Chapter 27

CHAPTER 27

“ W hat do you mean, my things are packed ?” Stephen echoed, blinking incredulously.

Mouse looked thoroughly miserable. “The Duchess informed me that you planned to move to the townhouse, Your Grace. She insisted on having your things packed. I thought… That is, I assumed…” he trailed off, mortified.

Stephen cleared his throat. Whatever was going on, it wasn’t Mouse’s fault.

“Not to worry, Mouse,” he said, smiling reassuringly. “This will all be resolved soon, I’m sure. You were right to listen to the Duchess. Where is she, by the way?”

“I believe she is in the conservatory, Your Grace.”

“Thank you.”

Mouse hurried away, looking relieved to go.

Stephen remained where he was for the moment, standing in the hallway and staring off into space.

Something had happened. Something bad .

Biting back a sigh, he headed towards the conservatory. Part of him had expected Beatrice to go back up to the observatory again, but no.

He wasn’t sure he could ever think of the observatory again without thinking of Beatrice flushed, breathing hard, her fingers tightening in his hair.

Stephen swallowed hard, doing his best to compose himself.

Beatrice sat in one of the wicker chairs, her feet propped up on another, reading a book from the library.

“You’re home,” she said, without looking up. “What a surprise. You didn’t come home last night.”

He stood in the doorway, not entirely sure what was waiting for him.

“I beg your pardon? I came back late because I spent some time with Theodore.”

“The scandal sheets claim otherwise.”

“Those rags can write what they want. I was with Theodore.”

Beatrice shot him a glance, one he could not decipher. “A witness saw you leaving a party with Cornelia Thompson.”

Stephen snorted. “Then the witness is a liar. I was with Theodore, and you can ask him if you like. He loves being a new father, but I’m reliably told that it’s exhausting. When I came home, I sought out a guest room, as you’d instructed. I imagine that is why our paths did not cross.”

Her jaw tightened. “You’ll find out soon enough what it is like to be a father, I think.”

Stephen blinked. “And what, exactly, is that meant to mean? I know that you are not with child.”

She slammed her book shut. “No, I am not. But Miss Thompson is.”

There was a brief silence.

Stephen rocked back on his heels. Could Cornelia be with child? She hadn’t seemed so when he last met her, and she was generally careful, but… A thought came to his mind—a thoroughly unpleasant one. When he glanced at his wife again, he saw that she was thinking exactly the same thing.

“You think she is expecting my child,” he said, astounded.

“That is what she said,” Beatrice retorted, getting to her feet. “Tell me, what am I meant to think?”

“You are meant to understand that she is a liar and that it is not possible for her to have my child.”

“I don’t believe you. Why should I believe you?”

“Our agreement! No children!”

Beatrice let out a strangled cry and threw the book across the room. It knocked over a small potted plant, and Stephen itched to go and right it.

“With me ! You did not want children with me because you wanted them with your mistress! And now I am humiliated more than ever. The scandal sheets are bad enough, and now people are taunting me—taunting me in the Park of all places! I’m the greatest fool in London already, and once Cornelia’s condition becomes known—” She broke off, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. “How could I have been so foolish?”

The last part was scarcely louder than a whisper, and seemingly directed towards herself rather than Stephen.

Swallowing hard, he took a step forward. Beatrice took a step back.

“Cornelia Thompson is not carrying my child,” he said, his voice crisp. “It is impossible. No woman could be carrying my child.”

“And how so?”

“Because I have not bedded her in the past year. Our relationship was over before I met you. I have not bedded any woman since we got married.”

Beatrice’s head snapped up. Her eyes were red-rimmed, and Stephen wondered for the first time whether she had been crying.

“You expect me to believe that?”

He opened his arms wide. “It is the truth.”

“You have a tenuous relationship with the truth, I think.”

He groaned. “What can I say to convince you? I never intended to have children, not with anyone. I am always careful, always. My line must never continue. I was once Cornelia’s richest and most powerful patron. She does not want to lose me, especially now that her brother is so disgraced. I have not been with her, I swear to you.”

Beatrice stared at him, her brow furrowed. “Her brother? Who is Cornelia’s brother?”

Stephen paused. “I had hoped I would not have to tell you,” he mumbled, raking a hand through his hair. “Her brother—half-brother, I should say—is the Marquess of Hampton.”

There was a brief pause, then Beatrice’s eyes widened in horror.

“What? Why did you not think to tell me?”

“I didn’t think it was relevant.”

“Didn’t think it was… they’ll want to take revenge on us both!”

Stephen nodded. “No doubt, yes. I imagine that is why they have been feeding false information to the scandal sheets—to humiliate you and put me in a bad situation. I cannot imagine that Cornelia is truly with child, but whether she is or not, it is not mine, Beatrice. Please, you must believe me.”

She held his gaze for a long moment.

“I don’t know what to believe,” she said, “but I do think that Cornelia is a liar.”

He moved closer, reaching out to rest his hands on her shoulders. He had intended to draw her close in a reassuring hug, but she flinched, and he dropped his hands.

“I will stop this,” he promised. “I will stop them from feeding the scandal sheets any more lies. I won’t let them humiliate you anymore.”

She swallowed, looking away. “Why do you not want to have children?”

He flinched. “I… what?”

“You say you are always careful, that you never want children. You said your line must not continue. Why not?”

A couple of convincing lies danced on his tongue, begging to be spoken.

Stephen cleared his throat, smoothing out his waistcoat. “You know that my father was a cruel man, an unpleasant one,” he said. “I swore to myself and my mother that his line would end with me. I have never felt inclined to have children, so the decision was an easy one.”

Until I saw how much joy Theodore and Anna found in parenthood. Until I held Kitty in my arms for the first time and her baby brother. Until I met you, Beatrice.

The last part remained unspoken.

Beatrice stared up at him, her brow furrowed. “And… and that’s it? That’s your only reason?”

He blinked, taken aback. “Is that not a good enough reason?”

“Denying yourself something you want to spite a dead man? No, it is not a good enough reason. It is the stupidest reason I have ever heard.”

Stephen recoiled, his anger simmering just under his skin. “How dare you. How dare you? You don’t understand a thing, do you? I thought you did not want children, either.”

She fidgeted, glancing away. “Things change. I’m still afraid of childbirth, of course, but when I saw Anna’s baby, I thought… I thought perhaps it might be worth the risk. Jane always thought it was worth the risk, you know. She wanted a baby so badly.”

There was a brief pause after that. The moment stretched on until Stephen cleared his throat.

“My mind has not changed. I am sorry that yours has.”

Why are you lying to her?

It is safer. It’s always safer.

She stared at him for a long moment, trying in vain to read something on his face.

“You truly do have a black heart,” she said, half to herself. “It is my fault. Everybody, yourself included, told me so. You haven’t lied to me, but I have lied to myself. I ordered Mouse to have your things packed because I thought it would be better if you left.”

Stephen felt a pang in his chest, something like grief. It would not go away, no matter how hard he pushed it down.

“Perhaps it would be best,” he heard himself say. “After all, our agreement?—”

“To hell with our agreement,” she snarled, suddenly venomous. “I do not want to see you again until you burn that agreement, along with all those rules .”

Stephen swallowed hard, forcing himself to meet her eyes. “Very well. Goodbye, wife.”

“Goodbye.”

He turned on his heel and walked out of the conservatory, and did not look back.

Out in the hall, Mouse stepped in front of Stephen. If he noticed Stephen’s red-rimmed eyes and pale face, he did not mention it.

“News from our eyes and ears, Your Grace,” he muttered. “We have located the Marquess. I have the address here.”

Stephen clenched his jaw until he swore his teeth might crack.

“Very good. Give it here. I think I shall pay the man a visit.”

The rain had started in the middle of the afternoon, growing heavier as the day went on. By the time the moon rose, the streets were slick and shimmering with water, puddles spreading over the roads, the rain coming down like a gray veil. There was a haze wherever one looked, the sky above black with clouds. Not a star could be seen.

Stephen’s least impressive carriage rumbled down the cobbled streets, the coachman steering them around the worst of the puddles. There was no crest on this carriage, and there were enough chips and scratches in the lacquer and enough mud on the sides to make it seem as if its occupants were not very grand at all.

He kept his mind focused on the task ahead, resolutely not thinking about Beatrice, about the look on her face when he had turned away.

It is for the best. She will see it soon. Won’t she?

The streets were growing narrower, with rubbish heaps on each corner. Despite the late hour, a few big-eyed children scuttled through the filth, barefoot and dressed in rags. They watched the carriage roll back, their faces impassive.

Shadows moved in alleyways, and it was generally considered best not to stare too long into the dark entrances of the spaces between houses. A few more respectable people were still out and about, cloaked and hooded against the rain, their heads down and their shoulders up around their ears. A few of them eyed the carriage enviously as it went by, lifting their feet high to avoid the puddles and piles of filth.

The address Mouse had given him was written on a scrap of paper, folded and tucked in his pocket.

They were nearly there.

The coach stopped at last in front of a tall, narrow house, lights shimmering in some windows.

“Wait here for me,” Stephen instructed the coachman, climbing out of the carriage. “Keep your wits about you.”

The coachman gave a nod and a grunt. He’d worked for Stephen long enough to know this already.

Drawing in a breath, Stephen walked into the house.

There was a fat landlord sitting behind a desk in the foyer, but it only took a couple of guineas to convince him to let Stephen pass and promise not to come upstairs no matter what he heard.

Leaving the traitorous landlord behind, Stephen climbed up the stairs, before pausing before one door in particular.

There were voices from inside, a male and a familiar feminine voice. He knocked, and the voices died down at once.

Click-click .

Locks turned, and the door opened an inch. An eye appeared in the crack of the door and widened when it landed on Stephen. No doubt the door would have been slammed shut at once and double-locked if he hadn’t been ready for this moment.

Stephen threw his shoulder at the door, knocking it open with a crash . The man behind the door fell back, scrambling away.

“Lord Hampton,” Stephen drawled. “What a pleasure.”

He stepped inside, slamming the door shut with his heel.

A woman rose from her seat near the fire, pale-faced. “Stephen,” she gasped.

“Cornelia, my dear, what a pleasant surprise. You should not sit too close to the fire—it is not good for the baby.”

The Marquess, still sprawled on the floor, twisted to look up at his sister. “Baby? What baby?”

Cornelia paled. She did not press her hands to her stomach. It took a moment for her to meet Stephen’s eyes, and when she finally did, she could not hold it for long.

“There’s no baby,” she muttered. “I… I said that to scare off the Duchess.”

“And you thought that the Duchess would not mention it to me? Cornelia, my dear, you are getting sloppy as you get older.”

She colored, turning away. “This is your fault.”

Stephen let out a harsh laugh. “My fault? Mine? We both know that you have plenty of money, Cornelia. I did not leave you destitute, so you can’t be angry at me over that. The Marquess here is shamed, but not impoverished, and he will surely be forgiven in time. So, tell me, what has prompted all of this?”

The Marquess scrambled to his feet, eyeing Stephen warily. “All of what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Cornelia groaned, covering her face with her hands. “He’s not a fool, Mark. Don’t treat him like that.”

“Yes, my dear Marquess, do not treat me like a fool. I imagine that you two are the ones feeding the scandal sheets false information, yes? Eyewitnesses who have seen me leaving a party with Miss Thompson, for example?”

The Marquess flushed and said nothing. His mutinous silence was better than a confession, really.

Cornelia stepped forward. “That’s enough, Stephen. You should not have come here.”

Stephen glanced over at her, and her eyes met his steadily.

“You have always been the cleverest of the two,” he murmured. “I thought it odd that you would be so close when the Marquess here inherited everything without the wits to deserve it. And you, Cornelia, worth two or three times as much as this man, had to earn your money alone. It is unfair, isn’t it?”

Cornelia’s jaw clenched. “That is none of your concern. Not anymore. I won’t allow you to hurt my brother, Stephen.”

He held her gaze. “I am not here to hurt him. Or you. I am here to talk frankly to you both. May I sit?”

“No!” the Marquess snapped bad-temperedly.

Cornelia flushed. “Mark, please! Yes, Stephen, you may sit.”

Stephen waited politely until Cornelia sat down and then took a seat in the opposite armchair. There were only two chairs in the small, grimy apartment, and the Marquess was left standing, shifting mulishly from foot to foot.

“I cannot allow you to continue humiliating my wife,” Stephen began at once. There was no point in waiting for tea. He suspected that nobody was in the mood for small talk. “That means you, Cornelia, must leave me and her alone. You, Hampton, must not approach any more newspaper editors, and neither must you feed information, false or otherwise, to the scandal sheets. I do not expect my name or that of my Duchess to ever cross your lips again. If you wonder whether I would ever know, I think my presence here in your little hidey-hole is proof that I can and will find you if you remain in London.”

“Is this an ultimatum?” Cornelia spat. “I am to leave? You are blackmailing me?”

He smiled mirthlessly. “You know me better than that, I think. I don’t blackmail. I make promises. You do not need to leave London, not if you mind your own business. Live your lives, both of you, and I will live mine. We will live ours.”

There was a long silence, during which Cornelia stared unblinkingly at Stephen.

“You are in love with her,” she blurted out, incredulous.

Stephen had not been expecting that. His customary composure did not desert him, at least.

Even so, the Marquess burst into laughter. “What, that fat, little bluestocking? Good God, man, you must be desperate.”

Cornelia did not laugh. There was a somberness to her expression now. She picked at a loose thread on the arm of her chair and eyed her laughing brother uncomfortably.

“That’s enough, Mark,” she muttered, but the Marquess was not listening.

“I was only going to marry her because her father would have made it worth my while,” the Marquess scoffed. “She’s hardly a beauty .”

“I’ll thank you not to speak of the Duchess of Blackwood in that manner,” Stephen said smoothly, not looking at the man. “I shall not warn you again.”

“Oh, come now, she’s barely a duchess. Everybody is laughing at her, and really, it’s not as if she looks the part. She’s quite ridiculous. Only the other day, Miss Boules said that…”

Stephen was out of his chair before the Marquess could blink, and before Cornelia could warn him. There was barely enough time to see panic and possibly regret cross the Marquess’s face before Stephen’s fist crashed into his jaw.

Cornelia shrieked. The Marquess went sprawling across the floor, automatically clamping his hand over his mouth. On his back, he scrambled backward, his eyes wide and staring up at Stephen.

Ignoring the stinging pain in his hand, Stephen took a step forward, bending down. Wrapping his hand around the Marquess’s cravat, he yanked him up a few inches until they were nose to nose.

“Don’t hurt him, Stephen, please!” Cornelia squawked. “He’s a fool who doesn’t know when to be quiet.”

“I’m aware of that, my dear,” Stephen hissed, staring unblinkingly at the Marquess. “Lord Hampton, let me be clear. If I see you in London again, there will be consequences. If you speak to the newspapers or scandal sheets about imaginary scandals, I will find you and make you pay. If you trouble me or my family again, you will regret it. Perhaps everything that has happened has led to this moment, perhaps not. But one thing I can promise you for certain. If you speak about my wife in that manner again, I shall kill you. Do you understand?”

The Marquess nodded frantically, clearly not trusting himself to speak.

“Good.”

Stephen released his hold on the man’s cravat, and the Marquess fell back onto the floorboards with a thump . Cornelia hurried over to his side but made no move to comfort him.

“Goodbye, Cornelia,” Stephen said, ignoring the Marquess altogether. He handed over an envelope, sealed ostentatiously with his crest. “You’ll find two tickets for a ship that leaves for the Americas within a week. The Marquess must certainly get on the ship, but in consideration of your goodwill, I shall give you the courtesy of choosing whether to leave or not. I wish we could have parted on better terms.”

Cornelia swallowed. “Yes. I wish that, too.”

He gave her a short bow, then stepped neatly over the Marquess and strode out the door.

The fat landlord was standing by the bottom of the stairs, gawping. Stephen did not even glance at him, striding out of the dingy apartment building and into his waiting carriage.

“Where to, Your Grace?” the coachman asked, securing the door.

“Home, I suppose.”

The coachman hesitated. “Where’s home? The townhouse or the big house?”

Stephen momentarily closed his eyes. “Do you know, I haven’t the faintest idea.”