Chapter 29

Entering the manor, William stopped abruptly in the entrance hall, as unusual sounds drifted toward him. It was as if he was a younger man again, for those sounds were unmistakably the pitch and tone of someone yelling. Two people yelling. And one of them, somehow, was his mother.

"How dare you!" Mary bellowed. "What right do you have? I made myself perfectly clear, yet you come here and defy my wishes? I ought to have you thrown out into the dirt, where you belong!"

"And who are you to tell me what I can and cannot do?" another feminine voice replied curtly, though it was not one that he recognized.

William hurried toward the drawing room and burst through the door to find his mother and an unfamiliar young woman standing in the center of the room.

They stood on either side of the low table that sat between the two settees, and it looked as if there was about to be a fight. Both were furious and red in the face, and the younger woman seemed to be holding a baby in her arms, which was probably the reason they had not begun tussling yet.

"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded to know, his mind swirling as Lydia's sentiments came rushing back to him.

"It is you who has tricked and deceived, and if you are looking for a reason for my ‘change of heart,' it awaits you at the manor."

Had she been talking about his mother or whoever this strange woman was? Or was he missing something, and it was neither of them?

Mary jabbed an accusatory finger at the stranger and her babe. "I came here to visit your sweet wife, having heard that you were both finally back where you belong, and I find that this harlot has intruded into my home!"

"I was invited in by someone from the household!" the woman shot back. "She has gone to fetch the Duke!"

William put his hands up. "Firstly, it is my home." He glared at his mother, uncertain of what he was hearing. "And I am the Duke, but no one has fetched me. I was returning from… something."

"Do not lie to me, Willie," Mary hissed. "You have orchestrated this to punish me. You have welcomed this wretch and her bastard—your father's bastard—into this house to amuse yourself! And she has come because she cannot understand a threat when she hears it!"

William froze, his eyes wide as he stared at his mother. She had tried many tricks since his father died to try and gain entry into Stonebridge and to try and rekindle some sort of relationship with her sons. He did not think it beyond her to smear his father's name when he was not there to defend himself, but, nevertheless, it was beyond the pale.

"You dare to speak of my father that way when all you ever were to him was disloyal?" William seethed. "Do not try to pretend he was like you. This is… clearly a misunderstanding."

He glanced at the stranger, who was trying to soothe the baby in her arms. The child could not have been very old at all, but nor could the woman—she was perhaps five-and-twenty or so and rather beautiful. It was impossible that what Mary was saying was true, for William's father had been two-and-fifty when he passed.

"A misunderstanding?" Mary cried. "I shall tell you what is a misunderstanding—your perception that your father was a faultless pinnacle of respectability and honor. I have borne your hatred of me for too long, but I will not do so any longer. Open your eyes, Willie. While I was raising two sons and doting on them, he was out there fathering bastards. This is not the first one, though I trust it shall be the last now that your father has done the decent thing and died."

"Died?" The woman's face fell.

"Where do you think all of our fortune has gone, my boy?" Mary continued, her eyes brimming with tears. "It has all been spent on your three—now four—half-sisters, as well as silencing lovers and paramours who saw an opportunity, and furious husbands who sought justice. So much money gone, just to maintain your father's image in Society. It has all been spent on paying blackmailers and avoiding duels and scandals, and ensuring that none of those illegitimates wanted for anything while I had to beg for enough coin to be set aside for your education and necessities! Indeed, that drain on your finances has only gone now because your father is gone.

"If you look in your father's ledgers, you will see ‘maintenance' written down time and time again, often with extortionate sums beside it. I imagine you thought that ‘maintenance' pertained to the house, but it was merely to keep the stains off his name."

William had no words, his throat tightening. He had seen his father's ledgers and had studied them thoroughly to try and figure out where the fortune had gone, and he had assumed that "maintenance" pertained to the house. Yet, it could not be true that his father had foolishly fathered other children and indulged in trickster lovers, and he was scrabbling to recover their fortune because his father had been paying, quite literally, for his mistakes.

"This is a wicked trick, even for you," William said, staring at the baby in the stranger's arms.

Those eyes…It was like looking at his own eyes.

"A wicked trick?" Mary clasped a hand to her chest, breathing hard. "Are you quite serious? No, are you quite blind? Has your father manipulated you so much that you cannot see what is right before your eyes? Your father has another baby, yet I am the disloyal, untrustworthy one? I do not know whether to laugh or cry, Willie, for this is… it is… it is unfair. So very unfair."

"Who do you think it was that insisted on the children being cared for?" she added, her voice quavering. "Your father would have let them suffer, but I could not do it. I did not like it, but I could not let him ruin more lives. His wretched lovers, however, he paid whatever they asked, for he was a coward."

You… ensured the children were looked after, despite such betrayal?

William's heart wavered slightly, his eyes seeing his mother in a somewhat new light. For so long, he had thought her fickle and silly and lascivious, when she had been the very opposite. She had put her dignity on a sacrificial altar for his father's sake… and all this time, William had been afraid that Lydia would turn out exactly like her.

In truth, as he observed her fighting for control of her composure, a mighty blow of guilt struck him squarely in the chest.

At that moment, the stranger sniffed and scowled at Mary. "If you had been a good wife, perhaps he would not have needed to find affection elsewhere."

"I would not strike a mother with a babe in her arms, but you are pushing me, Beatrice," Mary replied, a muscle twitching in her jaw. "I was a good wife. I adored my husband with all my heart, forgiving everything because I loved him so, and I thought that, in the end, he would settle for just me. But one can only bear heartbreak so many times before one must live for oneself, before one must give up on one's hopes of winning her husband's wayward heart."

She shook her head at William. "I suspect you will learn that soon enough, Willie. That was Lydia riding away in the carriage, was it not?" She sighed. "You are just like him, and I could not be sorrier for your poor, poor wife. Still, I hope beyond all hope that you never, ever embarrass her like that! I certainly never did that to your father." She pointed at the baby, and then with tears falling down her cheeks, she hurried out of the room like a young lady who had just been informed of a severed engagement.

William flinched as the drawing room door slammed shut, but as the boom echoed between the walls, it knocked something like sense into him. For so many years, he had questioned why his mother had suddenly changed and had begun to venture out alone and flirt with other gentlemen.

But the greater question had always been why his father had not put a stop to it. The pair had argued viciously when they were in the same place, but his father had never actually prevented his wife from embarrassing him or behaving in an unseemly fashion. He had either ignored it or endured it.

Because he was doing the same and worse…

It was as if someone had ignited a candle in a very dark room, revealing bookcases upon bookcases of dusty secrets.

He wanted to believe that his mother was lying, but there was no denying the state of the Stonebridge fortune—or lack thereof—and there could be no denying the baby that the unfamiliar woman, Beatrice, was holding.

"Is it true that the Duke is dead?" the woman asked quietly, her eyes already red-rimmed.

William raised his gaze to her, noticing her properly for the first time. Dark hair, dark eyes, pretty features, and a peaches and cream complexion, not unlike Mary had once been.

"My father is, yes," he replied. "Not too long ago. A few months. I trust you were not informed of that?"

Beatrice shook her head slowly, her breath catching in her throat. For a moment, she looked unsteady, prompting William to step forward and take the baby from her arms. If she fainted, he did not want any harm to come to the baby.

"Thank you," she gasped, slumping down onto the settee. There, she leaned forward, holding her head in her hands. Her shoulders shook slightly, as if she were fighting the sorrow that was etched on every part of her face.

"When the Duke—sorry, the former Duke—sent me away, my father knew what the scandal would do to me and to him." Her voice was strained and thick, and she could not look at William. "He turned his country seat into a fortress, and I was not permitted to leave, but he recently returned to Society, and I saw my opportunity. I snuck away with Alexandria. I came straight here."

"Who is your father, if you do not mind my asking?" William gazed down at the child, putting out his finger for the little girl to grip.

He could not help but smile as the child did just that, gripping tightly as her little legs kicked wildly in the blanket that swaddled her. In truth, he could not remember the last time he had held a baby and hoped he was doing it correctly. And as he did, he thought of his other half-sisters, somewhere out there in the world, unknown to him. Would he ever meet them?

"The Viscount Whiston," Beatrice replied, though William barely heard her—he was too preoccupied.

What would our children look like? Would they resemble me or Lydia?

His mind could not resist conjuring up images of them standing in this very room, likely exhausted but overjoyed, holding a child of their own. Certain that he did not want a repetition of his childhood with his children, he knew any children of his would be adored and cherished.

However, considering his wife had just absconded, he did not know if that future was possible anymore.

The reason awaits you at the manor…

His eyes widened as the pieces of the puzzle slotted into place, and the realization of the grave misunderstanding that must have happened dawned on him.

"Who let you into this house?" His gaze snapped back down to Beatrice.

She raised her head. "A young lady. Very beautiful. She was wearing a summer dress—lilac, I think. I assumed she was the Duke's niece—apologies, your father's niece. Or a guest. I confess I was not really thinking at the time. I have been traveling for a long time, and Alexandria was fussing terribly in the curricle, so…" she trailed off, a sad smile gracing her lips as she looked at her daughter.

Lydia…

It could not have been anyone else. She must have been coming down to join him for their picnic breakfast when she had encountered Beatrice instead, and if Beatrice had mentioned that she was looking for the Duke…

"Did you tell the young lady that the child was the Duke's?" William braced for the answer that he already knew was coming.

Beatrice nodded. "I did. Was she… the new Duchess?"

William did not answer, his mind in turmoil. It was no wonder that Lydia had departed so hastily and had demanded an annulment if she thought the child was his.

My feelings no longer matter.

That was what she had said, and now he knew what she meant—she could not feel anything for him or be with him if he had a child with another woman. Either that, or she was trying to be generous to Beatrice, demanding an annulment so that the Duke could marry her instead and make the child legitimate.

"You silly, stubborn fool," he whispered under his breath.

But Beatrice must have thought he was talking to her, as she insisted, "I meant no harm. I did not want to cause any trouble. Indeed, I feel… dreadful for upsetting your mother, though I would not blame you for thinking me a liar." She paused awkwardly. "When your father and I began our affair, he told me that his was a marriage of convenience and that your mother lived in a separate residence. That they barely spoke. I did not realize that she had loved him, and he had been dismissive of that love."

"Nor did I," William admitted, more to himself than to her.

He turned his gaze toward the windows, looking out across the disheveled ruin of the rose garden and the patchy lawns beyond. A blackbird fluttered down from a tangle of dry fronds that might once have been wisteria and plucked a worm from the earth.

"Forgive me, Your Grace," Beatrice urged. "I am here solely for my daughter. I want nothing for myself. I have no intention of blackmailing you or extorting you. I just want to be assured that my daughter will be provided for. I hope you can understand."

William nodded, realizing that he was wasting time. "I am sorry that you were left to fend for yourself without assurances, I am sorry that my father put you in this unfortunate position, but you and the baby will be taken care of. Right now, however, I need to see my wife. Excuse me."

He handed the baby back to her mother and took off without another word, wishing more than ever that he had not been a stubborn fool himself and had insisted on bringing Lydia back to the manor when he had had the chance.

All he could do now was pray that she believed him when he told her the truth if he could even get through the doors of Bruxton Hall.