Dain’s hand jerked away.
The boy didn’t move. The sullen eyes widened and the scowling mouth fell open.
“Yes, lovely,” came a strident female voice at the edges of the waking nightmare. “That’s your pa, just like I said. Just like you. Aren’t you, my lord? And isn’t he just like you?”
Hideously like. As though the space between them were not air, but five and twenty years, and the face below his own, looking back from some devil’s mirror.
And it was the voice of Satan’s own whore he’d heard, Dain knew, even before he met Charity Graves’ malevolent gaze—just as, when he saw that malevolence, he knew she’d done this on purpose, as she’d done everything, including bringing this monstrous child into the world.
He opened his mouth to laugh, because he must, because it was the only way.
Then he remembered they were not alone upon a nightmare island in Hell, but upon a public stage, enacting this ghastly farce before an audience.
And one of the spectators was his wife.
Though a lifetime seemed to have passed, it was but a moment, and Dain was already moving, instinctively, to block Jessica’s view of the boy. But the brat had also come out of his daze and, in the same instant, darted away into the crowd.
“Dominick!” his accursed mother screamed. “Come back, lovey.”
Dain’s gaze shot to his wife, who stood about twenty feet away, looking from the woman to him—then beyond, to the mob into which the boy had disappeared. Dain started toward her, sending a glance in Ainswood’s direction.
Drunk he may be, as usual, but the duke got the message. “By gad, is that you, Charity, my flower?” he called.
Charity was hurrying toward the carriage—toward Jessica—but Ainswood had moved quickly. He caught the bitch by the arm and firmly drew her back. “By heaven, itisyou,” he loudly announced. “And here I thought you were still locked up in the asylum.”
“Let me go!” she screeched. “I got something to say to Her Ladyship.”
But Dain had reached his wife’s side by this time. “Into the carriage,” he told Jessica.
Her eyes were very wide, very grave. She threw a look toward Charity, whom Ainswood was hustling away, with the assistance of several comrades who’d also grasped the situation.
“She isn’t right in the head,” said Dain. “It’s not important. Into the carriage, my dear.”
Jessica sat rigidly in the carriage, her hands tightly folded in her lap. She remained so, her mouth compressed in a taut line, while the vehicle lurched into motion, and she did not utter a syllable or change her frigid posture thereafter.
After twenty minutes of riding with a marble statue, Dain could bear it no longer. “I beg your pardon,” he said stiffly. “I promised you would not be embarrassed in public, I know. But I didn’t do it on purpose. I should think that was obvious.”
“I know very well you didn’t sire the child on purpose,” she said icily. “That is rarely the first thing a male thinks of when he’s tumbling a trollop.”
So much for hoping she hadn’t been able to see the boy’s face.
He might have known. Her keen eyes missed nothing. If she could discern a priceless icon under inches of mold and dirt, she could easily spot a bastard at twenty paces.
She had seen, beyond a doubt. Jessica would not have judged the matter on a tart’s words alone. If she hadn’t seen, she would have given Dain a chance to defend himself. And he would have denied Charity’s accusation.
But now there would be no denying the blackamoor skin and the monstrous nose—visible, easily identifiable for miles. No hope of denying, when Jessica had observed as well that the mother was fair, green-eyed and auburn-haired.
“And it is no good trying to pretend you didn’t know the child was yours,” Jessica went on. “Your friend Ainswood knew, and he moved quickly enough to get the woman out of the way—as though I were a half-wit, and could not see what was before me. ‘Asylum,’ indeed. It’s the lot of you who belong in Bedlam. Running about like overwrought hens—and meanwhile the boy gets away. You had him.” She turned to him, her eyes flashing angry reproach. “But you let him go. How could you, Dain? I could not believe my eyes. Where the devil were your wits?”
He stared at her.
She turned back to the window. “Now we’ve lost him, and heaven only knows how long it will take to find him again. I could just scream. If I had not gone with you to the churchyard, I might have been able to catch him. But I could scarcely walk, let alone run—and I must not contradict you in public, so I could hardly shout, ‘After him, idiot!’ in front of your friends—even if it had not been too late, anyhow. I cannot recollect when I’ve seen a little boy take off so fast. One moment he was there. The next, he’d vanished.”
His heart was a fist, beating mercilessly against his ribs.
Find him. Catch him.
She wanted him to go after the hideous thing he’d made with that greedy, vengeful slut. She wanted him to look at it and touch it and…
