Jane gasped. Two thousand pounds was a fortune —and had she known, she could have lived in a much more lavish place than this house.
As it was, she earned just enough to pay the rent and provide the necessities to maintain Nicole and herself. Robert was always trying to give her a few extra pounds, and always buying her the luxuries she could not afford. No wonder he had been able to be so generous—it was with the earl’s money! She was certain that Robert hadn’t told her about the allowance because he knew she would refuse it. Jane had no doubt that by now he had put away a tidy nest egg for Nicole and herself.
She bit her lip. She did not have the money to pay the earl back. Not now. Not yet. Maybe, in another year, she would be making such a sum. But not this year. “I don’t have it,” she said woodenly.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter!” she flared. “I don’t want anything from you—do you understand?”
“Once you said you loved me.” He laughed. The sound was harsh. “Now you hate me.”
She didn’t refute him. She just stared, eyes glazed with tears.
He felt it then, the terrible stabbing pain. Once, when he had been about to marry her, he had told himself he would be indifferent to her hate, should she one day detest him. But he was not indifferent, oh no. He touched his chest, rubbed it. The pain did not go away.
“Why have you come?”
“Curiosity,” he said, shrugging. “Have no fear, I will not come again.”
“Good,” she flung. “Because you are not welcome here. Your curiosity is satisfied, I presume. So—leave.”
He tore his gaze away from her with difficulty. Yet his feet would not move to the door. Instead, he stood unmoving, his gaze going past her to the open door of the parlor. He was strangely unwilling to leave.
And he could see Jane’s touch everywhere. The parlor was warm and cozy, bright and cheerful. The walls were a fresh yellow, the drapes cream. The rug was a bright floral. The couch was spring green, comfortably upholstered, and even the baby’s shirt she was knitting was a pretty pink. There were wildflowers in the vases, not roses, but …
Baby’s shirt?
His gaze flew to the knitting left on a chair. The shirt was pink and finished except for one tiny sleeve. His heart had constricted; now it began to slam forcefully against his ribs. He strode within, lifted the knitting. “What’s this?”
It was a demand. He turned, saw that she was whiter than a ghost. His gaze pierced hers. “It’s Molly’s,” she said. “Molly has a child.”
He stared at her. His first thought was to wonder if the child was his, but the odds were low, as Molly had a lascivious appetite. Then his gaze narrowed, his heart slamming again. “Molly, your maid, sits in your parlor knitting for her child?” And he thought about her fear and the secret he’d known she was hiding.
Jane flushed. “Why not?” She shrugged gracefully.
She was lying, he knew it. For the first time since he’d stepped within her house, she was calm and composed. “I want to see the child,” he said.
“Why?”
“Why? The brat could be mine.”
She flushed again. “You know Molly. She has— er—a fondness for men. Trust me, it’s not yours.”
Her voice was very firm. His smile was cynical. “Humor me.”
“They’re not here.”
“Oh? Then you won’t mind if I look around.”
She ran after him. “Stop! This is my home! I shall call the Bobbies!”
He ignored her, pulse pounding, and pushed open the door to Molly’s room. He turned on a lamp. As he’d thought, there was no crib within, not even another cot for her baby. “Where does the child sleep?”
Jane was white. She did not answer.
He wanted to strangle her.
Furious, he ran up the stairs. This time she remained frozen below. He threw open the first door on the left, turned on a lamp, and saw that it was Jane’s room. Just for a moment he stared at the bed, covered in a white, lace-trimmed quilt. Then he strode across the hall. He heard Jane scream, pounding up the stairs like a madwoman. He reached for the door. With a savage cry, like a female warrior, she grabbed his hand with both of hers, her nails tearing into his flesh. “No! Leave! I want you out of here now!”
