Chapter Twenty

Oscar was still bothered the following morning.

He was ruthless when it came to gambling. So why hadn't he just taken what he wanted? Or let his mouth naturally drift to

hers? He knew that she had wanted the kiss, too.

But that wasn't the game they played.

What might have begun with Honoria and him pitted against each other, both holding secrets over the other's head, now felt

more like a partnership.

The secrets they kept from everyone else had somehow forged a bond between the two of them. He wasn't sure how he felt about

that.

Unsettled, he supposed.

So then, why was he wondering what Honoria would think if she knew the whole truth about him, even the things he hadn't shared

with anyone, not even Cardew?

Hoping that a morning ride would bring him clarity, he set out on the bridle path, then spurred Hermes onward toward the ridge,

where the rising sun turned dew-dappled grass into jewels and the air was sweet as clover nectar on the tongue. A man could

get used to this.

Yet, as he gazed out over the expanse of tree, rolling hill and jutting rock, he thought of the real Vandemere and wondered

if he would have to plot and scheme for Honoria's kisses.

No, he thought. Vandemere would be worthy of them. He wouldn't have done the desperate things that Oscar had done to survive.

Beneath him, Hermes shifted and expelled a hard breath through his nostrils as if weary of the burden he carried. Oscar could

relate.

Still thinking about Vandemere, he rode toward the fenced graveyard on the hill. Oscar left his horse to munch on tall grasses,

then stepped through the squawk and judder of the old iron gate.

Headstones the dull color of tarnished silver stood like thrones in a row of descending years, father to sons. A rage-induced

heart seizure had claimed the patriarch in 1800—incidentally the same year that his youngest son eloped with an actress. Opium

claimed Sylvester in 1804. A mysterious accident, while ensconced in his hunting cabin with his mistress, claimed Hugh in

1815. Passion claimed Frederick in 1815. And apparently, debtors were the death of Titus in 1807.

That year was another thing he had in common with Vandemere. Whereas the real viscount had lost his father to death, Oscar's

had simply walked out the door.

He remembered his mother sinking to the floor after they'd sold the last of their possessions to pay rent for one more week.

She had looked so lost and afraid. And even though Oscar had been only five years old, he'd sensed that her tale of sending

their draperies and bedclothes to the laundress wasn't the truth. It was something one did when left with no other choice.

"Papa isn't coming home, is he?"

Mother had forced her mouth into a smile and blinked to pretend there weren't tears shimmering in her eyes. Then she'd pulled

him down onto her lap. "Of course he is. He will come back for you. Always. You are his son and the most precious creature

on earth to him."

"And you are precious to him, too," he'd said with certainty, his years of knowledge on the subject of mothers and fathers seemingly infallible. But this had made those tears spill down her cheeks, and so he'd wrapped his arms around her neck to console her.

Lost in grief, she'd mumbled something he would never forget. "He will always love her. Always see her in his dreams. But

he was my dream. So I loved him enough for us both."

He knew she didn't intend for him to pay attention to her garbled sobs. Yet, as he'd grown older, he'd often wondered if his

father had taken a mistress and run off with her. But he'd never asked.

She'd had her own worries. Her days of singing opera had ended when she'd developed a cough that had left her voice shredded.

She'd done her best to find work as a dressmaker, but too many years of stitching by candlelight had strained her eyes.

That had left her only one option.

Even though Oscar hadn't known at the time why she would come home with her dress torn and sometimes with a bruised cheek

or red marks on her neck, he'd known it had something to do with the hollow look in her eyes and her sudden ability to purchase

a few scraps of food.

That was the reason he'd started begging on the streets and in dark alleys. It hadn't taken him long to understand what vile

acts his mother had had to perform.

For a few coins, she'd had to sell her soul.

And that was when, already jaded at the age of seven, Oscar had started hating his father.

"He isn't there, you know."

Startled, Oscar turned to find Cleo standing beside a leaning obelisk shrouded in ivy, her frock and bonnet the same dusty

green as the foliage.

"That's merely a marker," she said, gesturing to the headstone for Titus. "His actual grave is somewhere in France or Naples

or wherever he was killed. But you would know that already, I'm sure."

She didn't bother to conceal the blatant suspicion in her arched look, her arms folding beneath her breasts.

In no mood to rise to the bait and weary from the constant battle, he expelled a resigned breath. "I'm not your enemy, cousin."

"I'm certain that's what the man in King Henry IV's court tried to say when he demanded this property, then imprisoned, starved

and kidnapped my ancestor. But some men believe they are entitled to whatever they want and use whatever means they can to

get it."

"You think I'm trying to take away your home, but that is the furthest thing from my mind," he said. "I know what it's like

to have your roots ripped out from beneath your feet. To have your history vanish in the blink of an eye. Believe me, I would

not wish that on anyone."

Much to his surprise, she didn't immediately dismiss his comment and march off. Instead, she scrutinized him shrewdly, lips

pursed. "There might be some truth in your declaration. But that still doesn't mean you're entitled to be here."

And then she turned on her heel and marched off.

Not surprisingly, young Mr. Shellhorn had been waiting nearby and walked behind her.

The eighteen-year-old was forever slathering at her heels, seemingly with no direction in his life. Though it was no wonder

with his father content to linger on the estate without any occupation other than to nod his head in agreement at whatever

Alfreda said.

From what Oscar had gleaned from Timms, none of the widows even dared to take a holiday or travel away from the abbey. It

was a commonly held belief among the servants that they were all waiting for the moment the dowager kicked off so they could

grab whatever they could.

All Oscar knew was that if the real Vandemere ever intended to come home, he'd better make haste before there was nothing

left for him.

***

At the stables, Oscar left his horse in Mr. Raglan's care. The young man had truly turned around in the past week and come

up to scratch. His appearance was tidy, the carriages impeccable. With Oscar's permission, he'd even taken a younger groom

under his wing.

The older coachman and stable master were still trying to make up their minds about him. But they had started to greet him

with deference, especially when he'd showed interest in their discussion of fodder crops. And he was interested. After all,

what did a gambler do when not gambling but consider other ways to make a fortune?

Not that anything would come of it. He would be gone soon enough. But he enjoyed the prospect of making improvements to the

abbey. Better yet, he knew that any mark he left behind, no matter how small, would vex the widows greatly. And that made

all the difference.

In the grand scheme of things, a few painted walls and an unvarnished railing weren't much, but the changes might give some

life back to this grand old giantess.

With the intention of having another crack at getting Mr. Price to speak of the discrepancies he'd found, Oscar walked with

a clipped stride to the front of the house.

Just as he rounded the corner, he heard a rider approach. His surprise instantly turned to wariness as he imagined it was

a messenger from Rowan Warring, who'd said that he would send a missive only if there was cause to worry about Ladrón's whereabouts.

But it wasn't a messenger. It was Baron Hartley.

He should have felt relief in that. However, according to the tutelage given to him by Warring on life in the upper classes,

he knew that social calls were not made before ten o'clock. So at once he thought of Honoria and worried that something had

happened to her.

"Good morrow, lad. I see that we are both early risers." Hartley pulled back on the reins and frowned. "Your face is pale as stone. Whatever's the matter?"

Oscar took hold of the bridle. "Honoria... is she well?"

"Ah. Now I see. Rest assured, my daughter is perfectly hale. If she weren't, I'd hardly be leaving her side to pay a call,

would I?" He chuckled and swung his leg over to dismount. Then, with a good-natured grin, he clapped a hand on Oscar's shoulder.

"Allow me to offer you a bit of marital advice, which is to know your audience. Being sharp-eyed will save you from many an

argument in the future."

Oscar felt like a nitwit. Until now, no one had ever accused him of being less than observant. But in the case of Honoria,

he was forced to acknowledge that his thoughts frequently became muddled. And that irritated him as he handed the reins off

to the groom.

"Think of it like gambling," Hartley continued companionably as they strolled into the abbey. "You do play, don't you?"

"On occasion."

"Well, you'd hardly wager your fortune against an opponent who is grinning from ear to ear. Then again, proficient gamblers

are usually cleverer than we care to find. Much like women. They may be the fairer sex, but they're wily, too. Will have your

heart tucked away in a jar before you've realized you've lost it."

Oscar wasn't worried about that happening. Only a man who had a heart to begin with need worry about it being stolen.

"Sound advice," he said, trying not to read his current opponent, and wondering just how much Hartley knew about him.

Pausing in the foyer, they handed off their hats and gloves to Algernon. "And to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"Perhaps we might go into your study for a more private discussion."

When Hartley's expression turned serious, the tension of uncertainty clamped a fist around Oscar's nape.

Without revealing so much as a facial tic, he turned to Algernon and requested a tea tray for his guest.

"Very good, my lord," he said with a bow.

Entering the study, Hartley crossed directly to the slender casement windows, a view of the verdant countryside through the

mullioned panes. "Fair prospect."

"It is, indeed," Oscar said with an unfounded measure of pride.

Reminding himself that none of this was his, he felt an unexpected twinge of longing, a pinch he hadn't felt since he was

a boy and tired of moving from place to place, craving the feeling of belonging somewhere. He'd become so numb to it over

the years that the sensation took him off guard.

Sensing Hartley's attention on him, he shoved the thought aside and closed the door.

"As fond of loquacity as I am, there are times when a man needs to be direct," Hartley began ominously. "With that said, have

you looked over the betrothal contract?"

Wary, Oscar shook his head. "To be honest, it has been something of a challenge to locate most of the papers within the abbey."

"I'd thought as much." He glanced over the shoulder of his green riding coat. "Servants tend to gossip."

"I'm sure you've discovered a great deal, then."

"Enough."

Oscar's nerves were taut as piano wire. Bloody hell. Even his palms were starting to sweat. Couldn't the man just state his

reason for coming here and end this interminable wait?

"You came to discuss the betrothal?"

"In part," Hartley said, refusing to give an inch. "It was my mother's doing. The contract, I mean. My mother and your grandmother

had a romantic notion when they drew it up."

Romantic? Oscar thought it was archaic. In fact, as of this moment, he considered it a medieval torture device, as excruciating as the iron maiden.

"I, myself, thought it rather Shakesperean," Hartley continued. "The most we could hope for was a comedy of errors. Though,

like my mother, Roxana had thought it was romantic as well, not to mention essential. Therefore, I agreed."

"Essential?"

"Well, as you know, your grandfather didn't approve of your father's marriage," Hartley said. "He then proceeded to destroy

every trace of his youngest son, cutting him off completely. In fact, he even made certain that if anyone in the family ever

assisted Titus, they would be cut off as well. And he wasn't allowed to return to the abbey under any circumstances."

"Tenderhearted soul, my grandfather."

Hartley nodded, thoughtful. "He had a particular plan for each of his sons and didn't want any of them to be without direction.

As you might imagine, he did not approve of my friendship with your father either. He believed my parents should have tightened

the reins." He waved a hand dismissively in the air. "Be that as it may, he did everything he could to ensure that your father

would regret disobeying him. Then his heart failed him. Shortly following his death, your grandmother tried to locate Titus,

but to no avail. Then, four years after that, her eldest son died. She became utterly despondent."

Oscar's gaze lifted in the direction of the dowager's sitting room. He'd been unaware of all the details but felt sorry for

the woman upstairs who'd endured so much pain in her life. And he didn't want to be the cause of any more.

"Naturally, my mother was concerned for her friend and tried to console her," Hartley continued as Oscar swallowed down a

lump of guilt. "Then, during one of her visits, a letter arrived. It was from your mother with news of your birth. I believe

it was in the hope-filled days that followed that the kernel of a notion was first planted."

"The betrothal contract," Oscar concluded.

"Aye."

"Even so, to force your own daughter to marry a stranger seems like relying on false hope. After all, Vandemere could very

well be—" Catching himself, he stopped, then clarified. "I might have turned out to be a disreputable scoundrel."

The baron's mouth twitched. "I knew you wouldn't be. After all, your mother, rest her soul, was as fine as could be."

Oscar nodded distractedly, thinking of his own mother. She hadn't always approved of what he did at the gaming tables, but

she also knew that they had to live. Even so, she'd often said that she'd wanted more for him and that he would have the life

he deserved once he found his father. What would she think about him masquerading as Vandemere?

But he knew the answer.

"Besides," Hartley continued, "there's nothing in the betrothal contract forcing my daughter's hand. Or yours, for that matter. It clearly states that death or elopement renders the contract null and void.

So if Honoria ever fell in love and chose to elope, there would be nothing any of us could do."

Oscar had a sense that Hartley wouldn't have minded at all if Honoria had simply flitted off to Gretna Green with one of her

many admirers. "You're a romantic, too."

"As the Bard once wrote, ‘Love looks not with the eye, but with the mind—'"

"‘And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind,'" Oscar finished.

Hartley chuckled. "Aye. 'Tis true, as well, lad. Though, no man gazing upon Honoria has ever lamented that he was stricken

by an arrow against his will."

Oscar frowned, his thoughts returning to their picnic. If he'd just kept his smug mouth shut, she would have kissed him and he could have crowed about her surrender after. Instead, he was left only with an infernal craving that had not been satisfied. "Perhaps. But isn't an overabundance of beauty a fault in and of itself? After all, what man wants to contend with a sea of admirers wherever his woman goes? And she is far too sharp-witted and sharp-tongued for any man to gain the upper hand."

"And stubborn, too."

"As stubborn and cross as a pair of mules with their tails tied together." Then, remembering who he was talking to, Oscar

cleared his throat. "If you'll pardon me for saying so."

"No need to apologize. I felt the same about Roxana."

"And what did you do about it?"

"I made her fall in love with me. It was either that or threaten to murder every man who gazed at her adoringly."

Oscar felt the full force of the older man's piercing blue eyes and shifted uncomfortably. "For the record, I did not threaten

to murder the Culpeppers. Not exactly."

"They're good lads, but you needn't worry about them stealing Honoria's affections," he said. "And you may have done them

a service by encouraging them—shall we say—to court other young women. Regardless, that's water under the bridge. It's time to discuss the dowry."

As he spoke, he crossed toward the desk, reached into the inner pocket of his coat, withdrew a sheaf of papers and handed

it to Oscar. "Perhaps this will help to smooth your path into the bosom of your family."

"Your daughter told me that she had no dow—" He broke off at the figure written in a tidy scrawl. "That's quite a sum."

"It is, indeed," Hartley said. "Though, mind you, ￡5,000 is not a great fortune. However, I do believe the sum would provide—"

A crash sounded in the hall, just outside the study door.

Crossing the room, Oscar opened the door to find Millicent, who'd apparently collided with the servant carrying the tea tray.

"Beggin' your pardon, my lady," the maid said, dropping to her knees to pick up the shards of the broken porcelain while frantically trying to mop up the spilled tea with her apron. "That was ever so clumsy of me. I didn't see you there at the door, all crouched over and such."

"Crouched over, indeed. I don't know what you are insinuating, but I'll speak to the housekeeper about your impertinence."

Oscar noticed twin patches of color rising to dear, sweet Aunt Millie's cheeks. And when she was flustered, her Scottish brogue

peppered her speech generously.

He sent the maid to the kitchen for a mop. In her stead, even though he knew it wasn't done by the lord of the manor, he bent

down, picked up the remaining broken pieces and stacked them on the tray.

Standing, he looked archly at his aunt. If he were to hazard a guess, someone had been peering through the keyhole. "Popping

in for a visit with your favorite nephew, were you? Though, you might wish to try rapping on the door next time."

"I was informed that we had a guest," she said, attempting to sound overjoyed as if the widows regularly welcomed visitors

to their doors. And he wasn't sure if that was supposed to be a polite grin on her lips or if she was about to be ill. "And

since Baron Hartley will soon be family, I thought it only polite to greet him."

"How kind of you, my lady." Hartley offered a genial bow, but there was a twinkle in his eye that suggested he knew precisely

what she'd been up to.

Oscar wondered if Millicent had heard the amount of the dowry. Likely so. It made him smile to himself thinking that, if he

were the real Vandemere, she'd be kicking herself for continuing to deny his claim.

"So very kind of you, Aunt Millie."

When her eyes slitted on him, he flashed a grin and watched her storm off in a flurry. It was like watching a willow tree

caught up in an angry tempest.

"I ken what you mean about the frosty welcome. That one could freeze the Thames at a glance," Hartley said with a wry chuckle as he chafed his hands over his biceps. Then he sobered. "But I've no doubt, they'll warm to you. Give them a bit more time."

Time was not a luxury he had, especially not with Ladrón in London. After all, the man wouldn't search there forever.

"I suppose I should count myself fortunate that they haven't tried to murder me." At least, other than trying to starve him

to death and young Shellhorn supposedly misfiring his firearm, he thought to himself.

The baron chuckled with grim amusement. "Not yet, lad. But better sleep with one eye open, just in case."

It was meant as a jest, but little did Oscar know that a few minutes later it would prove to be prophetic.

"Well, I'd best be off," Hartley said with a heavy sigh after they'd had their tea, with a generous splash of whiskey. "'Tis

the ladies' day for callers. Doubtless, there'll be gentlemen by the dozen crowding into our parlor."

The news pulled furrows along Oscar's brow. "Surely not for Honoria."

"Oh, aye. She'll have her share, indeed. And then some." Hartley clapped him on the shoulder again. "At least until she's

wed, good and proper."

They headed to the door, but Oscar's mood darkened, his thoughts plagued by the audacity of other men.

She was his... as far as they knew.

"Perhaps I'll ride over with you," he said as Hartley mounted his horse. Ordering Hermes saddled, he turned and stepped back

inside for his hat and gloves...

Just in time for the chandelier overhead to come crashing down.