Prologue
The king had always known he was dust and unto dust he would return, but he had never prepared himself for the possibility that one of his sons might turn to dust before he did.
—The Concubine and Her King.Unpublished MS.
It was a mark of the degree of estrangement between him and his offspring that Henry Charles William Delamere, the seventh Earl of Ashthorpe, did not learn he had a granddaughter until a week after his son’s death.
He first heard the news while sitting behind his desk, the same desk where his brother and his father and his grandfather and his great-grandfatheret sic in infinitumhad sat and where his eldest son would now never sit. Henry sat behind the slab of English oak, darkened by time and layers of varnish, and listened to the man who had just arrived from London claiming to be Hal’s solicitor.
Rather, he pretended to listen.
Everything had become pretense in the last week. Henrywent through the motions of being Ashthorpe and all that that entailed, but the underpinnings of his entire life—those sturdy, unassailable virtues of honor, duty, and order—had suddenly revealed themselves to be as flimsy as the neck of a young viscount thrown from a curricle.
“—the late Lord Delamere had the foresight to arrange an annuity for the child and the child’s mother. Given that?—”
The word caught Henry’s attention, pierced through his grief, dispersed a phantom battlefield and its odors of exploded saltpeter and spilled blood.
“Child.” It came out as a bark.
“My lord?”
Henry raised his chin. “Mister . . .” He could not remember the name of the man speaking to him from the other side of the desk.
“Crompton.”
“Mr. Crompton, you claim my son fathered a child.”
The solicitor’s nostrils flared. “I claim nothing, my lord, save that I drew up a will as per your late son’s specifications. A will he signed in the presence of witnesses. Since your second son, the new Lord Delamere, has not yet reached his majority, you are the executor, and, as such, it was incumbent?—”
“Where—” Henry needed a moment to draw breath, slow speech, quiet therow-dow-dowthat had erupted in his chest. “Tell me where the child and the child’s mother can be found.”
“I—” Mr. Crompton touched the knot of his cravat, licked his lips. “You are not aware? I thought you had been told. Miss Kirby was with your son when he perished. Like him, she was thrown from the carriage, and her injuries— She also, she?—”
The earl gritted his teeth. “Died.”
“Yes.”
He had to know. “And what of the child?”
“The girl was also in the carriage?—”
No, no, no.Henry could not hear this. He could not bear it. He would crack in two.
“—foundling hospital, but, because of the annuity from your son, she might have a pleasant home with a good family and eventually marry well since the annuity provides for a generous dowry?—”
Another man, a different man, would have sprung over the desk and seized the solicitor’s lapels and shouted questions at him, but Henry only said, “She lives,” and, when an affirmation did not come as quickly as he would have liked, “You say the child lives,” with slightly greater force.
“Yes, she lives.”
“She is unhurt?” He was on his feet, finally betraying himself. “She is well?”
A fleck of moisture appeared on the solicitor’s cheek. Henry had sprayed his spittle on the man, but, to his credit, Mr. Crompton had not recoiled. He met the earl’s eyes bravely.
“Yes, she is well.”
Well.
Henry brought out a handkerchief and extended it over the desk. The man hesitated but then nodded and accepted the square of linen and dabbed at his face.
