Page 32 of A Very Bellamy Christmas

The presence of Lady Celsa, who was Crewe’s daughter and heir—the Crewe earldom could pass to a female—was not unusual. But the appearance of Crewe’s natural son, Captain Guustin Walker—a man who bore an extraordinary resemblance to his father—had caused a stunned silence in the drawing room. Most dumbfounding of all, the young man’s mother, Mrs. Nora Walker was also among their party.

Who, in the name of all that was holy, brought not only their husband’s bastard to their family Christmas house party, but also the mother of that son? Just…who did that sort of thing?

The Bellamy women, evidently.

Andrew couldn’t help the grin that twisted his lips as he furtively regarded the merry bunch. Honestly, he felt as though he was the normal one among this collection of people.

To their credit, Crewe, his wife, son, and Mrs. Walker were laughing and obviously enjoying themselves in a game of whist that pitted the women against the men.

Crewe’s ex-paramour—at least Shelton assumed she was a former lover—for all he knew there might be a very interesting erotic arrangement between Crewe, his wife, and Mrs. Walker—was a truly lovely woman who had some sort of debilitating disease that had curled her hands into gnarled fists. She could only play cards by utilizing a wooden card holder that her son had designed for her.

Andrew looked down at his own hands, which were shapely and elegant—or so every lover he’d ever had had told him—and felt a sharp stab of shame. His hands were perfect and yet he’d done very little good with them in his life. At least not since the War ended.

A just God would have turned Andrew’s hands into gnarled stumps and spared Mrs. Walker, who was obviously an affectionate mother and had raised a son who appeared dutiful and loving.

And yet it was Andrew who sat there in a body that functioned just fine, with a cousin determined to forgive him and forgive him and forgive him, no matter what an utter monster Andrew had been for the past eleven years.

What had he ever done to deserve any of it?

People do not always get what they deserve, do they? a voice taunted.

No, evidently not.

Andrew looked at Chatham. His cousin was currently grinning at his wife, the pair of them having just finished drubbing Lord and Lady Needham—who looked as though they had just been savaged by a storm—and was struck with a painful stab of guilt at how horribly he had treated the other man for years and years.

And still Sylvester had forgiven him. Not only that, but his cousin loved him and had taken great pains to show his love over the past months.

Suddenly, the room felt small and claustrophobic.

It was bloody hard to breathe.

Andrew pushed to his feet, shoved the book back beneath the seat cushion, and made his way to the door, not caring what anyone thought about his hasty departure. Not that he believed anyone would notice. The people around him were far too happy to pay attention to him.

***

Stacia surreptitiously studied the other denizens of the large room. Was it odd to be surrounded by people and yet feel utterly alone?

She supposed it was not so unusual given that she was an outsider at a family Christmas. Not that the Bellamy siblings and their spouses had been anything but kind to her today, treating her the same as they did any other guest.

Doubtless their treatment would change after seeing how Lady Addiscombe ordered her around like a feudal serf.

Stacia sighed. She tried not to care about such things. Besides, the woman might treat her badly, but she treated her own children even worse. As much of an outcast as she might be, the Bellamy siblings were still warmer to her than they were to their own mother.

Of course Lady Addiscombe had a hide like an old goat and did not notice how little her children liked to be around her. Or if she did notice, she didn’t care.

Stacia wasn’t sure why the countess had even made the journey to Wych House as she seemed as unhappy as she was in Bath.

In any event, the countess had gone up to her chambers, claiming exhaustion from her journey. When Stacia had risen to accompany her, she’d given her an irritated look. “Oh, do stop clinging, Martin. I am far too fatigued to entertain you tonight.”

Those around them who’d heard the sharp comment had looked embarrassed.

Stacia was grateful they had not seen the countess’s lips moving with her soundless message, I told you to stay here! reminding her that she was to spy on her hosts.

She swallowed down her distaste. After all, she didn’t have to report everything she learned, did she?

Buoyed by that thought, she resolved to enjoy her brief liberty from servitude. She’d brought her basket of needlework down earlier so at least she could appear occupied.

A quick survey of the room showed that only Stacia and Lord Shelton sat alone.