Dain’s eyes narrowed. “Is that what you think? That it was all in my head? That, in other words, I amaddled?”
“I only tole you whatshesaid. Me, I reckon there were a sliver o’ some’at them sawbones didn’t get. Mebbe it just worked itself out.”
Dain brought his attention back to his plate and commenced cutting the mutton. “Exactly. There was a medical explanation, but the French quack wouldn’t admit he’d made a mistake, and all his friends stuck with him. There was something in there, and it simply worked itself out.”
He was swallowing the first bite when his attention drifted to Dominick, who lay on his belly on the rug before the fire, studying the Battle of Copenhagen.
The problem of cosmic proportions had shrunk to one sick and frightened little boy. And somehow, during that shrinking, something had worked itself out.
As he gazed at his son, Lord Dain understood that the “something” had not been a silver of metal or bone. It had been in his head, or perhaps in his heart. Jessica had aimed left of his heart, hadn’t she? Mayhap a part of that organ had been immobilized…with fear? he wondered.
Se mi lasci mi uccido, he’d told her.
He had been terrified, yes, that she’d leave him.
He realized now that he’d felt that way since the day she’d shot him. He’d feared then that he’d done the unforgivable, that he’d lost her forever. And he had not stopped being afraid. Because the only woman who’d ever cared for him before had abandoned him…because he was a monster, impossible to love.
But Jessica said that wasn’t true.
Dain left the table and walked to the fire. Dominick looked up at his approach. In his son’s dark, warily upturned countenance, Dain saw his own: the black troubled eyes…the hated beak…the sullen mouth. No, the child was not handsome by any stretch of the imagination. His face wasn’t pretty and his body was awkwardly formed—scrawny limbs, overlarge feet and hands, and great bony shoulders.
He did not have a sunny disposition, either. Nor did his filthy vocabulary enhance his appeal. He wasn’t a pretty child and he certainly wasn’t a charming one.
He was just like his father.
And just like his father, he needed someone—anyone—to accept him. Someone to look upon him and touch him with affection.
It was not very much to ask.
“As soon as Phelps and I finish dinner, we’re setting out for Athcourt,” he told Dominick. “Do you feel strong enough to ride?”
The boy gave a slow nod, his eyes never leaving his father’s.
“Good. I will take you up on my horse, and if you promise to be careful, I may let you hold the reins. Will you be careful?”
A quicker nod this time. And then, “Yes, Papa.”
Yes, Papa.
And in Lord Beelzebub’s dark, harsh Dartmoor of a heart, the sweet rain fell and a seedling of love sprouted in the once barren soil.
By the time Lord Dain finished his neglected dinner, Charity Graves should have reached Moretonhampstead. Instead, she was in Tavistock, some twenty miles in the opposite direction.
This was because Charity had collided with Phelps at the back entrance through which she’d planned to escape. He’d told her Lord Dain had come to collect his boy, and if Charity knew what was good for her, she would quietly and quickly disappear. Before Charity could summon up the required maternal tears and wails of grief at giving up her beloved son, Phelps had produced a small parcel.
The parcel had contained one hundred sovereigns, another fourteen hundred pounds in bank notes, and a note from Lady Dain. In the note, Her Ladyship pointed out that fifteen hundred quid was better than nothing and a great deal more agreeable than residence in New South Wales. She suggested that Miss Graves book passage to Paris, where her profession was better tolerated, and where her advanced age—Charity was perilously near the dreaded thirty—would not be considered so great a drawback.
Charity had decided she was not a grieving mother after all. She held her tongue and made herself scarce, just as Phelps recommended.
By the time she’d found her gig, she’d done a simple calculation. Sharing twenty thousand pounds with her lover was an altogether different matter from sharing fifteen hundred. She was fond of Rolly, yes, but notthatfond. And so, instead of heading northeast for Moretonhampstead, on the road that would take her to London, Charity had headed southwest. From Tavistock, her next stop would be Plymouth, she decided. There she would find a vessel to take her to France.
Five weeks earlier, Roland Vawtry had tumbled into a pit without realizing it. By now he was aware he was at the bottom of a very deep hole. What he failed to see was that the bottom was made of quicksand.
Instead, what he saw was that he’d betrayed Charity’s trust.
Yes, she’d raced to Postbridge, straight to the inn where she knew Vawtry was staying. Yes, she’d sent for him, instead of discreetly hiring a room of her own. And yes, that meant that the occupants of the Golden Hart knew the tart and he were connected. Still, since Vawtry had used a false name, there had remained a chance Dain wouldn’t discover the truth.
That chance, Vawtry belatedly discovered, had died when he’d panicked and abandoned the brat.
