the dinner hour was her own, and she intended to spend the majority of it with Matthew, at least until it was time for him to be in bed.
“I won’t, I won’t, Iwon’t!” The screeching rose to a fever pitch, nerve-shattering even through the door, and Claire cringed at the sound. Surely Gabriel would rescind his offer and send them both away.
Claire flew through the nursery door, snapping it shut in her wake. “Matthew, what in the world—”
Matthew flew at her like a tiny whirlwind, seizing her skirts in his small fists as he buried his face in her chest. “Shewants me to take abath,” he said, pointing an accusing finger at Matilda, who offered a wan smile. Matthew stomped his foot petulantly and declared, “Iwon’t! I just had one last week!”
Claire heaved a sigh. “Darling,” she said, smoothing his disheveled hair, “If Miss Perry says you must have a bath, then you must have a bath.”
“But I’mclean,” he wailed piteously. “I don’t need one!”
Claire disagreed strenuously, but baths had been a luxury in Spitalfields, where time spent heating water was time stolen from other tasks. The gentry could expect to bathe far more frequently—though some chose to cover themselves in perfumes instead. It was hardly outrageous for Matilda to expect her charge to be clean, though a six-year-old unused to frequent baths would doubtless find it an unwelcome change from his usual habits.
“I’ll handle it,” she said to Matilda, who gave a heavy, relieved sigh, and retreated quietly from the room. To Matthew she said, “The water has already been drawn for you. Would you have had the footmen labor for nothing?”
With a petulant expression, Matthew gave a whimpering whine. “But, Mama—”
“Matthew, you are a guest in this house, and his lordship has been kind enough to provide a lovely room, and a governess, and a nanny, and an abundance of toys for you. The very least we can do is ensure that we don’t disturb him with tantrums.” She peeled his hands from her skirts, dropping to her knees to look into his face.
He thrust out his chin and folded his thin arms over his chest, sulking at the gentle chiding.
“I want us to be able to stay here,” she said. “I’m so happy to be close by if you need me, to tuck you into bed and read you stories and—” She broke off as her voice grew unsteady, regretting fiercely just how much of his childhood she had already missed, the precious moments that had passed the both of them by. Surreptitiously she dashed at her eyes, swiping away the tears that had gathered on her lashes. “His lordship has been very kind to the both of us,” she said when she could manage to speak clearly once again, “but this ishishome, and if we make it an unpleasant one for him, he would be within his rights to ask us to leave it.”
As if this thought had not occurred to him, his gaze swept the nursery, taking in the large, comfortable bed, the toys scattered across the room, the books lining the shelf against the wall, the fireplace throwing out a comfortable heat.
He heaved a great, long-suffering sigh, his shoulders slumping in defeat. “I’ll take a bath,” he muttered at last.
“Good.” She bussed a kiss across his brow, ushering him into the small bathing room attached to the nursery, where a tub had already been filled with heated water. “Tonight, I will give you your bath. But you must bathe when your nanny says, and give her no arguments—ortantrums.”
“Even if—”
“Even ifyou still feel clean,” Claire stressed, tugging his shirt over his head.
