Neither of them was in London at present. Barbara, the elder of the two, was in the country with her husband and children to celebrate the fortieth wedding anniversary of her parents-in-law. Jane had discovered herself to be with child just before the start of the Season and had remained in the country until she recovered from the bilious phase that had plagued her also with her first child.
“I do,” Charles said. “In person when the opportunity arises.” And for the same reason that had persuaded him to tell Adrian. The truth was bound to come out now that Gil had surfaced in his life, even though his son planned to live year-round in Gloucestershire. It was better that the news come from their father.
Adrian nodded and pushed away from the bookshelves. “I’ll come,” he said. “Bertrand will be there, you said?”
“Lamarr?” Charles said. “Viscount Watley? Very probably, since his father is married to the former Countess of Riverdale.”
“Then I’ll come,” Adrian said again. “Just as long as your other son will not be there too.”
“No,” Charles said. “He has already taken his wife and daughter home to Gloucestershire.”
“At your expense?” Adrian asked.
“No,” Charles told him. “He is apparently independently wealthy. So is his wife.”
“I have to go out,” his son said abruptly, making his way toward the door. “I was supposed to be somewhere half an hour ago.”
“Adrian.” His son stopped, his hand on the doorknob, and looked back at him. “I adored you from the moment I first saw you all swaddled up in your mother’s arms, your cheeks red and fat. I have not changed my affections since.”
His son nodded again and was gone.
He was not good with words of affection, Charles thought. He had not been a good husband. They had not married for love, he and his wife, and they had lived very separate lives. They had always been polite to each other, but there had been no real warmth or affection between them.
It had been otherwise with his children. He had always loved them totally and unconditionally, and still did. He had spent time with them when they were young. He had taught them to ride and had taken Barbara hunting with him on several occasions. He had taken Jane and Adrian fishing. He had taken them all swimming and tree climbing—the latter when his wife was well out of sight. He had read to them before they could do it for themselves. Perhaps, he thought now, he had lavished upon his legitimate children all the time and affection Gil’s mother had refused to allow him to lavish upon his firstborn.
He picked up the quill pen again, though he did not resume his seat, and turned it in his hand, brushing the feather across his palm.
He loved his firstborn son with a dull ache of longing. But he wished all this had not happened to churn up pointless emotions—Gil’s sudden appearance in London with a wife, terrified that he might lose his daughter forever if the judge ruled against him; Charles seeing his son for the first time across that small courtroom where the hearing had been held, the Westcott family in their rows of chairs between them; the stiff, awkward breakfast meeting the following morning at Gil’s hotel, arranged by Gil’s wife; the almost certain knowledge that they would never see each other again.
Matilda.
He wished he did not feel angry with her, irritated with her for aging and making him want to lash out at someone or something for a reason he could not even fathom.
Passion was for young men. He resented the strong emotions that had been coming at him from all directions during the past few weeks. His life, at least for the previous ten years or so, had been on the placid side as he surrendered to middle age, prepared to enjoy his grandchildren, and rejoiced in how well his children were settling into meaningful lives. His relative contentment with life had included happiness for his firstborn, who had survived the unimaginable brutality of the Napoleonic wars.
He did not want strong emotions to erupt now at his age.
He did not want to have to look again into the wounded eyes of his younger son, who had just discovered the existence of an older half brother. He did not want to have to tell Barbara and Jane, and that was an understatement.
He did not want to go to this infernal dinner at Riverdale’s house on South Audley Street. He did not want to have to talk about Gil with the Westcotts. He did not want to spend an evening in company with Matilda.
Especially that. In fact, without that, the dinner would be merely an inconvenience.
He had loved her …
But it was all foolishness.
Two
Eighteen members of the Westcott family—though not all of them actually bore the name, or, in some cases, even the blood—were assembled in the drawing room at the house on South Audley Street where Alexander, Earl of Riverdale, had his town residence. They ranged downward in age from the dowager countess, who was in her middle seventies, to Boris Wayne, twenty-one years old, eldest son of Matilda’s sister Mildred, newly down from Oxford and eager to cut a figure as a dashing young man about town, much to his mother’s frequent consternation.
There were plenty of persons, in other words, among whom to hide. But they nevertheless seemed thin cover to Matilda as Alexander’s butler announced Viscount Dirkson and Mr. Adrian Sawyer, his son, whom she had met very briefly a few weeks ago when she made her call upon his father. She took up her accustomed position behind her mother’s chair and busied herself with her usual tasks, checking to see that her mother was comfortable and in no danger of a draft from the opened door even though it was not the time of year when one was likely to take a chill from such exposure. She attempted to be invisible, to blend into the scenery.
Charles stepped into the room ahead of his son. He was a remarkably distinguished-looking man and was drawing all eyes his way. Well, of course he was. He was the newcomer, the guest of honor. He had just walked in among a crowd of people who all claimed some sort of kinship with one another. Nevertheless, he looked perfectly at ease as he smiled and bowed to Wren and shook Alexander by the hand. His hair was still thick and predominantly dark, though it was nicely silvered at the temples. Although he was not slim in the way a young man is slim, he had an excellent figure, the extra weight well distributed about his person. His evening clothes were expertly tailored.
All told, he was an extremely attractive man and Matilda dearly wished she had thought of some excuse not to come, thoughwhatexcuse she did not know. She had always been notoriously healthy. She had never, all her life, laid claim to the vapors or heart palpitations or any of the other ailments many women trotted out anytime they wished to avoid an activity they considered tedious.
Shewishedher mind was not so full of buzzing bees.
