“Well,” he said sharply, “you had better hope he has not committedhimself to the chit, or there’ll be no peace ever again.”
Then he sighed and his face softened into weariness. He walked over tosit in the chair facing hers. “Do you not see, Yolande? This is the chanceto put everything right, to correct our old mistakes. If your son marriesmy daughter the line can continue unbroken.”
The duchess’s hands were clasped tightly as she looked at him. “Butthese are people, William.People.Lucien has already given his heart. How do you know thisgirl, this Elizabeth Armitage, has not done so, too? How do you know,” sheasked desperately, “that she is your daughter at all?”
He looked away from her pleading eyes. “I will have enquiries made, butI believe it. Mary Armitage was extremely honest, if rather stupid. Ithink that was what drew me to her when we met by chance. After?”
He had begun to turn back to her and so caught the tautness in theduchess as she prepared for the old recriminations. He broke off what hehad been thoughtlessly about to say.
“She was virtuous and honest,” he continued awkwardly. He was, afterall, a man discussing with his wife an act of adultery. “But she also hada kind heart. I was hurt by all that had occurred and she responded to mypain. The act wounded her, though. Wounded her soul. She would take nogift, however small . . .” He rubbed his temples fretfully. “I wish shehad come to me for help when she found there was to be a child, but it istypical of her that she did not. She perhaps thought to spare me anencumbrance, but more likely she wanted to put the whole relationshipbehind her.”
The duke took the letter from his wife’s fingers and looked down at thewavering handwriting of the woman who had once, so briefly, been hismistress. “Her husband was a naval officer at sea at the time we met. Marywould not have been able to pass the child off as his. She must have beenable to conceal the pregnancy from her friends and family. That must bewhy she enlisted the help of this friend who has raised the girl.”
“And on her deathbed,” said the duchess softly, “she realized hercontributions to her daughter’s upbringing would cease and asked you toundertake that duty. A conscientious woman, but as you say, a littlestupid. If the girl is your daughter, she will perhaps resemble you. Whatthen, William?”
“I am not the type to be so strongly resembled,” said the duke drylyand the duchess had to agree. His hair was dark brown and straight, alittle thin now and dusted with gray; his features and build were even andwithout any remarkable point; his eyes were blue-gray. Even if the girlwas his image, it would scarcely be noticed.
With little hope, she tried again to dissuade him. “William, this willnot work. What will the world say if our son marries a nobody?”
He smiled bitterly. “One thing aboutyourson, madam”?the duchess caught her breath at the pronoun?“isthat no one will be surprised at anything he does.”
“And if he refuses?” she asked bleakly.
The duke sat even straighter and resolve hardened his features. “Then Iwill disinherit him of all but the entailed property.”
“No, William. You cannot!”
The vast part of the family fortune was not entailed to the oldest son.The duchess knew that without it Lucien would never be able to maintainthe great houses, the multitude of servants and dependents, the stateexpected of a duke.
“I can and I will.” The duke rose to his feet “I inherited a faultlessbloodline and I will pass it on. If Arden does not understand thisobligation, then he is unworthy of his position.”
The duchess rose to her feet in alarm. “You will tell him?”
The duke raised his chin. “Of course I will tell him.”
Tears glimmered in her eyes. It was the first time in years the dukehad seen her cry. He turned suddenly away. “I have no choice, Yolande,” hesaid softly.
“How he will hate us.”
“You should have thought of that,” the duke said coldly, “before youtook Guy de St. Briac to your bed.” With that he left the room.
The duchess groped for her chair and collapsed into it Fumbling, shefound her handkerchief to stem her tears. Indeed, if she had been giftedwith foresight, she would have avoided St. Briac like the plague.
Guy de St. Briac had been her first love though, so gay, so charming,in the pre-Revolutionary gardens and ballrooms of France. Quite ineligibleof course, but a heart-stealer all the same. When the duke ? then theMarquess of Arden himself ? had offered for her hand, Yolande de Ferrandhad responded to her family’s urging and accepted him. She had not been inlove with him, for he was not dashing or handsome and his manner wasreserved, but she had been happy with her parents’ choice. She had come,quite soon, to love him in a mild sort of way; she had happily borne himfour children, two of them healthy boys, William and John. Throughoutthose contented early years in England she had never given St. Briac athought.
But then, as France began to disintegrate, she had met St. Briac again.. . . Ah, he had been so distraught by what was happening to theirhomeland; she scarcely less so by the shadows gathering over the goldenworld of her youth. He hadneededher so and she had still nurtured a trace of her girlhooddreams. William’s absence in Scotland shooting grouse had providedopportunity.
It had only been the once, for Guy had been en route to a new life inthe Americas. Only once. And it had served to show her that her feelingsfor her husband were not mild at all. She had thought for a while that hersin had been a blessing and had waited impatiently for William’s return toexpress her newfound passion for him.
If only he had not broken his leg, then perhaps he need never haveknown. She would not have been sure herself. By the time they could sharea bed again, however, she had been forced to confess to him her action andthe consequences.
He had been so kind, she remembered as she swallowed back a new floodof tears. Hurt, but kind, and moved by her declaration of the deepest kindof love. He had accepted the unborn child as others had in such aposition. It was not as if the child, if a boy, would be his heir ...
Then there had been that dreadful accident. A nurse grown careless, twonaughty boys playing with a boat, the three-year-old slavishly followingthe five-year-old.
Drowned. Both gone.
The tears were flowing again now as she remembered that tragedy, somuch greater than the death of those two darling children. It had been thedeath of her marriage and all happiness.
