Lady Forsaken Box Set (Books 1 - 5), page 77
For once, Andrew knew he had the upper hand. “Oh, I will quite relish regaling the good magistrate with tales of French spies and espionage—not to mention the man bleeding to death on the floor there.”
They all looked to the pool of blood that would likely soak through the floorboards.
The man was familiar to him—he’d been the one leaving Lorelei’s home not long ago. Had she said who he was or how he knew her?
“Lorelei told me all,” he said, yet he knew barely anything. “Tell me, what do you search for?”
“It is none of your concern,” the comte said in English. “Where is Lorelei?”
No one moved, as they each assessed the others. The comtesse looked ready to hop over the man on the floor, skirt past him, and flee. The comte eyed him and then the area around himself. It was then that Andrew noticed the blade clutched in his hand, likely used on the man on the floor.
Andrew should have found his own weapon before climbing the stairs. But he wasn’t here to hurt anyone, and he most definitely would not allow anyone to harm him. He’d seen enough death and blood to last a lifetime.
It was at that moment that the comte noticed the dark stains that saturated Andrew’s riding pants. “Are you covered in blood?” Odd that he wondered about the blood covering Andrew, but hadn’t looked to the prone body on the floor, the man’s eyes staring lifelessly up at the ceiling.
But Andrew was here for answers, not to give them. Ignoring the comte, he asked, “Why Chastain?” He hadn’t thought much of it until now. They’d certainly chosen Chastain for a reason, and Lorelei had said she’d felt responsible for what Chastain did to her.
“Ah—so you know, but not everything. She’s fled—used and discarded you—and you think we will give you answers.”
“Lorelei did not discard me.” His defensiveness was heard by all in the room. “We loved one another.”
“Is that what she told you?” The man laughed. “Lorelei does not give her emotions so freely. She has been taught better.”
“You mean trained.”
The comte shrugged. “If that is what you would like to believe, but I see no reason to mince words. What do you want?”
Andrew took in the room, letting the comte’s question hang unanswered.
“Did you come here looking for her? As you can see, she has betrayed her family, as well.”
“Never say that, Mathis,” Lorelei’s mother said.
“It is—”
“No,” Andrew silenced them both. His need for answers drained from him. “I know exactly where Lorelei is. I came here looking for something else, but I see it will not be found here.”
“You know where she is?” the comtesse asked. “Please, tell us where. We must find her and leave England.”
Andrew felt pity for the woman, realizing he could not keep it from them—they were her parents and must, at some deep level, have some affection for their offspring. Now, he only wanted to find Peter—and start to process all that had happened.
“If you know where Lorelei is, tell us.” The comte meant it to be a threat, but all Andrew heard in his words was relief.
“She is in the warehouse district by the docks.”
“Does she hide from De Pez?” Camille glanced at the man on the floor nervously. “She should know he is no longer a threat to her safety.”
“No, she has nothing to fear now.” There was finality in his voice.
Camille took in his bloodied clothes, and the comte stared intently into his eyes.
“Is she hurt?” they asked in unison.
Their desperation was clear. It was only then that he realized they cared about their child beyond their mission.
“She is gone.”
“Gone? But you said she was in the warehouse district.” Puzzled, Camille moved toward the door, her words coming in a mix of English and French. “We must go to her, Mathis. Find a way out of this for all of us.”
“Yes, you must go to her, but she has found her way out,” Andrew said.
“What do you mean, boy?”
“Her carriage…it was traveling too fast—the corner was too sharp, and the driver was unprepared.”
“What are you saying?” Camille once again gave in to her tears. “Is that Lore’s blood upon your person?”
Andrew couldn’t stand to tell them he’d been the one to cause the crash. “Yes. I made her comfortable in her last moments.”
“But…that cannot be.” The comte looked to his wife in disbelief. “It was not supposed to be this way.”
“Why has Lord Chastain not come to us?” Camille asked, directing her question at no one, but hoping someone had the answer.
“He was in the carriage with her.”
“And baby Peter?” she asked.
Lorelei had told him to trust no one, not even her own parents. “He was with his mother as well.” He did not lie to them, for the babe had been in the carriage, but Andrew hoped Peter would be far from London by the time the comte discovered his grandchild’s body was not within the wreckage.
“You are certain?”
Andrew only nodded.
“We must go to her, Mathis.” She collapsed to the floor, not far from the ever-increasing pool of blood. The comte was instantly at her side, taking her into his arms as she cried. Overwhelming sobs filled the room as a mother bemoaned the unfair and cruel world she had created for her only child.
Andrew longed for someone to hold him, allow him to weep in agony. To call into question every unfairness that had been dealt to him in his life. He wanted to go to them, seek their embrace to soothe his own pain.
Yet, he did not belong here.
On unsteady feet, Andrew fled the room, hurried down the stairs, and out of the house.
Epilogue
“Andrew?” A familiar voice fought to break through the haze that surrounded him.
He looked up from the plans he’d been studying since the night Lorelei left him, to see Mrs. Bee in the doorway, his blurred gaze bringing her into focus.
“Are you still awake?”
He only nodded. Sleep had eluded him for months. He was exhausted, yet when he closed his eyes the nightmares started. Even when he opened them the images kept invading his sight. He’d sworn off anything harsher than sherry, as well, for any slumber was torture. He’d settled on staring at the plans for hours on end.
“Can I bring you anything before I retire?” she asked.
“Just go!” Frustration, incompetence, disappointment, fury, hopelessness—they all coursed through him at once, fighting to dominate his movements and speech. “I am sorry—”
“Do not apologize to me, my lord.” She stood, hands on her hips, ever the scolding mum. “You should be ashamed of how you have been treating the servants, however. Me—I will survive, as I always have. Now, I can barely stand the smell of you. Do seek your quarters and freshen up.”
Andrew’s drive to do anything other than sit behind his desk was nonexistent. He wondered if anyone would notice if he never left this very room again. What would be the point of any of it? He’d given his love, unconditionally, and he’d been scorned for it.
Stomping her foot, Mrs. Bee again gained his attention. “Your eyes are redder than redcurrant. You look about to collapse.”
“I can care for myself.” And he had, ever looking over his shoulder. He dreaded the day the comte or his associates would come for him, too. He had his servants running to and fro double bolting doors and windows; his paranoia only grew as the days passed, though. “Do check the kitchen door before you retire.”
“Always something,” she muttered. “Scared of the dark, a grown man. Anything further, my lord?”
“No, thank you.” She’d given him space since that night, never disturbing him during the long hours—and sometimes days—he’d spent locked away in his study. “Do seek your rest.”
He returned his attention to the papers before him after she quietly closed the door. It had been several days before he’d realized the case had been the one that had sat in his own dressing room all these years, virtually unnoticed by him. The thick leather cylinder had been left over from when his father had used the suite of rooms.
Two months—well, eight weeks and four days actually—staring at them, and he’d garnered no knowledge of their importance. He’d gone to bookstores and map collectors, but none recognized the place portrayed in the drawings. They were decades old and were already fading. He’d been careful not to damage them, for they’d meant something to Lorelei—and the men who had sent her to find them.
Andrew had hid the plans well, though he trusted no one with their existence and whereabouts.
He’d hoped by decoding them he’d also locate Peter—or someone who could tell him of the child’s whereabouts. What he did know was that Lorelei hadn’t been the woman he’d thought she was. In a rash move, Andrew had sent word to France, addressed to the Comte of Epernon, but had received word that the title and estate were absorbed decades before and no longer existed. There was no record of her name or that of her parents.
It was as if she’d never existed—their love had never happened. She’d deceived him so fully, he truly questioned his own memories of her, if he even had the right to be angry or confused or lonely. She had begged him over and over to forget her, to leave her be, but he’d been unable to do that one thing for her.
Andrew wanted to blame her, or the comte, possibly even Benji for the pain his betrayed heart suffered.
He could look at the plans before him, go over the response from France, or speak with others who’d met the comte and his daughter—but those accounts were all too factual. Set in stone, unchangeable. Meaning nothing.
His emotions were a tidal wave of unexpected change, evolution, and regression.
One moment he wondered how he could live without her.
The next he cursed her existence.
And then still he relived every moment they’d shared from that first glance when he’d spied her silent sobs through the crack in that study door to their afternoon of passionate, life-changing lovemaking only hours before she would be forever gone from him.
If he’d known what was to come, would he have done anything differently? Begged her not to leave him or barred his doors?
The questions only kept piling up the more he searched, with no one to give answers. There had been no official inquiry into Peter’s whereabouts, as the new Lord Chastain—a distant cousin of Benji’s—had no motivation to find the child since Peter stood to inherit instead of him.
So, as his men scoured the countryside from one end of England to the other, Andrew locked himself away. He studied the plans—and met with his solicitor. Anything to give him some semblance of a mission, the ability to truly believe he was worth something, that his actions would someday grant him that which he sought.
The official documents had been drawn up and signed that very day. For when Peter was found, he would be the keeper of much—all that Andrew had. Peter would be the future heir of the Marquis of Drake. He would have property and wealth far beyond most men of the ton.
It was the least Andrew could do for Lorelei… For he’d promised to give her everything, and though he’d failed her in so many ways, he would use his every breath for the remainder of his life to uphold his pledge to her, to find her child and do for Peter what he could not do for the child’s mother.
A knock sounded once more at the door.
“Enter,” he called. His servants knew not to disturb him. “I said I do not need anything.”
“My lord?”
Andrew looked up to see his butler shifting from foot to foot in the doorway.
“Yes.” He knew irritation over his failed attempts to find Peter clouded his every waking moment. “Do spit it out, I am busy.”
“Errr, Mrs. Bee said I should have you come to the foyer with all haste.”
Andrew sighed, but rolled the plans up and slipped them back into their case. After putting them in a drawer and locking it, he followed the man from the room.
“Whatever is that noise?” As they approached the foyer, a loud crying could be heard. “Is that…?” He walked faster, passing the servant and finding Mrs. Bee standing before the wide-open front door.
“Do move aside!” he shouted.
Could it be?
Had they found him?
Andrew wanted to demand why they hadn’t sent word. There was still much to prepare for a child in his home. The nursery needed refurbishing, and he required time to think about schooling and such.
Looking out the front door, he saw no one.
His men did not cradle a baby upon his stoop.
“What cruel jest is this?”
“Andrew.” He looked to Mrs. Bee at his side, and she nodded for him to look again. “Lower.”
There! He saw it…him…Peter.
A basket was nestled in the darkened corner.
How long had he been there, unheard and vulnerable to the elements?
Andrew could not get out of the house quickly enough. He scooped up the basket, surprised by the light weight of what it held, and brought the babe into the warmth of the foyer.
The baby was tucked tight within a green blanket, and a sheet of paper poked out of the side.
Puzzled, Andrew set the basket upon a small side table and grabbed the paper. His fingers shook with relief. He was unsure if he’d likely harm or thank the person who’d kept Peter hidden from him—but had ultimately returned him.
Mrs. Bee cooed to the baby as Andrew unfolded the note and read:
* * *
My Lord,
* * *
As promised, here is your child. If you are receiving this then I have succumbed to childbirth, as I feared. Please take care of him or her. Love our child as only a father can.
* * *
~E
* * *
Andrew looked back to the baby. Sure enough, a sprout of red hair peeked from beneath the blanket tucked tightly about it. This infant was not Peter, nor did it hold any blood of his beloved, only a symbol of his darkest hours—and a weakness he was determined to overcome.
Dropping the note, Andrew took in the sight of the baby before him as he stepped closer.
Just as he inspected the tiny bundle, the babe also narrowed its eyes, staring back.
Leaning in, Andrew noted the large hazel eyes with hints of green flakes, which looked suspiciously like his own—and his mother’s before him.
As he scrutinized the tiny face, so delicate, the babe’s mouth parted in a gummy smile and a giggle echoed in the hall.
“Oh, my,” Mrs. Bee sighed beside him. “What a pretty little thing.”
Andrew felt himself falling, spiraling downward into the depth of his child’s eyes, losing himself in the light laugh that still rang about the room.
His child.
His flesh and blood.
Not Lorelei’s offspring, but something much more.
Something that solely belonged to him.
His first instinct was to turn away, block his ears from the sound, and lock himself securely in his study until the child was disposed of. He knew he should send word to Craven House. The child was rightly Madame Sasha’s responsibility, not his. Its mother was likely now sheltered within Sasha’s sanctuary, oblivious to the turmoil Andrew fought.
But he could not take his eyes from the babe.
There was a pull—an invisible draw—to the creature, one Andrew assumed most felt for their offspring, but he’d only just seen the child. It seemed unlikely to his rational mind that a connection could be formed so quickly, yet he sensed it was irrevocably there, as real and concrete as if he could touch it.
Andrew grabbed the handle of the basket that housed the babe securely. The sudden movement startled the child, who immediately hushed, the smile vanishing and a pensive expression taking over his face.
His face? Andrew did not know for sure that the infant nestled in the swaddling clothe was a male, the small face and tuft of red hair gave away nothing.
“Whatever shall we do with this young?” Mrs. Bee set her fingers atop his hand, which still grasped the basket, his knuckles white for his hold. “I can take it to the kitchen while a nursemaid is called for.”
Andrew shifted the carrier and his own hand away from Mrs. Bee. “The fire in my study is much larger than the one in the kitchen. It is best to keep the child warm, is it not?”
“I suppose you are correct, Andrew.” Mrs. Bee paused. Her hands fell to her side and she stared at him as intently as the child had moments before. “You are very clever to think of that.”
Without another thought, he returned to his study. He lightly set the hamper next to his desk, closest to the warm fire—and sat heavily in his chair.
Andrew took in the room around him before removing the plans from his desk once more. They’d been no help so far in gaining any new information about Lorelei’s past or her child’s whereabouts.
He feared his state of perpetual unease and failure would continue as hopelessness set in once more.
In his frustration, Andrew swiped his hand across the desk and the rolled papers he’d removed only moments before shot off his desk and through the air—directly toward the fire. He pushed his chair back in haste and moved to grasp the pages before they rolled into the open hearth.
Kneeling on the wooden floor with the plans safely in his hands, Andrew heard soft laughter behind him. It didn’t sound as loud, nor bounce off the walls as it had in the open foyer, but the melodic sound dug straight to his heart, for it reminded him of his mother’s laugh.
Not Lorelei’s throaty chuckle, but still a familiar sound—one that hadn’t been heard in his home since he was a boy—before so much agony, disappointment, and death had entered his life.
And the sound infused Andrew with—hope.
For a future.
For his future.
A better future for the child before him—and another he would one day find again.
