If the child hadn’t looked so malnourished, he’d have immediately sent her on her way, believing someone was playing him for a fool. But New York was in the midst of the coldest March in decades, and the child’s threadbare cloak and small solemn face, white with exhaustion and fear touched something deep inside him he’d had no idea was there.
Tucking the letter in his pocket, he’d ordered his maid of all work to see the girl fed and given a room to sleep in overnight. He would see what was to be done in the morning.
But on returning to his dinner party, he found his enthusiasm for revelry had inexplicably vanished. After an hour, he’d pleaded a sudden onset of megrims, and left his guests to see themselves out. Ignoring the plaintive looks from the young widow, he retired upstairs to his bedchamber. After shutting the door, he seated himself by the fire and took the letter out of his pocket. Rereading its contents, his outrage at having a waif and stray foisted on him out of the blue began to dissipate.
He remembered the child’s mother. It had been a night much like this one. A small intimate dinner party in Boston. Frowning, Christian searched his memories for the woman’s name. Mercedes. That was it. She was Mexican. She told him to call her Mercy. Olive skinned with the softest brown eyes and the wickedest laugh. It hadn’t taken much. A smile, a touch, a kiss in a dark corner, and she was his for the night. The next morning when he awoke, she was gone.
He hadn’t thought much about it. She was a courtesan. Accustomed to pleasing men, and he’d paid her well. Soon afterwards, he’d become involved in the Hudson River Company and moved to New York.
The letter didn’t say what had happened to Mercy after that night. Only that she’d endeavoured to raise the child for as long as she could, and now it was his turn. She wrote that she was dying. Consumption. There was no other information. No pleading. Just simple facts.
Initially, he’d angrily tossed the letter to the floor, thinking it a bag of moonshine, but as he climbed into bed, he thought back to the child’s eyes. Blue eyes the colour of winter. Just like his.
Sighing, Christian came back to the present. Swallowing the rest of his brandy, he leaned forward to pour himself another generous measure. Getting foxed wouldn’t help with the thousand and one things he had to take care of as the new earl, especially as it was only ten in the morning. But it helped suppress his fear for the future.
Leaning back, he closed his eyes and grimaced. His life had been so simple before Mercy had come into it and changed everything. It had been all about money. So much so that he’d gained a well-deserved reputation for being ruthless and driven. England and the Royal Navy had been another life. One he’d rarely thought about.
Raising his head, he looked around the room in distaste. The opulent furnishings gave lie to the fact that the Cottesmore coffers were practically empty. Indeed, this whole house was a testament to the damn lie his cousin had been living. But now the manor house in Surrey was a pile of smouldering ruins, it was the only thing left. It would take a large chunk of the fortune Christian had amassed in New York to rebuild the sprawling country seat, and the greater part of him wondered if it was worth it.
Especially as he couldn’t even make a start on any renovations without solving the mystery that had haunted him for nearly seventeen years. And the only person who could help him with that was Nicholas Sinclair. The man who’d allowed him to escape providing he never stepped foot on English soil again.
∞∞∞
‘Whatever sympathies you might be harbouring for Mr. Stanhope, I beg you will put them out of your mind immediately, Chastity.’ Grace had hardly drawn breath after they’d left the morning room before delivering the lecture Chastity had known was coming.
‘I know you think me frivolous,’ she protested in return, ‘but you did not have occasion to speak with the gentleman, Grace. There is something tortured about him. I know it.’
‘Well, the knowledge that his actions resulted in a man’s death would almost certainly have that effect unless the man is entirely without any conscience at all,’ retorted Grace. ‘Really Chastity, he is not a kitten who needs mothering. If you are to make a good match, you simply must put these ridiculous romantic notions out of your head.’
She nodded to Bailey as the elderly butler opened the front door. ‘At the very least, Christian Stanhope is a cad, and at worst a murderer. While I applaud your insistence on seeing the good in everyone, your soft heart will undoubtedly get you into trouble. Again.’
Chastity sighed as she climbed into the waiting carriage in the wake of her sister. They were to attend another fitting at the modiste. Really, it was ridiculous the number of clothes considered necessary for a Season. And not only that, but the interminable hours a person had to spend wearing nothing but undergarments while having pins stuck in the most inexplicable places. Chastity tried and failed to imagine her twin in such a position and found herself chuckling.
‘I fail to see exactly what you find amusing,’ Grace commented waspishly. Chastity opened her mouth to ask what on earth had her sister so up in the boughs. But abruptly noticing how drained the Duchess looked, she frowned and said instead. ‘Are you quite well, Grace? You’re not usually such a curmudgeon.’
Before Grace could respond, the carriage suddenly lurched forward, and both women braced themselves against the seats as the horses galloped out of the square, causing the carriage to swing violently to the left. To Chastity’s concern, Grace’s face turned a sickly green, and she looked as though she was about to cast her account. ‘Deuced coach driver,’ she muttered through gritted teeth. ‘Is the word sedate completely beyond his comprehension?’
Chastity eyed her sister in concern. Joseph driving as though all the devils in hell were after him was perfectly normal. Indeed, many of the retainers in the Duke’s household had idiosyncrasies which rendered them unemployable anywhere else. His grace was generally considered by most of his contemporaries to be slightly dicked in the nob given his propensity for employing men who had been cast aside by the Royal Navy due to age or injury. Very often both. Though one might question the Duke’s wisdom in employing a one-legged coachman. Still it ensured that carriage rides around London were generally never dull.
Grace took a deep breath as the carriage steadied before looking over at her sister ruefully. ‘As you have undoubtedly guessed, I am not feeling myself at all,’ she commented. ‘I have yet to tell Nicholas, but I very much suspect I’m with child.’
‘Oh that’s wonderful news,’ enthused Chastity. Her sister grimaced slightly.
‘In truth, I’d believed my childbearing years to be over,’ she sighed. ‘I’m approaching three and thirty.’
‘But having both Tempy and Hope enceinte at the same time will undoubtedly make the time pass much quicker. Don’t you think Nicholas will be pleased?’
‘I’m unsure,’ Grace responded with a slight frown. ‘He worried so over Peter and Jennifer. He will undoubtedly insist we return to Blackmore immediately.’ She raised her eyebrows at Chastity before adding, ‘Which is why I have not yet broken the news to him. I cannot afford to make the journey back until after you have been settled.’
‘But that could take months,’ Chastity snorted. ‘You should not consider me, sister. There is always next year. You must know I’m in no hurry to wed.’ She paused, then added, ‘Though if you’re concerned, would it not be better to birth the babe here in London?’
‘Perhaps,’ Grace conceded, ‘but I know Nicholas would feel much more comfortable within the confines of Blackmore.’
‘Forgive me, but this is not about your husband,’ Chastity responded tartly. To her surprise, Grace laughed. ‘Truly, you just sounded like Charity,’ she chuckled. ‘It’s good to know that you are not entirely without bite, dearest.’
‘Well, if you’re adamant about not yet returning to Devonshire, you would be wise to postpone breaking the news until after Father has left for home, lest Nicholas insist you share his carriage. When is Father leaving, by the way?’
Grace shook her head. ‘I can tell he’s getting anxious to return to Blackmore. Yesterday, he was muttering about his congregation turning into a godless rabble, but for some reason, he’s been putting it off. I suspect his gout may be bothering him, and the thought of a long carriage ride does not appeal. Sometimes I forget he’s getting old.’
