Chapter Twenty-Four

Oscar had not been raised in the shadow of a church. His mother had stopped attending, had stopped toting him along each Sunday

with his face scrubbed clean, after the church had turned them away when his father had left and they had nowhere else to

go.

He remembered little of that day other than overhearing one of the veiled women on the stone steps outside the chapel doors,

sneering about an unholy union just before she'd spat at his mother's feet.

But he remembered walking. Walking endlessly, the soles of his shoes already worn thin and soaked with gutterwash, before

finding an alcove to huddle in his mother's arms for the night, sitting atop all their belongings tied up in a shawl.

No, he'd never been one for churches or prayers or even wishes that would cost a copper penny when dropped in a well. He could

never afford wishes.

And yet, as he watched Lawson and Honoria ride away, he would have made a wish or even fallen to his knees in prayer—if he'd

known how—just to go back to who he'd been inside the tumbledown walls within the castle ruins when Honoria was in his arms.

Back in time to those blissful moments before he'd remembered that he was a man with no roots, no family and no future...

until he knew he was beyond Ladrón's reach.

All he had was a questionable surname, a book of poetry with mysterious origins and three women who wanted him dead. Because, according to what Lawson had said when he'd pulled him aside a short while ago, there was a chance that rope holding the chandelier hadn't frayed. It might have been cut.

Peculiarly, Oscar's first reaction to the news had been amusement. The widows were a crafty bunch, to be sure. And any man

who'd made the choices he'd done in order to survive had to admire their determination.

In fact, he actually respected them all the more for the effort. If they weren't careful, he might even start to like them.

So when he turned around and saw the three of them at the upper-gallery railing in their widow's weeds, he tossed them a grin

and touched two fingers to his forehead in a salute. "It's a glorious day, isn't it, aunties? Makes a man glad to be alive."

Alfreda and Millicent scowled down at him. Babette, however, laughed and waggled her finger at him before they all turned

their backs and skulked off to their coven.

"Well, Algernon, I think I'm beginning to win them over."

The old butler decided it was better to feign deafness in that moment, but his mouth twitched.

Oscar crossed the entry hall in search of Cardew. Since he wasn't in any of the rooms marked for painting, or removing the

hideous lacquer from the railing, Oscar went belowstairs. Yet, after checking the servants' hall, scullery, cleaning room

and laundry—believing he might have required holland covers or turpentine—the task still came up empty-handed.

Growing tired of mysteries to solve, he mounted the stairs again and tried the portrait gallery. No Cardew. But he did find

the dowager countess.

Her nurse was pushing her in a wheeled wicker bath chair, and when Vandemere's grandmother saw him enter the long, sunlit

hall, her eyes brightened, and she smiled in instant recognition.

He couldn't quite explain why that made his heart feel like it was in the basket of a Montgolfier balloon. Perhaps it was just that her greeting was a welcome change from what he usually received beneath this roof. Whatever it was, it made him smile in return.

"You are as pretty as a picture this afternoon, Grandmama," he said, bowing over her hand in greeting.

She sniffed in amusement and looked askance at him. Her reply took effort, the sound a slow susurration like the first hiss

of steam from a kettle. "Sssss-stuff."

"I'm deeply offended, madam. You look quite fetching in that periwinkle frock. In fact, I daresay there isn't a portrait among

these that can compare."

She managed an arched silver brow before she turned to her nurse. A silent communication commenced whereby the nurse nodded

and then proceeded to wheel the chair to a portrait on the far wall above the black marble fireplace.

Framed in mahogany was a lovely young woman in white with a pile of Titian hair spilling out from beneath a broad-brimmed

feathered hat. She had a fair complexion and a daring grin that lifted one corner of her mouth.

Feeling her gaze on him, he glanced down to find that same grin, and her chin lifted proudly. "What a saucy little minx! I'd

wager you had gentlemen eating out of your hand."

She didn't deny it. Just offered a slow, self-satisfied breath.

He laughed and, unable to help himself, leaned down and pressed a kiss to her vellum cheek.

She blushed a soft watercolor pink and waved her hand in a shooing motion. But he knew she didn't want him to leave when she

reached up and grasped his hand. So they stayed that way, staring at her portrait as if it were a window in time, and all

they had to do to capture the moment was to lift the sash and let it breeze in.

"'Ere," she said in her occasional cockney accent.

"I'm here." He gave her hand a delicate but reassuring squeeze.

She smiled like someone who had a secret. "R-ring."

It was only then that he followed her gaze to the portrait and noticed the gold cannetille earrings that dropped down from

a star of black onyx.

Oscar felt his heart miss a beat. He glanced down at the star of black onyx on his ring. Then he looked at the portrait again.

His heart picked up the missing beat and added forty more, his pulse racing on the side of his throat. Surely, it couldn't be...

He didn't finish the thought. He couldn't allow himself to.

Drawing in a deep breath, he let logic take over as he turned back to her. "The shape. You're noticing that the shape is similar,

aren't you?"

Her smile faltered as she worked on speaking again. "My... ear... r-ring." And then, after a small hesitation, she said,

"Give... son."

Guilt churned in his gut as he realized that he was confusing her. This woman had already lost so much: her husband, her children

and her health. She didn't deserve this or the heartache that was destined to befall her.

Suddenly, the cost of playing Vandemere seemed far greater than when he'd first thought up the scheme.

Or perhaps he'd known all along, and consequences hadn't mattered to the jaded, ruthless man he'd always been. He'd always

done what he'd had to do in order to survive. Always kept people at arm's length.

But this wasn't just about him and Cardew. Not any longer.

As he covered her frail hand with his own and looked into her shining, hope-filled eyes, he knew he had to do right by her.

Even if that meant finding the real Vandemere.

"Fear not, my lady. You will have the grandson you deserve."

***

It wasn't until midafternoon that Oscar finally found Cardew. He was walking down the corridor from the direction of the servants'

quarters in the garret... and he wasn't alone.

Beside him, Babette looked flushed and tousled as she trailed an index finger down the buttons of Cardew's gray waistcoat.

She pressed a kiss to the air between them just before she turned and left him standing there with a satisfied grin.

Passing Oscar, she trilled her fingers in greeting and winked. "Good afternoon, nephew."

"Auntie," he said with a nod and heard her giggle as she sauntered away, hips swaying boldly in fitted black silk, the rustle

of a red crinoline peeping out from beneath the hem.

Cardew watched her sashay down the hall, clutching his heart as he grinned with appreciation. "That woman could bring a man

back from the dead."

"Except for poor Uncle Freddie."

"Ah, yes. She told me about her first husband and that they were in the midst of faire l'amour when he shuffled off this mortal coil and, sadly, left her unfulfilled." He clucked his tongue, then slid a glance to Oscar.

"Don't give me that disapproving glower, cub. I was merely performing my duty as a gentleman's gentleman by consoling a woman

who hadn't been properly pleasured in over a decade."

"Did you have to choose a woman beneath this roof? For all intents and purposes, I am the head of the household, and they

are under my protection."

A pair of wizened white brows lifted. "My, aren't we taking the role of nobleman to heart. Shall I polish your gleaming silver

armor? Saddle your white steed?"

Oscar knew very well that he was about as far from a knight-errant as any man could be. And it was no secret that the women—with the exception of the dowager—held little affection for him. However, that didn't mean he wanted Babette to become another in a long line of Cardew's conquests, ones who were quickly cast off and replaced with the next.

But he didn't want to argue either. So instead he walked to the nearest doorway and peered inside. By the looks of the moth-eaten

curtains, dusty little table and pair of small beds with moons and stars carved into the headboards, it was the nursery.

He gestured for Cardew to follow and closed the door behind them.

Without preamble and wanting to get to the bottom of the Awildian Palace mystery, he asked, "Did my father know Vandemere?"

"And what's put that question into your noggin?"

"You said you were his friend. So do you know if he knew Vandemere?"

Cardew turned to a cobweb-strewn shelf and set a tiny rocking horse into motion. "The truth is I didn't know your father for

very long."

"But you've always said he saved your life."

"Aye, and in turn, I vowed to look after his son before he"—he gestured with a dismissive wave, the breeze bending a corner

web like a sail—"went away. Aside from that, I knew little about him."

"Damn," Oscar said. He was afraid of that.

To be honest, he'd suspected as much over the years. Cardew was a man who knew how to spin a good yarn, but when it came to

his friendship with John Flintridge he'd never had much to say. Then again, Oscar had spent so many years hating his father

that he hadn't cared to ask about the past. The only thing he was interested in was the present whereabouts of the bastard

who'd left his wife and child behind.

So this didn't surprise him. Not really. Where his father was concerned there were always questions. Never answers.

But what else could he do? Give up? Ignore the promise he'd made to his mother?

The answer was simple. No.

"What has you thinking about this?" Cardew asked with careful scrutiny. When Oscar explained about the book of poetry and

the castle ruins on the estate, Cardew shook his head in dismissal. "I don't see why it should spark your interest. It isn't

as though you're going to continue this charade."

"It matters because Awildian Palace was a name that Titus Fairfax invented. The inspiration for every line in the book can

be seen from that very spot. What I want to know is how my father came into possession of this," he said, withdrawing the

tome from the inner pocket of his coat.

"I cannot answer that. But when we find him, we honor the promise you made to your mother."

Oscar expelled a deep breath but nodded. There was nothing for him to do but wait for news on his whereabouts. Having a friend

who'd once served king and country in the military meant that Warring had many connections.

And, unbeknownst to Cardew, he'd asked Warring to look into the matter as well.

As for the promise he'd just made to the dowager viscountess, he decided to go down to his study and pen another letter to

Rowan and see what his friend could unearth on the real Vandemere.

Tucking the book away, he felt the ring catch on a thread. He paused at the threshold, considering. "You always told me that

you won this over a game of cards."

"Aye. That I did."

"As I recall, you'd won other such baubles over the years. But when we needed the coin, you never hesitated to sell them off.

Except for this one. You kept it safe all these years. Why?"

"Does a man need a reason for everything he does?" He issued a flippant shrug and set the horse to rocking again. "I just wanted to keep it. I'm an artist, and it was different from any of the other men's rings I'd seen."

Different, indeed. And yet it matched the earrings worn in the dowager's portrait. The coincidence of it, coupled with the

book of poetry, felt like it had to mean something.

Even though he hated himself for the thought, he wondered if Cardew was withholding information from him.

But Oscar was tired of chasing dragons. So for now, he would push those things to the back of his mind.

"If that's the reason, then so be it," he said and set a hand on Cardew's shoulder, his gaze steady. "After all we've been

through over the years, there's no need to argue over a piece of jewelry, is there?"

"Who's arguing? At my age, I'm certainly not."

"And just how old are you exactly?"

Cardew grinned. "Older than your left boot."