Chapter 21

Atlas could hide her. And he would, too. If Clara let him. Every one of her nerves demanded she remain in her spot, screamed at her to stay put behind her lovely mountain of a husband and ignore the word ringing through her ears.

Heir?

No. Impossible. Why would Lord Tefler call Alfie that? Surely he did not mean…

"Where is he?" Tefler demanded, his gaze swinging to Clara.

"What do you mean your heir?" Not a single wobble in one of Clara's words. Miracle, that. "You have an heir." An elder son who'd never hurt Clara but never helped her, either. A bit of a useless fellow. "And he has a wife. So even the succession after him will soon be secure, I'm sure. Do not lie about who Alfie is."

Tefler's jaw twitched. "Elizabeth has proved unable to carry her fourth child to term."

Matilda's hand flew to her large, rounded belly.

"I am sorry to startle you, my lady." Tefler spoke to Matilda's stomach more than to her, and when he returned his attention to Clara, his eyes shone glassy with water rimming the edges. He cleared his voice. "If my son's wife proves incapable of providing what she was born to provide, young Simon grows in significance."

"Simon?" Raph asked, glancing at Clara.

"It's one of Alfie's names. It's his name." She nodded toward the baron. "But Alfred is his first name, and my father's."

"And thus," Tefler said, "insignificant, while the boy himself is?—"

"My son is significant no matter the name he goes by," Atlas growled. "And he prefers Alfred, so that is what you'll call him. And, while I am correcting your inaccuracies, he is not your heir. Your son yet lives. And while he and his wife may not as yet be blessed with a child, they may one day be. You have no power here."

Clara put a hand on her husband's arm. The words my son on his lips drained all fear from her body. The certainty in his cool logic strengthened her spine. One truth, bright and bold, glowed in her mind—she loved Lord Atlas Bromley. With her entire heart and soul.

That chair she'd been working on for four months—not born of the sweat of gratitude and admiration at all. She'd put love into every curve, her heart into every corner. She knew she'd been falling, but here she was, at the glorious end result, madly in love with a singing soldier with fire in his blue, blue eyes.

Lord Tefler's sneer curled even more tightly on his lips as he studied Atlas like a pinned bug from scuffed boots to hatless head, taking in all in between—rumpled clothing, no cravat, smudges of paint on his hands from where he'd helped with the maypole. "You seem to have a talent, Clara, for catching titled men. Tell me, Lord Atlas, did she fuck you to catch you? Get herself with child to back you into a corner?"

One large step in Tefler's direction brought Atlas almost right up against the other man, his hands hammers at his sides. "Watch your tongue. I will feel no guilt for tossing you out the window."

"Except, maybe," Raph added, standing at his brother's side, "for the cost of the broken glass."

Tefler clicked his tongue against his teeth. "Another fine man brought low. She's a menace. But I do not blame you, Lord Atlas." He sighed, walking away from the brothers. "You should have been raised better, raised to appreciate your station, raised to?—"

"Will you insult a lady to her face?" Franny stood in the door, her once wild locks tamed into a simple chignon low on her neck, wearing a new, entirely respectable gown. This one not rumpled a bit. Fashionable, even. She'd washed the paint from her hands and cheeks, and she swept into the room as regal as a queen, pinning Tefler with a haughty look Clara had never seen her wear before. "While I did not make the choices I should have as a mother, sir, I can assure you I taught my son to respect his station exactly as much as he should. Who are you, sir?"

"I am Simon Bronwen, Baron Tefler." He bowed low and shot up once more. "And you are, I take it, the Marchioness of Waneborough?"

Franny dipped her chin just a bit toward her chest, her eyes steely.

Tefler took a step toward her. "I am Alfred Bronwen's grandfather."

She backed away from him, wrinkling her nose, and sat on a low sofa. She waved her hand dismissively, looking out the window as if the occupants of the room were of no consequence. "And I am his grandmother. Would anyone else like to state their relationship to young Alfred?"

Tefler did not seem to notice that she mocked him. He scuttled across the room to stand before her, palms open wide, fine kid gloves perfectly fit across every finger. "Surely you understand the weight of my situation, my lady. One son living, and his wife unable to produce a living heir." He glanced at Matilda's rounded belly again.

"Do not look at the marchioness," Franny snapped. "It is impertinent."

His gaze jumped back to her. "Apologies, my lady."

Franny sniffed. "A baron?" She said the word as if she were looking at something nasty on the bottom of her shoe. "Clara, dear, I'd no idea you kept such low company before coming here."

Clara's mouth dropped open. So did the mouths of every other person in the room.

Lord Tefler sat beside Franny on the couch, and Franny scooted away.

"It is true," he said, "that my family's title is not so esteemed or so old as yours. Seven generations of marquesses according to Debrett's. And Viscount Stillman as courtesy title." A sigh as his attention wandered once more to Matilda's belly.

"Your point, Tefler?" Raph yanked a pillow off a nearby chair and blocked Matilda's middle with it. A vein bulged in his forehead.

The older man heaved another sigh, dragging his gaze to Raph. "Truly a glorious lineage. My title is not half so ancient." He turned to Franny, sitting taller. "But we are quality to the very bone, my lady. I assure you. Simon will?—"

"Alfie," the entire room but Tefler said at once.

The baron cleared his throat. "Yes, well, there are clear signs that my grandson may inherit my title one day. I cannot let a journeyman's coarse daughter raise him as if he's of no import. He must live with me and—ack!"

Atlas fisted his hand in the baron's cravat and hauled him to his feet. Tefler scratched at Atlas's hand, mouth gaping, lungs gasping.

"Do not insult my wife," Atlas warned. "And you will not take my son."

Clara rushed across the room, hands settling on Atlas's back, his shoulders. "Put him down, Atlas." They could not anger this man, could not hurt him.

"Atlas, I've always appreciated your brutish high spirits, but this is not the place." Franny sniffed, and Atlas released the man. A bit. More precise to say his muscles loosened as he regarded his mother with wide, shocked eyes. Because it appeared the scandalous dowager could play well the role a haughty society matron.

Atlas's hand still firm around Tefler's neck, he said, "Mind your tongue or lose your ability to breathe."

She wanted to kiss him and kick him in equal measure.

"Yes," Tefler squeaked. "It was not well done of me. Not at all refined." He smoothed his hand over his hair though not a strand had wavered out of place despite his near strangulation. And he did not apologize to Clara.

She needed no apology. She needed him to leave. Pushing Atlas behind her, she said, "Alfie will remain here whether your son produces an heir or not."

"He needs proper training."

Fanny snorted. "And you're suggesting a marquess and his family cannot properly train him? How insulting."

Tefler's mouth dropped open, then closed, then open and closed again. "No. No, no. No insult meant, my lady. But the boy should be with his family, and?—"

"We are his family." Matilda scowled, marched forward. "You presume too much, my lord, entering my home and attempting to take away my nephew. Offering insult to my sister and likely straining my poor brother's arm."

Tefler blinked, stared at Atlas's arm, which remained perfectly strong and sturdy despite the heavy lifting it had recently done. Tefler rubbed his neck, straightened his crushed cravat as best he could. "Your poor brother has likely bruised me."

"Because you hurt his delicate sensibilities. I—Oh." Matilda's hand flew to her belly. She blinked, the rest of her body going entirely still.

"What is it?" Raph had gone still, too.

She breathed a few heavy breaths, the rest of the room's attention locked onto her. Tefler eyed her belly as if it might explode. When she shook her head and smiled, the entire room exhaled.

"'Tis nothing, I'm sure. But Lord Tefler must—Oh!" Her other hand shot to her belly.

"It's not nothing!" Raph dropped the pillow he'd been holding before her, picked her up like a babe, and strode for the door.

"Put me down!" she demanded.

"Bring the doctor!" he boomed to no particular person.

Franny floated to her feet. "The baby is coming. She certainly took her time, didn't she? Thought herself nice and cozy in there. Should have been out and wailing weeks ago. She grinned, clapped her hands. Bromley women will come when they wish." She flinched as if she meant to follow Raph and Matilda out the door, but then she looked to Clara and sank back down to the sofa.

What had it cost her to stay? And she'd stayed for Clara's sake.

"My congratulations," Tefler said to Atlas. "Your family will soon, if God sees fit to bless your brother with a son, know the beauty of a secured succession."

"I'm hoping for a girl," Atlas bit out. "There's been too many stubborn men in this family. And it's time for you to leave."

"Not without my grandson."

"Touch that boy," Atlas warned, "and I'll not stop squeezing your neck next time, no matter who asks me to."

Clara laid a hand on Atlas's wrist, a brief touch before she stood toe-to-toe with Tefler. "You cannot have him."

"A woman's emotions mean nothing in such a situation. Surely you, my lord"—Tefler held his hands out to Atlas, palms up—"understand. She has stolen my potential heir, and?—"

"The only thing I understand is that you are not welcome here, Tefler." Atlas stood strong by Clara's side and threaded his hand with hers. "Have a safe journey home." He clearly did not mean that.

"I will take this to the courts." Tefler's refined veneer dropped, breaking into a million tiny bits of glass around his feet. No polished man anymore. A rat ready to bite. "Or you pack him into my coach this very day. The choice is yours. Make the right one, Clara. Think of Simon. You cannot raise him as a future baron. You've no idea of what that means with sawdust on your hands."

Her heart wailed like a wild thing in her chest. She'd do anything to keep her child. Even beg. "Pl?—"

Atlas laughed. "You're a fool, Tefler, to think you could win Alfie in court. All you'll do is cost your family money, ruin them. Is that the kind of inheritance you wish to leave your son? Nothing but debt and ignominy? And you think anyone will love you after that? Do you think your son will thank you for buying him an heir in such a way?"

Franny stood. "Let me assure you, he will not. And you will deserve his censure." She took several smooth steps toward him. "But let us leave behind such unsavory topics. What my son is failing to point out, Lord Tefler"—how did Franny manage to get just the right hint of amused condescension in her voice?—"is that his brother his a marquess, and that marquess's marchioness is currently in the process of producing, one can hope, an heir. If Alfred remains here, he will be raised alongside Viscount Stillman, will learn what it is to be a peer at a marquess's feet." Her lips pulled back a fraction as she studied Tefler from his boots to his hair with slightly bared teeth and a hand curled at her chest. Disgust carved her entire body, whipped a wind that leaned her away from the baron. Her nose wrinkled as if he emitted a strong, unpleasant odor. "'Tis much better than being raised by a baron."

Franny should have gone on stage. She'd clearly missed her life's calling. The woman who welcomed everyone into her home, no matter their station in life, pretending to care for titles before a baron? As if she hadn't just pried into Clara's dreams over eggs that morning, drawing cards to predict the likelihood of conception that month and painted half a maypole the day before. Clara loved her, wanted to hug her.

The brilliant marchioness knew exactly what to say to keep this baron in his place, and Clara would play the part handed to her as well as she could. If only Atlas would do the same. But he looked ready to throw Tefler through the window, his stance as rigid as stone, his hands fists, ready and willing.

Tefler's face burned a mottled red, and he tugged as his jacket cuffs, his throat bobbing up and down above his crushed cravat.

A cry from above stairs, followed by a groan. Their heads craned back to look up.

Franny huffed. "I am needed elsewhere. You are welcome to stay, Lord Tefler. My home is open to all"—she turned toward the door, a dismissal—"who are worthy."

Tefler watched her as she disappeared beyond the doorframe. "I… I…" He exhaled a heavy sigh, his head turning a slow circle as he studied the room. "A fine home you have here, Lord Atlas, quite old."

By old did Tefler mean in poor condition? Because it was. Yet Tefler did not sneer at the chipping paint and worn rugs, the thin curtains and wobbly furniture. His face softened. "A fine, austere place for a potential future baron to grow up. And under the tutelage of a marquess." He whistled. "Excuse my lack of breeding. But it is a coup, you know. I'd never thought you'd have managed it, Clara… pardon me. Lady Atlas. May I see more of the house? Before I leave?"

She'd rather dump him into his coach and set it aflame. But Franny had showed them the way. And wasn't that why she'd married Atlas? To use his family's name and title to her advantage.

Yes.

And no. Even then, there'd been something about the man at her side, something at the very core of him that sang to her. Not merely his ability to protect her. She'd always wanted him, hadn't she? The man hiding behind the big body and ready offers to help, no matter the problem. The man whose clever fingers sent lovely notes flying high into the air, the man who fell in love every day to keep the shadows away.

"You can't seem to keep a civil tongue in your head, Tefler," Atlas growled. "Why would I let you remain in my home longer than?—"

"Atlas." She put a palm on his forearm. It was hard as stone beneath her touch, ready for violence. "Raph needs you, no doubt. And Zander and Fiona. Do they know about Matilda yet? I think they're at the lake. You should find them. I'll show Lord Tefler the public rooms and then join you. You should be with your family."

He grasped her hands. "You're my family. And Alfie."

She squeezed his hands. "I'll return to you shortly."

"Is this something you need to do?"

She nodded.

"I'll be close." His jaw twitched, but he stepped aside and let her leave with Tefler.

She took the baron to the gallery first. Not many paintings remained there, but Franny had lovingly hung them at equal distances from one another, and Clara had helped her repair and paint the walls so the bright square ghosts, the only remnants of paintings sold to pay their debts, no longer told sad stories. Franny had cried a bit at first, but she'd been pleased with her work when they'd finished. A new start, she'd said. It's well done of us.

Tefler paused at the far end of the gallery, staring up at the larger-than-life portrait of the former Lord Waneborough, Atlas's father. "A fine-looking gentleman, like his sons. To be blessed with so many male progeny… Not all are so lucky. Do you know, I did not know what to expect when I came here. What family would allow a journeyman's daughter into their ranks?"

"You did."

"I did not allow it. It merely happened."

"A cursed event over which you had no control."

"Precisely."

"Alfie is half journeyman's daughter. Yet you wish him for your heir?"

Lord Tefler shrugged. "Children can be molded."

The unsaid insinuation—adult women could not be molded, try as the baron might. And damn but he'd tried.

"Children should be who they are." She let her polished voice drop, let the journeyman's daughter show in every syllable and vowel though her natural voice seemed to be something between the two now—between what she'd been born into and what she'd been shaped as.

He whipped around to face her, and only a few long strides brought them face-to-face. "It is good you now find yourself among those who know better than you do. Had I found you anywhere else, I would not have hesitated to take what's mine. Indeed, I was prepared to take Simon with me, no matter this family's lineage. One hears… rumors. I feared to find the worst, a family brought low by constant common associations."

"Like me."

"Like you. But the dowager marchioness, she's the right sort."

Laughter boiled up inside her, but she locked it up tight, only cracking a small smile after he left the gallery. Franny. The right sort. Yes, indeed she was.

She started for the stairs.

"I'll be on my way," he said, bouncing down them, and stopping at the bottom. "Is Alfie in fine health?"

She took the stairs slowly. "Perfect health. Better than ever before."

"And is he continuing his studies? Latin?"

"He is."

"Then I see no reason to speak with him. I will write a letter to the marquess instructing him to include Simon in all matters of the estate, so he can learn what is expected of a landed gentleman. Hmm." He grinned, tried to hide it, but it would slip out. "Indeed, I shall have to communicate quite often with the marquess, to ensure Simon?—"

"Alfie."

"Simon's education is progressing properly." Tefler shivered. "A marquess. What a boon." He practically bounced down the remaining stairs, and Clara followed him into the foyer. He shivered again when his gaze fell on her, this time with more disgust than joy. "I was worried, but… I am now convinced Waneborough and his mother will know the proper place to keep you in. Simon?—"

"Alfie."

"—is in no danger from you."

She flung the front door open wide. "Goodbye, Lord Tefler."

He tipped his hat and bounded outside.

What a horrid man. He'd just lost a grandson, and yet he hardly cared. As long as the second-in-line had a marquess as a mentor.

"Give my condolences to your son and his wife. I cannot imagine losing a child. I hope they find joy soon."

"Yes." Tefler stepped inside the coach but stopped, half hanging out to say, "An heir in the direct line would be preferable." Then he disappeared into the darkness, and the coachman snapped the door shut. A few seconds later, the coach rumbled away, taking the odious man with it.

And Clara's strength drained away, straight into the ground. She reached for the doorframe to keep upright. They'd done it. She'd done it. She'd faced the monster of her nightmares, the demon of her past, and she'd won. Not alone. She'd won with a battalion of Bromleys at her side. Her eyes burned, and she let the tears come, let them soak her cheeks. Alfie was safe. Alfie was here. And though they were not free from that odious man's attentions, they were free from his threats.

"Clara?" Atlas stepped out of the shadows.

She flung herself into his arms, gave herself over to his strength, and let her tears soak his shirt.

His arms, so very gentle, so very strong, wrapped her up tight. His palm, so very big, so very warm, rubbed up and down her spine, coaxing even breaths into her. His voice, deep and familiar and sweet, whispered comfort in her ear.

"He's gone, Clara. He's gone. I'm here." Atlas cupped the back of her head with a trembling hand, pressing her cheek harder against his chest. She shook, too, as his entire body curved round her, offering his heat, his protection, everything he was and would be. "Still crying, love?"

"No." She pushed away only enough to look up into his face, gave a sniffle, tried a smile.

He wiped a tear from her cheek and wove their hands together and led her upstairs without words. She did not realize where until he pushed a door open, and Alfie jumped to his feet. The nursery. And it had never seemed brighter.

Alfie looked toward the window he'd been sitting at. "He left. I saw him leave."

She swept him up in her arms as if he were a small child once more and not a long-legged little boy. She buried her face in his neck and the tears returned.

"Yes, he left," she managed to say. "He left, and we do not have to." She put him down and hit her knees before him. "Do you understand, Alfie? We are home. Truly. This is home."

He grinned. "I know, Mama. I know." His grin tipped up to Atlas standing behind her.

"Let's celebrate," Atlas said. "Nurse Daisy, can you ask cook for some… apples and honey?"

"Yes!" Alfie cried.

The nursemaid curtsied and left, and Atlas threw open the window.

"There, fresh air. Lovely. Alfie?" He sat in the window seat and patted the spot beside him. "Tea and cup, please."

Alfie sat beside his stepfather, kicking his legs, face scrunched up. "Tea and cup. Give me a minute, I'll think of something. Maybe… There once was some stinky tea, and it made me have to?—"

"Ah, ah, Alfie. There's a lady present." Atlas ruffled Alfie's hair then looked to Clara. She knelt still, but slowly found the strength to stand. Joy had made her weak. He held a hand out to her, and she went to him as easily as breathing, twining her fingers with his as her skirts brushed against his knees while she stepped between his legs and sat on his uninjured thigh.

As Alfie tried to find a word to rhyme with cup—pup, sup, hopefully not tup—Atlas curled around her, offering his heat, his protection.

The threat no longer remained. Lord Tefler had left defeated, and while that made her heart sing with victory bright and pure, it left her hollow, too.

The threat no longer remained. And Atlas was free to leave.