Chapter 13

CHAPTER 13

M iss Dorsham's gloved fingers hooked onto Jacob's upper arm with a tight squeeze. "When I first entered the hall, I noticed the draperies were a bit outdated. Switching to a gold damask print would revive the room, bring out the gilded trim, and give the impression of wealth."

"Because nothing says riches like gold curtains." Jacob waited for her to laugh or smile.

Nothing.

She didn't understand his humor.

Unlike Emily, who smiled as she soaked her brushes in mineral spirits.

Miss Dorsham gasped as if inspiration struck. "And in the dining room, a blue brocade or velvet would look lovely."

Jacob tried to fashion his attention on Miss Dorsham, but she rambled on about fabrics and trims until his eyes started to cross.

The housekeeper bearing a tea tray rescued him.

Miss Dorsham steeped the tea in Emily's stead, pouring a cup for him, Emily, and herself. "How do you like it?"

"Black."

A sultry smile returned to her lips, followed by a giggle. "Of course."

He hadn't meant to infer his reputation nor to be funny. He just wanted his tea black.

Miss Dorsham passed a cup to Emily. Jacob hoped she would join them, but she remained in front of the canvas and painted the background.

Miss Dorsham sat beside him so close that their arms touched.

He scooted away.

When she inched closer, he stood and selected a low-backed chair.

Miss Dorsham blinked, apparently shocked her machinations weren't working on him. But she recovered quickly. "Are you enjoying my reading?"

"You have a flare for the dramatic." He thought he heard Emily snort, but he couldn't be certain.

"I do hope I've helped to take your mind off the weariness of posing."

"The time has flown."

Miss Dorsham sipped her tea, peering at him over the rim. "Are you enjoying Lord Byron's prose?" She shifted to the edge of her seat until their knees brushed. "The man has a beautiful way of expressing the longings of the human heart."

And other areas . "Lord Byron appreciates the human condition and all of its follies." Jacob lifted his glass and gulped the liquid, burning his mouth and leaving a warm path to his stomach.

Miss Dorsham fluffed her skirt, brushing his breeches with her pinkie.

He shifted and crossed one leg over the other, out of her reach. His patience with her unsubtle tactics long since had waned. He had half a mind to give her chaperone a lecture on her responsibilities, but the dozing woman released a snore.

"His prose seems to churn up something from deep within. Don't you think?" She leaned forward, and Jacob averted his gaze. "Especially in ‘She Walks in Beauty,' he describes the woman in such an alluring and mysterious way."

"I'm not sure alluring is the right adjective. Byron uses the words calm and grace to describe her." He pressed against the chair's backrest, resisting the urge to rub his temples from a tension ache. "And I know I heard ‘innocent' and ‘serenely sweet.'"

"But a woman can be both serenely sweet and mysteriously alluring." She stood, running her fingers up his arm, and hovered her lips to his ear. "I can be both," she whispered.

Emily glanced in their direction. If she thought it odd that he was tilting the chair onto two legs to lean back from Miss Dorsham, she didn't comment.

"Ahem." Jacob pressed Miss Dorsham's shoulder away and stood. The chair landed in place. "Are you ready to begin again?"

"If you are," Emily said.

He resumed his position, Miss Dorsham her reading, and Emily her painting.

She studied him, but no matter how hard he tried to catch her eye, she only seemed to peer through him.

Miss Dorsham droned on, and Jacob shifted his weight shaking, the stiffness out of his leg.

"Do you need another break?" Emily asked.

He shook his head. Why did she entice him so? Was it because she posed a challenge? Compared to Miss Dorsham, who placed her cards all on the table, Emily was more like the woman Lord Bryon described. Emily walked in beauty. She epitomized innocent grace, calm eloquence, and sweet serenity. And yes, that led to mysterious allure. Yet the woman Byron described walked in the darkness of night. Emily did not appear to be deceptive, but Jacob had been lured by such beauty before—and had his heart ripped out.

Women were a distraction, and these two ladies were doing a bang-up job keeping him from his goal. He was here for Christian. He was here to get to know his son and be part of his life. But would learning of his father be beneficial for Christian? Or was the life of a vicar's youngest son better than the life as the son of a reformed libertine?

He needed more intelligence for an informed decision. Perhaps he could secretly interview the family, determine the available future opportunities for Christian, and sort out the facts. He'd start with Emily.

"Tell me, Miss Thompson…"

Miss Dorsham stopped reading with a huff.

Let her be annoyed. He was done with her antics. Jacob directed his question at Emily. "If your eldest brother is to take over the vicarage, what is in store for young Christian? Will he begin apprenticing soon?"

Emily snorted. "I think not. He's five."

"But in a few years, will he?"

"It depends."

"On what?"

She put down her brush. "Maybe we should end our session for the day. The light has shifted."

"Agreed." Miss Dorsham tossed the book on the chair and roused her sleepy chaperone. "Lord Warren, would you be so kind as to see me out?"

Jacob eyed Emily. He wanted to finish the conversation, yet it would be rude to ignore Miss Dorsham. "Of course." He raised his elbow for her to hold but addressed Emily. "The painting's progress is coming along nicely. How many more sittings are necessary?"

"Two, perhaps three."

Miss Dorsham gasped. "That is all?"

"My brother built a tailor's dummy as a model for the clothing. I only needed Lord Warren for his facial features."

"And here I thought I was more than a pretty face."

Emily pressed the back of her hand to her mouth to smother a chuckle.

"But, of course, the real model is preferred?" Miss Dorsham's fingers tightened on his arm.

"Yes, but I must honor Lord Warren's time. I'm certain he has much to do with restoring Brownstone Hall."

Miss Dorsham's lips thinned, and she glared at her friend.

"I appreciate your thoughtfulness." Jacob bowed his head. "Good day, Miss Thompson."

"Good day, Lord Warren, Phoebe."

Miss Dorsham issued her the barest of nods before turning toward the door. Jacob led her from the room, mindful of his jacket, neatly folded over the arm of a chair.

E mily washed her brushes and put away her paints. The house seemed quiet now. Mrs. Hayes added fuel to the hearth in the kitchen, and Mama sat at the table with paper and quill in hand.

Returning to the salon for one last assessment of the painting, Emily spied Jacob's jacket draped over the settee arm. She grabbed it and dashed to the front door. "Lord Warren?"

The drive was empty, with no sign of either Phoebe or Jacob. His curricle was parked near the barn. He couldn't have left with Phoebe. Her phaeton only seated two.

She strode back into the house, searching the main rooms for any sign of his lordship.

Mama and Mrs. Hayes sat in the kitchen going over the week's meal plan.

"It's the strangest thing." Emily patted the jacket draped over her arm. "Lord Warren's carriage is here, but he is not."

"I saw him walking with Samuel to the east pasture."

Emily trooped out the back door. Rounding the corner, she spied two men struggling to insert a fence crossbeam into a post and recognized Jacob's profile. The white shirt she'd painted moments before was matted with sweat and clung to his broad shoulders.

A lord of the Quality would never be caught toiling in manual labor, yet he guided the post while Samuel lifted the back.

They were both concentrating and didn't see her approach.

"I've got it. Now lift." Jacob clenched his teeth as they strained to direct the stubborn beam.

"Very well, now, push." Jacob glanced up and smiled when he saw her.

Samuel pushed, but Jacob didn't extract his hand in time.

"Blast." He yanked it away and clasped his fingers in his other hand.

Emily rushed forward. "Lord Warren."

His face blanched.

Samuel dropped the cross beam. "Are you all right?"

Emily hopped over the unfinished fence and hurried to Jacob. She reached for his hands. "Is it broken?"

He offered the barest shake of his head.

Emily nodded at the fencepost. "Is there a nail in the beam?"

Samuel examined it. "Indeed, it's rusty and sticking out a bit."

"Is it bleeding?"

His pale face conveyed the answer.

"Let me take a look." She gently pulled his hands toward her. "I suggest you look away."

He did, and she pried his other hand off, leaning closer to inspect. A gash tracked along the outside of his pinky finger. Blood oozed, running down his hand and dripping off before it reached his wrist.

Jacob stiffened. His gaze snapped back to her with a glazed-over, frantic expression, his face tinging so pale he almost appeared green.

"Lord Warren? Are you all right?" Samuel asked.

His eyes rolled back in his head, and he toppled backward into the grass like fallen timber.

Emily dropped to his side. She patted his cheeks. "Jacob, wake up." She shook his shoulders.

When he didn't rouse, she twisted around to peer at Samuel. "Get Mama. Tell her to bring smelling salts and a bandage."

"What happened? I've never seen a man felled by a cut to the hand."

"He can't stomach the sight of blood."

"How do you know—?" Samuel cut off his words.

It was a rather intimate thing to know of someone. Would Samuel draw conclusions if she didn't clarify? "He told me it's why he didn't join his majesty's army." Why must she always explain herself? "Now go. Hurry."

He dashed off toward the house.

She placed her hand on Jacob's chest. It rose and fell in rhythm.

Praise God.

The countryside grew silent except for the sheep bleating in the distant field. Once again, she leaned over his sprawled body.

"Why do you continue to put me in these situations?" She pulled a handkerchief out of his coat pocket, still draped over her arm, and tied it over his oozing hand. "I have fought to maintain a spotless reputation to repair the damage my mother caused, but since you arrived, everything has gone awry."

A breeze waved the grass, and a lock of hair fell across his forehead. In rest, he looked boyish, reminding her of Christian. She had the urge to ruffle his hair as she would that of her younger brother. Instead, she brushed the fallen lock aside with her fingertips and traced his contoured hairline over his cheekbone, around the curve of his jaw, and to the square of his chin.

"And why do you make my heart feel like the arrival of spring?" she whispered.

A door slammed, and Mama and Samuel ran toward her.

Emily rose.

"My word." Mama's eyes widened as she saw him. Her gaze raked over Jacob, her face a mask of concern. "I brought the box. Here."

Emily uncapped the bottle of hartshorn and waved it below his nose.

Jacob gasped, and his eyes sprung open. "Egad! What's that awful smell?"

Emily rested back on her haunches.

Mama and Samuel kneeled on his other side, peering down at his lordship.

"What is going on here?" Jacob struggled to sit up.

Samuel put a hand under Jacob's arm and pulled him to a seated position.

Jacob saw the handkerchief tied around his hand and glanced away.

"You fainted," Emily said.

"I did nothing of the sort." Jacob's chin jerked back. "Only women swoon."

Men. Emily snorted. "I beg your pardon." She exaggerated her tone. "Rather, when you saw the blood on your hand, your body decided it was time for an expedient nap."

His mouth broke into a mischievous smile. "I bring out your satirical side."

She stuffed the cap back on the bottle.

"My lord." Mama dusted a blade of grass off his shoulder and rose. "Let's get you back to the house so we can tend to your injury."

"You may lean on me." Samuel aided Jacob to stand and kept a firm grip on his arm.

"Truly, I'm fine." Jacob waved him off.

Samuel helped Mama rise instead.

Jacob held up his elbow. "Here, Miss Thompson, allow me to escort you."

She tucked her hand in the crook of his arm, and they strolled toward the house. After a few steps, his weight shifted, and he leaned heavily on her instead of vice versa. Emily worked to brace his weight. No one seemed to notice his woozy behavior, and they plodded through the walled-in rose garden and stone patio. Mrs. Hayes opened the paned glass door into the back parlor.

"I'll have the physician summoned right away," Mrs. Hayes said as they passed, then scurried to fluff the pillows on the settee.

"No need to fuss." Jacob sat on the chair and gestured Emily to the settee. "I'm confident that Miss Thompson has sufficiently seen to my wound."

"My apologies for interrupting your task," Jacob said to Samuel.

"Think nothing of it." Samuel stepped forward, his hat between his hands. "The groom will help me when he returns from town."

"Make sure you warn him about the nail."

"I'm going to wheedle it out right now." He bowed and left.

Emily pulled Jacob's hand onto her knee and lifted the edge of the cloth. "The cut needs a good cleaning and to be re-bandaged."

"You're quite knowledgeable about these things. It must be from living with two brothers. I'm in good hands."

Mama passed her the box of bandages. "Let me grab the spirits." She left the room.

Jacob's brows rose. "Are you in need of courage?"

"Heavens, no. I do not partake. Mama swears that a little poured on the wound aids in preventing infection. She says it's the only thing spirits are good for."

"Well, there are others, but it usually ends with a pounding headache."

Mama returned with a bottle of gin.

Mama slid a footstool in front of Jacob and sat. "Under the circumstances, would you care for a glass?"

Jacob peered at the bottle for a long moment but shook his head. "It's a minor cut. Nothing to be worried about."

"You never know about these things. One can't be too careful." Mama patted his good hand. "And do not feel bad. I'm also squeamish. The sight of blood makes me lightheaded."

Emily picked at the handkerchief's knot and murmured under her breath. "Yet only one of you faints."

Jacob shot her a warning glare before addressing her mama. "I don't want you swooning on my account, but your kindness does me good."

Emily pulled out a clean bandage.

"Your daughter was quick to come to my aid. You've done a fine job raising a family."

Mama blushed. Blushed!

He wiggled his eyebrows at Emily. "Since it's on the underside of my hand, let me turn the chair." He scooted the seat to face Mama, his back to Emily. "Now, I can divert your attention away from the fiendish blood." He held his wounded hand back for Emily to bandage.

"You are too kind." Mama's voice flowed like sweet syrup.

His maneuver was genius. It offered Emily a better angle, prevented Jacob from seeing the wound, and made him appear like a gentleman, as if he'd done it on account of Mama. Intelligence, charm, and wit—a lethal combination for innocent women. Yet humbly felled by the sight of blood.

God had a grand sense of humor.

Emily twisted the lid off the gin. The wound was long but not too deep. She held the old dressing under his hand to catch runaway drops.

"This may sting a bit." She fought to keep the smile out of her tone. It would burn something fierce. She poured the liquor into the cut.

He winced and sucked in a breath, jerking his hand.

Emily held it firmly. Men were babies about such things. Her brothers also yelped at the sting, yet Mama said women were hushed for screaming during childbirth.

"Oh, Lord Warren, you are very brave," Mama said. "I assure you, Emily is wise in these ministrations. You must return in a couple of days for her to look at it. She'll want to ensure it's healing properly."

Emily knotted the bandage and set aside the one stained with his blood to be laundered. "All finished."

Jacob turned around.

"Emily," Mama said, rising, "would you be so kind as to see Lord Warren to the door?"

"Certainly."

Mama's gaze bounced between them before she smiled and left the room.

Was she still playing matchmaker? Had she not heard the rumors of his reputation in London? Or was she practicing do not judge lest ye be judged ?

"After you." Jacob gestured with his hand. As she passed, he said, "Thank you for your assistance back there. Brilliant timing for your arrival since no one else was aware of my…ur…condition."

"You gave Mama quite a start." She strolled down the hall with Jacob behind her. "She doesn't fuss over her sons as much as she did you."

"She cares for each of you dearly. It shows every time she looks at you."

"We are very fortunate to have her love." She opened the door.

Papa's carriage rumbled up the drive.

"Oh, splendid." Emily waved to her papa and brother. "Christian is home. You forgot to present him with your gift."

"Indeed, I'd completely forgotten."

"I believe Mrs. Hayes put it in his chamber. I'll run and fetch it."

Emily dashed upstairs and found the horse where she'd expected. She snatched it and returned to the front door.

Jacob stood at the top of the drive as Christian leapt from the carriage. "Lord Warren, what are you doing here?" He ran to him and danced about in a semi-circle. "Are you here to take the Pirate Catcher out sailing again?"

Emily hid the toy behind her back and passed it to Jacob.

"Master Christian, I spotted something in the mercantile window that I knew belonged to you."

"What is it? What is it?" Christian jumped in place.

"Ta-dah." Jacob held the wooden horse.

Christian's eyes widened, and his little hands reached for it with reverence. "It's for me?"

"Indeed."

With a grin almost as wide as his face, Christian took the horse and inspected it.

Emily leaned in and whispered to Jacob. "I don't know where his exuberant personality came from."

"From his father." Jacob didn't take his gaze off Christian. "He gets it from his papa."

Emily glanced at their father, addressing the nearby groom. His eyes sparkled when he delivered his message on Sunday mornings, but otherwise, he was generally calm and steadfast.

The pride lacing Jacob's words seemed odd.

"Do you know what breed it is?" Jacob asked Christian.

"It's a Morgan."

Jacob crouched to Christian's level. "How can you tell?"

"Because of its long neck and legs, and because its body is lean." He gazed at Jacob with a serious expression. "It's a high-stepper. No doubt."

Jacob laughed.

"That's a fine present." Papa stood behind them, his Bible tucked under his arm. "What do you say to Lord Warren for his kindness?"

Christian threw himself at Jacob, wrapping his arms around him and squeezing tight. "Thank you."

Their fair hair melded into one. His words echoed in her ears.

He gets it from his papa.

Christian pulled away, and she looked between them, the man and the boy.

Their likeness seemed uncanny. He'd taken such an interest in Christian, even brought him toys. It couldn't be. Could it? Why hadn't she considered…?

Was Jacob Christian's father?

Papa addressed Jacob. "I met a lady in town who's visiting from London. She claims she knows you." Papa squeezed his eyes shut. "Lady Lu… Lady Lucile. Yes, Lady Lucile Benton, I believe."

Lady Benton. Wasn't that the woman Phoebe read about in the gossip column? The one whose husband had dueled with Jacob?

"You don't say." Jacob stood, and Christian ran to play with the new toy. "She is a distant acquaintance of mine. A friend of a friend of a friend, that sort of thing."

"She sends her regards." Papa gestured toward the house. "Care to join us for the noontime meal? We sup early in the country."

"Unfortunately, I have another engagement, but I appreciate your hospitality."

"Another time, then." Papa bowed.

Jacob returned the nod. "I would be delighted."

Papa called to Christian. "Make sure you wash up before coming to the table, young man."

"Yes, Papa."

Papa headed into the house.

Jacob watched Christian prance about, holding his new toy high and neighing like a horse. He turned to Emily with a smile as wide as Christian's, but it faded.

"Is something amiss?" He gripped her elbow. "You look pale."

Emily opened her mouth to speak, to accuse, to question, but nothing came out. Her gaze jumped between Christian and Jacob.

He glanced over one shoulder, then the other. "Is there a ghost lingering about?"

Emily's mouth finally loosened. "You're—are you… You and Christian? Are you his…?"

Jacob's eyes widened. He grabbed her hand and yanked her to a stone bench in the rose garden. When he'd settled her, he crouched on his haunches in front of her. His hands cupped her upper arms, and he peered over his shoulder to ensure Christian couldn't overhear. "What are you asking?"

Emily swallowed. "Are you Christian's father? His real father?"

He froze like a cornered animal, braced for an all-out run. But he didn't run.

"Blast." He ran a hand across the back of his head.

"Do not pitch me any gammon. I can see the resemblance."

"You do?" His reaction gave him away. "I'm…" He licked his lips, glanced behind him again, as if she'd allow Christian to creep close and overhear. "I am Christian's father. He's the reason I came to Sylvanwood."

"So you can ease your guilt by buying him a toy and then merrily going on your way?"

"No." His harsh tone split the air, and his grip tightened on her arms. But he immediately relaxed his hold and leaned away. "It's not like that." His tone was pleading. "Let me explain."

"No need. You got a woman with child, and then you did the dishonorable thing and left. You left your child, your blood." Her words punched the air. "You left Christian." Much like Emily's mother had abandoned her. She tried to shift on the stone bench to turn her back or pull away, but he held her firm. "Christian doesn't need another father. He already has one—a good one."

He winced as though she'd slapped him. "I never wanted to leave my son. I'd offered her marriage, but she refused and disappeared for eight months. When she returned, she wouldn't tell me where she went or where he was. I've spent five years searching for him."

"You're going to marry Phoebe, then?"

"What?" His eyes widened, and he shook his head. "Why would you think that?"

"What about her? What if she's with child? Will you leave them to their own devices too?"

He reared back. "What has she told you?" Rage flashed in his eyes. "I haven't been intimate with Miss Dorsham."

Jacob had withheld the truth about being Christian's father. He could be lying now, but it would be hard to feign his reaction.

"She's been having clandestine meetings with someone else." He spoke past a stiff jaw. "Ask her carriage driver or footman. They'll tell you the truth."

This weekend I blossomed into a woman. I met someone, but Mama would disapprove. Phoebe had started to tell her a story the last time she'd come to Emily's house before Jacob came to town. But her words had been interrupted by the knock on the door. The investigator had plagued Emily with questions about Christian, informed her about her true birth parents, and passed her the copied registry page as confirmation.

"Lord Warren," Christian called. "Do you want to play?"

Jacob peered over his shoulder at Christian, and Emily took advantage of his distraction. She yanked free of his grip and darted toward the house.

"Emily, wait!"

She barreled inside and rammed into Peter Mathis, who must have walked over.

He caught her in his arms. "What's wrong?"

Samuel stood beside Mr. Mathis with his brows drawn together, peering at her with concern.

Emily blinked back hot tears burning behind her lids. Her emotions somersaulted. She needed to process this information. "Nothing." She peeked out the window, where Christian and Jacob were talking, probably about horses.

Jacob glanced toward the house, his face tense and drawn.

"What did he do?" Mr. Mathis gave her a tiny shake.

Emily shook her head. "Nothing. I need to freshen up for the noon meal."

Mr. Mathis stared at her. He didn't believe her—she saw it in his eyes—but he let her go. "I wanted you to know that I must leave for London but shall be back in a fortnight."

She worked to focus on his words and not the tight pain in her chest, choking out her ability to breathe.

He backed up a step and stuffed his hands in his pockets, a muscle twitching in his jaw. "Don't do anything drastic until I return. We can speak more then."

Drastic? She didn't know what he was talking about. What radical thing did he believe her capable of?

"I shall be as rational as ever. Excuse me." She climbed the stairs. As soon as she was out of sight, she fled to her room.

She'd been lied to and deceived. But by whom? A devious rake pretending he'd reformed, or her closest friend?

Emily paced. The woven circular rug was well worn, and she could have walked a hole through it after the number of times she passed over it in the next half hour. What was going to happen to Christian? Could Jacob take him away? Her parents wouldn't allow it. Or would they? If so, would Jacob take Christian to live with him in London? Society would shun Christian for being his by-blow. Didn't Jacob understand he'd ruin Christian's life? He could pretend Christian was his ward to avoid being ostracized, but even then, tongues would wag.

How would she keep her promise to protect Christian if he lived elsewhere?

Emily flopped onto her bed. Drawings she'd done as a child hung on the walls. She'd been so proud of her artwork back then, but now the drawings appeared infantile compared to her recent work.

Things change. People change.

She was no longer the na?ve little girl who drew rainbows and sunshine. The world was full of selfish, dishonorable rogues who romped through life, not caring who they hurt.

"Why, God? How could our birth parents be so cruel? We were their children. Why did they discard us like trash?" A picture of Christian's mother's face floated through her memory—an unhappy young lady who complained of the stuffiness of their small rectory and roamed the fields and moors until her condition became obvious and her lying-in period began. Emily pulled an old sketchbook off her bookshelf and flipped through it. She'd displayed artistic talent even at the age of four and ten. She stopped at a picture of a sad young woman peering out their front window.

Christian's mother, Sarah, had been beautiful. Emily understood how Jacob had been attracted to her.

Memories soured her stomach.

Get it out, Sarah had yelled during her labor. Emily had assisted the midwife until the wail of a baby's cry filled the room. The midwife wrapped Christian in a blanket, and Emily had risen on her toes to peek at her new brother before the woman tried to hand him to his birth mother.

I don't want it. Sarah had pushed the baby away. Why should I let that thing ruin my life?

Mama had claimed Sarah's outburst were the pains of labor speaking, but Emily had wondered whether she'd been rejected by her mother in a similar, hurtful way. The thought sparked a protectiveness for her younger brother.

Emily flipped the page to Sarah sitting on the bridge, at their old house in Lincolnshire, her feet dangling in the water. A young man sat beside her, leaning in as though hanging on her every word. The face wasn't Jacob's, but he held a familiarity that Emily couldn't place.

As Sarah met with the young man, she hadn't spotted Emily sketching in the tall grass along the shore. Sarah had never given Emily much notice, anyway.

Christian was now five, and Jacob around three and twenty. When Christian was born, he would have been ten and eight or ten and nine. If Emily's memory served, Sarah had been ten and nine and engaged to a duke. Jacob must have been very convincing to seduce a beautiful woman into risking an advantageous marriage.

Emily would need to be even more on her guard. To think she'd found him amusing, even charming. Thank heavens she discovered the truth before her heart formed an attachment.

No, she needed to be honest with herself. She admitted that she'd begun to have feelings for him.

She squeezed her eyes shut. Jacob was perfect for Phoebe. She, too, was dishonest. Jacob had pawned off his by-blows, and if he'd spoken the truth, then Phoebe was trying to pawn someone else's child on Jacob.

The two of them would make quite a pair.