Chapter Twenty-Six

B yron somehow walked back to his carriage, his head held high. He would not cause a scene in front of His Grace’s townhouse. He had gone cold inside, moving as if he were underwater. He climbed the steps to the carriage and fell against the cushions, dropping his head into his hands as the door closed. His coachman pulled away, and he glanced out the window, watching the townhouse pass by.

He remained stupefied by Powell’s words.

No wedding.

No entrance.

What had changed in the space of less than half a day? Only last night, he had been with Mirella, his shining light. Everything had been fine between them. Yet something vile and horrible had occurred. Something had been said to her, something that blackened his name so severely that she no longer wanted to see him, much less become his wife.

Could it be Jacinda Bowles behind this sudden change? Or her brother?

He doubted it. Rumor had it that Viscount Percival was on the verge of offering for Miss Bowles. Byron could not see Jacinda wanting to ruin that. And Lord Hampton would be glad to have his obstinate sister taken off his hands.

Then who?

His carriage arrived at his townhouse, and he hurried from it, retreating to his study and locking the door behind him. He could not bear to see anyone at the moment. He needed time alone to understand what had just happened. How to solve it. There had to be a way.

Because without Mirella, Byron would lose his own way.

Forever.

A knock sounded at the door. Byron ignored it. A few moments later, the knock came again.

“My lord, you have received a letter from Lady Mirella. The messenger said it was urgent.”

Quickly, he sprang to his feet and raced across the room, flinging open the door. He snatched the note from the silver tray it rested upon.

“Tell the messenger to wait,” he ordered. “I may wish to send my reply.”

Paulson looked apologetic. “The messenger said none was expected. He is gone, my lord. Of course, if you have need, I can send a footman with your reply to Lady Mirella.”

Disappointment filled him. Without a word, Byron turned and closed the door. He returned to his desk and sat, placing the letter atop it. Staring at it. Willing it to carry inside an apology. To say what he had heard from Powell had been a mistake.

His gut told him otherwise.

So, he sat and closed his eyes. If he didn’t see it, it did not exist. Because he knew when he opened it, the words would gut him.

Cursing, he opened his eyes. By God, he had confronted French bastards left and right, running his sword through them as he led charges on the battlefield. He should not be so bloody terrified of a note from a woman.

With trembling fingers, he reached for it. Opened it. Read it.

And wept . . .

Hurt sliced through him. Then anger. How dare Mirella think he did not possess honor and decency? Then doubt crept in.

What if he didn’t have honor or decency? What if his life had been a lie?

Byron had always tried to do the right thing his entire life, whether anyone knew of it or not. He recalled listening to a sermon at church when he was no more than seven or eight years old. The clergyman who delivered it said that Christ told his disciples not to perform righteous deeds so that others saw you do them. That you were not to bring attention to your good deeds in order to win the praise of your fellow man. He stressed you must keep your good deeds a secret—and God Almighty would be witness to your actions and repay you a thousandfold.

He had taken that message to heart, never drawing attention to what he did, knowing others benefitted from the good he brought into the world. That, in itself, was reward enough to him.

For the life of him, Byron could not understand why Mirella had turned on him so. What had poisoned her against him? Someone had sabotaged him so convincingly that the woman who loved him wanted nothing more to do with him.

Another knock came at the door. He was in no mood to see anyone, be it relative or servant.

“Go away!” he shouted, knowing that would suffice.

It didn’t.

The knock sounded again.

He would have the head of whoever stood on the other side of that door. Every bit of wrath boiling inside him would be taken out on whoever disturbed him.

Marching toward the door, he flung it open and saw one of his footmen standing there. He had always liked Bryson, who was an affable fellow and polite as they came. The servant always went the extra mile to see to his duty and Byron’s comfort. Suddenly, the rage emptied, and he felt limp, almost as if he might pass out.

“My lord, I must speak with you,” Bryson said, urgency in his voice.

He recalled how the footman had asked to do so earlier today, but he was so weary.

“No, Bryson. I cannot. I am spent. Perhaps tomorrow.”

He began to close the door, but the footman boldly placed his foot so that the task could not be completed.

“My lord,” Bryson said. “You may dismiss me if you wish—but you will hear me out.”

Byron was so taken aback, he stumbled backward. Quickly, his footman rushed forward, taking him by the arm, leading him to a chair. He feared he might burst into tears again.

Bryson returned and closed the door before coming to stand before his employer.

“I will give you this—you are persistent,” he said, trying to gain control of his emotions and the situation.

“Lady Mirella saw you. With Mrs. Smithson and the girl.”

Confusion filled him, swirling, keeping him from forming a coherent thought. All he managed to get out was a very weak, “What?”

Kneeling next to him, Bryson forced Byron to look at him. “When we went to see Mrs. Smithson today. Lady Mirella was there. I can’t explain why or how, but she was driving a cart. She saw you with the child. And the mother.” The footman paused. “I am afraid she leaped to the wrong conclusion, my lord. That you were the girl’s father—and that Mrs. Smithson was your mistress.”

His jaw dropped. Bryson had been in the household when Dawson had been the marquess. He might be among the handful of servants who knew of the relationship between Byron’s brother and Verity. He had never spoken of Verity and Amity to his family, much less his servants. He merely gave the address in St. John’s Wood to his coachman and was taken there. Yet this servant had referred to Verity by the name she had assumed.

“Were you entrusted with setting Mrs. Smithson up in her household?”

Bryson nodded. “I helped to move her to where she now resides, my lord. Keller and I were the ones to do so. His lordship confided quite a bit in Keller. The two of us helped find the house where Mrs. Smithson now resides. It was Keller and I who picked her up at her father’s house and took her and her things there.”

“I see.”

Byron’s thoughts continued to swirl, but he began to make sense of them. He replayed the scene in his mind today. Amity racing toward him, enthusiastically kissing him. His fond greeting to Verity. Placing his niece on his shoulders and strolling with Verity. If Bryson was right and Mirella had seen that, no wonder she was so angry and had broken their betrothal. It disappointed him that she had not spoken to him in person. Then again, if he were despicable enough to tell her how much he loved her while secretly keeping the knowledge of a mistress and child from her, it did not surprise him.

Mirella was no shrinking violet. She believed him to be disingenuous. If he lied about a mistress and bastard, she would think he lied about everything.

Including loving her .

Raking his hands through his hair, he told Bryson, “I am sorry I did not listen to you sooner. You tried to tell me. Warn me. I refused to listen.”

“I understand, my lord. But you did listen now. That is what is important. Should I have the carriage readied so you might go to Lady Mirella?”

“No, I will walk. It will be quicker.” He rose, offering the footman his hand. “Thank you, Bryson. I hope knowing what you just shared will save me.”

The footman grinned cheekily. “Good luck to you, my lord.”

Byron looked grimly at the servant. “Thank you. I will need it.”

*

Mirella appeared at tea, composed and in control of her emotions. She would not weep. She would merely state facts.

Everyone was already present when she arrived. Mama smiled at her fondly, causing the first crack in her exterior. The captain indicated for her to take a seat next to him. Sophie was in the midst of pouring out and handed her a saucer as Mirella took her place.

She took a sip of the hot tea, firming her resolve.

Setting it down, she said, “I must speak to you about a grave matter. It involves Lord Bridgewater.”

“I thought the marquess would be joining us for tea,” Aunt Matty said. “Unless James has scared him off.”

James laughed. “He is too much in love with our Mirella to ever let that occur.”

That burst her dam. The floodgates open, Mirella’s tears began streaming down her cheeks.

“What is it, my dearest?” Mama asked, the concern in her voice driving yet another knife into Mirella’s heart.

“He has a child!” she cried. “And a mistress.”

Silence filled the drawing room. No one moved. No one said a word. She stood, all eyes on her, hurt and rage filling her.

The captain shot to his feet. “I will see him strung up,” he said, his tone deadly.

“No, you will not,” she scolded. “Sit.”

He eyed her a moment, and Mirella saw new respect for her in his eyes. He took his seat.

With everyone staring at her now, eyes filled with shock and disbelief, she said, “I learned of this little family today. I saw them together with my own eyes. I wrote to him, calling off our engagement. I also asked Powell to make certain that the marquess is not to be admitted into the house.”

James balled his fists. “I am with Drake. We will find this worthless piece and give him the lesson he deserves.”

“No one will be beating anyone,” she said crisply. “I have asked him not to speak to any of us. We will ignore him. This is all I wish to say about the matter.” Mirella paused, swallowing. “I beg you not to approach me or ask to discuss it further.”

Mama reached and took Mirella’s hand. “I know you are hurting.”

She withdrew her hand. “I am. But your sympathy will only leave my wounds open. If I am to heal, I must do it my way, Mama. Please understand that I am not shutting you out to be cruel.”

“It is your way of surviving,” Aunt Matty said.

“Yes.” She stood, resolute. “I will attend tonight’s event. I will not be a coward.”

“Is that wise?” Sophie asked. “I am not trying to question you, but you are quite fragile now, Mirella. We all can see that. No one would think the worse of you if you skipped an event or two.”

“I cannot let him think he has won. And he will if he keeps me from the Season. I will need all of your support like never before, but I am determined to attend tonight’s affair.”

“If that is what you want, that is what we will do,” the captain said.

Suddenly, the doors flew open—and a disheveled Lord Bridgewater came racing through them. He slammed the doors behind him, throwing the lock. Immediately, pounding occurred and shouts sounded from the other side of the door.

Turning, he said, “I do not know how long the doors will hold because your servants are determined to keep me out, Your Graces. But I must speak to Lady Mirella.”

Both James and the captain came to their feet as Lord Bridgewater hurried across the room. Mirella’s worst nightmare was now being played out.

“I will tear you limb from limb,” the captain threatened, balling his fists.

She leaped to her feet and raced to stand between her relatives and the marquess.

“No one is to touch him,” she declared.

Then Mirella turned and slammed her fist into her former fiancé’s nose. Blood shot from it, spilling onto his snow-white cravat. Her fist ached something awful, but she looked stoically at him.

“If you still have something to share with me, my lord, feel free to do so. I have nothing to hide from my family. I promise I will keep my hounds at bay. Say your piece—and leave.”

He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and held it under his nose. “You pack quite a punch, my lady. I hope after you hear what I have to say that I am never on the receiving end of it again.”

“Enough!” James roared. “You are not welcome here, Bridgewater. Leave.”

The marquess tossed his handkerchief to the ground. “I will not, Your Grace. Not until Mirella learns the truth.”

He turned to her. “You think you saw me with my mistress and child. Who you really saw was my niece. My brother’s bastard child—and the woman he ruined.”

Mirella fainted.