Lady Forsaken Box Set (Books 1 - 5), page 70
Lorelei took one last look at Peter before slipping her arms into her heavy robe.
De Pez would not like being kept waiting, especially after journeying for days.
When she reached the drawing room, she found De Pez standing before the fire, soaking up the warmth after his long journey. From this angle, the Frenchman appeared almost harmless—just another gentleman, completely at ease. But she was not foolish enough to buy into that nonsense. De Pez was a cruel man, incapable of compassion and lacking decency on his good days. His tranquil posture was anything but what it appeared, as well. His well-tailored coat hid a body toned from years of athletic pursuits.
Her slippered feet made no sounds when she entered the room and moved toward the fire before the chill of the evening penetrated her dressing gown.
Though she was silent as a mouse, her movement not even stirring a breeze, she knew the instant De Pez became aware of her presence. His relaxed stance disappeared and his shoulders stiffened. He assumed the posture of a warrior—ready to do battle.
That did not bode well for her.
“Another unexpected visit.” Lorelei attempted to gain the upper hand. “I hope your travels delivered you safely here.”
“Lady Chastain.” He didn’t turn from the fire when he spoke. “I heard of the arrival of your son and wanted to offer my congratulations—and those of our new leader—on the blissful event.”
Happy event for whom, she wondered? “That is kind of you, but you could have sent a note.” Besides which, as far as she knew, Chastain hadn’t announced Peter’s birth. Truly, most hadn’t realized the current Duchess Chastain was carrying.
“Come now, you know my preferences, I am not much for quill and parchment, but prefer a more personal touch.” He let his words sink in before continuing. “Much more impact in a hand-delivered message as opposed to black on white.”
Again with his thinly veiled threats. “I am sure the comte and comtesse would have conveyed the import of your message without you troubling yourself with the tedious journey here.”
Finally the man turned to face her, a snide smile covering his face. “Oh, but I wanted to greet our new Lord Chastain personally.”
The man was getting ahead of himself, and that troubled Lorelei. “The current Lord Chastain is very much alive, and I fear my son is sleeping soundly in his crib at the moment.”
“Mayhap next visit.” De Pez took in her appearance from head to toe and then met her eyes in the dim light of the room. “You are looking exquisite as ever. Childbirth and motherhood certainly agree with you.”
Lorelei sensed he was taking stock of her continued usefulness to the crown and not the changes she’d so recently experienced. “It is what we lowly women are destined for, am I not correct?” she asked.
“If you say it is so, then it must be true.”
Lorelei inclined her head and gestured to the chairs set a few feet from the fire. “Would you care to sit? The tasks of motherhood are exhausting, and I find myself almost dead upon my feet at this hour of the night.”
She hoped he’d turn down the offer in favor of giving his message and being on his way, but the man was full of surprises this evening. Too late, Lorelei realized she was alone in the room, Mrs. Dutton having stayed on the floor above and out of hearing distance.
“Thank you, Lady Chastain.” He took the seat closest to him and also nearest the fire.
Under his scrutiny, Lorelei wondered about her own appearance. Dressed in a simple robe thrown over an old dress not even fit for a maid mopping the floors, she looked anything but the duchess she now was—or the spy she’d always been. She hadn’t donned a proper gown since her arrival in the country, and certainly doubted her old ones would fit after Peter’s birth.
“Please, tell me what you are here to say and be on your way.” With her parents and husband not in residence, that allowed Lorelei to get to the point without fear of someone overhearing their conversation. Chastain hadn’t sent a full staff to attend her and the baby; it was only Mrs. Dutton and a few servants to cook and clean for them. “I do not have all night, and I am sure you are in a hurry to find your way back to London proper.”
“I have already taken residence at an inn not far away,” he said. “You may glow with motherhood, but your manners are certainly lacking. I will get to the point of my visit.”
“Please do.”
“The comte and comtesse have been avoiding my calls to their townhouse.”
“And what does that have to do with me?” She knew exactly what it had to do with her, but perhaps she could play ignorant long enough to get him out of her home—and far from her child. “I have not heard from them since my arrival here.”
“Bonaparte has overthrown the Directory and made his stake as the new leader to France—but he awaits the plans, should something go amiss. Have you all forgotten your responsibilities?”
“Of course, not,” she hissed. Besides Peter, there was not another thing she thought about. “I have searched this home high and low—twice now, and have found naught. The plans are not here.”
He steepled his fingers before him. “Then why are you still here?”
Avoiding you, she wanted to scream, but instead, she kept her voice calm. “My son is too young to travel, but shortly we will have the approval of the midwife to journey back to London, where I will resume my search.”
“Do you not have a nursemaid?”
“Of course.”
“Then you can leave with me now.” He stood, as if all were settled. “We can tell the duke that your kind uncle came to meet the newest lord and requested your company back to town. Your servant can follow with the child as soon as he is able.”
“Peter.”
“Pardon me?”
“Peter—his name is Peter.” For some reason, De Pez referring to her son as ‘the child’ annoyed her greatly. Peter was not an asset to be used in any fashion he deemed. He was a baby—her baby. And she most certainly would not leave him behind, her responsibilities be damned.
“That is of little consequence or import to me. Now, please rest. I will return for you in the morning.”
Lorelei squirmed under his intense glare. The nerve of the man. “My husband sent word that he will collect Peter and me within the week and return to London for the announcement of our child’s birth.” It was a lie she feared De Pez would see through. “I will await his arrival and journey with him.”
“I would not want him to become suspicious of either of us.” She knew she had him when he sighed. “Of course. Your beauty is not your only attribute to be admired.”
“Then you must go.” Lorelei stood to usher him to the door. “Before any of the other servants see you.”
With great reluctance, he allowed Lorelei to show him to the door. Outside, his steed wandered unattended, munching on the hedges lining the drive. The man swung into his saddle with the ease of a man half his size and age. Even before his feet gained purchase in the stirrups, he set the animal into action and headed down the drive to the lane beyond—and out of Lorelei’s life, for the time being.
Lorelei watched until his retreating form was out of sight before leaping into action herself.
“Mrs. Dutton,” she called to the empty foyer. “Mrs. Dutton!”
She ran toward the staircase, knowing the woman would be unable to hear her if she were by Peter’s side. Taking the stairs two at a time and holding the front of her robe closed, Lorelei’s footsteps echoed in the deserted halls.
The nursemaid appeared down the hall when she exited Lorelei’s chambers.
“Heavens, m’lady.” Mrs. Dutton stopped in front of Lorelei, her breath coming in a rush. “What be all the commotion about?”
Lorelei was as winded as Mrs. Dutton from her run up the stairs. “Ready Peter’s things for departure.”
The nursemaid stared as if her mistress had gone crazy. “Beg’n yur pardon?”
“Now,” Lorelei said. “…and hurry. We must leave for London posthaste.” Without waiting for a response, she returned downstairs to summon the carriage. They must reach Chastain’s townhouse under cover of night or word would spread of their arrival. She needed to stay one step ahead of De Pez.
She only needed one last look around the townhouse before she made several important decisions for her and her child. The consequences for failing to complete her mission would be steep, and would likely include her life—and that of her child.
If she didn’t locate the plans, then it would be necessary for them to go somewhere no one would find them.
Not De Pez.
Not even her parents.
Her hand faltered on the balustrade and she slipped down a few steps before regaining her balance.
If her search continued to yield no results, she’d be forced to explain everything to her husband. Tell him of her motives behind the marriage.
And beg for his mercy—and protection.
Chastain would seek to keep his son safe, even if he denied her his forgiveness. But she would cross that bridge when the time came.
It would take an hour to ready the carriage for the journey. She would do well to use the time wisely. With Peter’s preparations in Mrs. Dutton’s hands, Lorelei rushed to Chastain’s study for one last search. The likelihood of her returning to his country manor was slim, so she pulled books from shelves, emptied drawers in search of a random key, and lifted pictures from where they hung. There were no hidden areas to be found, nor any key or papers pertaining to the whereabouts of the plans to Carcassonne. Just as every time she’d riffled previously. Either Chastain was a damn good hider or he was oblivious to his family’s sordid past in France. Her gut told her it was the latter.
Why had her parents been avoiding De Pez? They knew she needed time—time to search, as well as time to heal. It made no sense. It was as if the comte was working against her. It was possible they’d decided to distance themselves in case she failed, in order to minimize the repercussions for themselves—though it was difficult, bordering on impossible—for Lorelei to believe her mother would allow the comte to behave in such a way.
She took one final cursory look around her husband’s chambers, already knowing it would prove fruitless, before Mrs. Dutton summoned her.
In the hall, Mrs. Dutton cradled a sleeping Peter, still swaddled in thick wool, against her oversized bosom. “You said to call when all was ready.”
“Thank you.” Lorelei took Peter from the woman, surprised he’d slept so soundly through the hurried packing and then his nursemaid’s shouting. “Let us be on our way.”
The long carriage ride would give Lorelei time to speak with Mrs. Dutton, confide in the woman. For the first time that she could remember, Lorelei needed a friend. The stark reality that Lorelei quite possibly had no allies awaiting her arrival in London scared her beyond words. She’d never felt truly alone and without support, though the career her family had forced her into was a solitary profession at its core.
Lorelei would accept neither the loss of Peter nor her life, though as long as Peter was safe, her own life ranked lower on her list of priorities.
And she feared the only hope for her son’s continued security and happiness lay in a woman she hadn’t known long at all.
After they’d settled and Peter was nursing at her bosom, Lorelei started her story: one of faraway lands, late-night dealings, and ill-fated lives torn to shreds…and her plans for rectifying everything.
Chapter 20
The incessant banging had started nearly an hour ago. Relentless, continuous hammering on his townhouse door.
At first, Andrew wondered why no servant answered and sent whomever it was on their way. But then he remembered he’d given his entire staff the evening off so they would not witness his grief, which frequently turned violent as the night progressed.
Today, nearly five months after he’d seen her last, he’d read in the paper that Lady Chastain had welcomed a bouncing, healthy baby boy into the world only a week prior. The young had been christened Peter Davis, soon to be the next Lord Chastain. He read of the planned elaborate ceremony to be held at St. George’s Church to introduce the child to members of the ton.
Chastain had his heir.
Since that time, Andrew had only succeeded in living in a perpetual state of drunkenness, unable to shake off the melancholy.
Mrs. Bee hadn’t even tried to talk sense into him in weeks, instead following behind him tidying up the havoc he wrought. She was a resourceful woman, and had most likely discovered the cause of his moods. This night, she’d gladly helped usher the servants from the house when he’d thundered through the main hall yelling for everyone to leave, immediately.
Now, he sat by a pathetic fire he’d tried to stoke himself—failing miserably—and listened to the beating upon the front door that echoed through his empty house.
“Fuck!” He slammed his tumbler on the table, amber liquid spilling over the side and onto his hand. “I am coming.”
His boots pounded on the polished floor.
The knocking did not recede as he grew closer, yet the thundering in his head did. He awoke each morning still feeling the effects of his drink from the night before. He’d stopped leaving his townhouse after the first month, as he was no longer welcome at White’s or Gentleman Jack’s. He’d become a recluse—not even daring to attend social gatherings for fear of seeing Lorelei and breaking down…or worse, encountering Chastain and beating the man to his death.
Andrew took a deep breath before grasping the handle.
Pulling the heavy door open he faced a young girl, slightly familiar, yet he couldn’t place her. Had she worked as a servant in his home? Surely not, or she would know never to knock on the lord’s front door. Perhaps she was of gentle birth and they’d danced at a ball or shared a drink at a house party.
“May I help you?” The irony was apparent even to the girl when she flinched back and remained quiet. “Well? I haven’t all evening…”
He took in her look: comely face, neat red hair hidden under an ugly cap, and a full-length cape. In her hands she clutched a small valise, her knuckles white.
“I do not have all night.”
“I am sorry for disturbing you, my lord.” She paused, squaring her shoulders. “I am from Madame Sasha’s.”
“Yes…?” He hadn’t visited Craven House since Sasha’s henchmen had dumped him in that alleyway.
“She sent me to inform you of my condition.” Her words were little more than a whisper.
“And how is your condition of any import to me?” He couldn’t fathom the ploy Sasha was playing at. She was likely trying to regain his coin. “Say your piece and be on your way. What message has Sasha for me? She made it crystal clear I am unwelcome at Craven House.”
The girl set down her satchel and began to unbutton her cloak.
It had been some time since he’d looked upon the naked form of a woman, and never on his front stoop. “If you plan to seduce me, you may want to come inside where it is far warmer.”
Terror overtook the girl’s face and her eyes widened in shock as she pushed aside the folds of her cape to reveal her rounded belly, the cause unmistakable. “No…”
“This cannot be.” He was unsure if he’d said it aloud or only in his head.
“It can,” she assured him. “At first I did not think it possible, either. During my time here, you were dangerously drunk and barely able to stand.”
“When?”
“Over eight months ago now.”
The dates matched. Those days he spent locked in his bedchamber, Sasha sending a flood of women to sate his need, dispel his sense of loss at the news of Lorelei’s marriage to Chastain.
“I fear I will not live through this birth. Tell me you will take care of our child,” she pleaded. “Madame Sasha has bid me not return until after the child is born.”
“And what?” he asked. “You expect me—a fucking marquis—to welcome you into my home? Perhaps set you up in my adjoining suite all because you—a whore—claim to carry my child?”
“No, I—”
“Well, you have severely underestimated my compassion for other beings.”
“I just thought—”
“No, you were obviously not thinking at all,” he seethed, “when you came to my house, banged on my door, and expected to find sanctuary in my home.”
“What do you expect me to do?” she asked. “Have your child on the streets? We will likely both perish in these conditions.”
“Do you think you are the first to arrive on my doorstep professing your love, and claiming that you are carrying my child? You are not.”
“I never said I love you,” the girl said.
“Be that as it may, you will leave and never return.” Just as another woman, Pearl, had all those years ago. “You will forget about me, and name your child for the bastard it will be.”
“You are a heartless, cruel man,” she cried.
“I have never presented myself as anything but.” Except to Lorelei… For Lorelei, he would have given everything. He would have given her child his title and all that came with it: a name, estates, and wealth beyond anything one could wish for. “Now be gone.”
She hurriedly re-buttoned her cloak and took her valise in hand. “If I do not survive, I will send the child to you.” She threw the words over her shoulder as she walked down the steps.
“No, you will not. I will cast it out with the trash if you do.” He slammed the door to add threat to his words.
He needed a drink—a stiff, endless drink.
He set his forehead against the cool door as he heard the girl’s soft cries outside. As they receded, he knew she’d taken her things and left.
Andrew longed to open the door and shout to her that he’d make a dreadful father; that he’d shirk his responsibilities over time—mostly that she, and her baby, deserved better than he could give them. Children should be raised in happy homes, and Andrew knew beyond a doubt that his home was not a happy one. Her child would be better off with one parent who loved it than a father prone to drinking and fits of rage.
