Chapter 4
“Your Grace! You cannot go in there!” The voice was muffled through the thick wooden door.
Alaric frowned at it, feeling the motion pull against the scar that crossed his forehead to his right eye, the scar hidden by his long mop of hair. He was sitting in the drawing room of his Bath estate. His physician turned toward the noise, mouth open in question.
The heavy wooden doors swung open, and a woman with blonde hair and piercing blue eyes walked through. She wore a thick traveling cloak and had a small boy with her. The sunlight streaming through the window caught on her earrings, drawing Alaric’s attention to the soft lines of the woman’s face.
Her mouth tightened into a line as she looked at him, eyes flashing dangerously. Yet even beneath the full weight of her rage, Alaric couldn't help but appreciate how beautiful she was.
“They told me you were unwell, but you look perfectly fine to me. If you think growing your hair out will hide your health, I fear you are mistaken.” The woman strode toward him.
“You have some nerve. How dare you get your staff to lie to me? You disappear for months, and no one hears from you, which leads to all sorts of rumors, and on top of it all, when I come to find you, I find you standing in your drawing room fit as a flea!”
Alaric watched his physician move to stand between him and this irate stranger. “Madam, I can see that you are upset, but—”
“Of course I am upset!” The woman glowered at Alaric. “Well? Are you going to explain yourself? I think it is the least you can do.”
“I think I would be hard-pressed to explain anything to anyone, especially when I have no idea who you are.” Alaric tilted his head toward the woman, wondering why she was so furious.
A part of him felt like he should be angry at such insolence; after all, he was a duke. Yet he could not muster the emotion.
Her eyes narrowed. “Do not mock me, Your Grace. You know exactly who I am.”
Alaric almost shook his head, but remembered in time that it would cause him immense pain. “I am afraid I do not. I would remember a face as pretty as yours, I am sure.”
The woman opened her mouth, her eyes full of fury, but before she could say anything, Alaric’s physician interjected. “His Grace had an accident some months ago. Among his many injuries was one to his head. Though the wound has healed, it has affected his mind.”
“What do you mean?” The woman turned to the physician. “Is he mad?”
“No, but he has lost his memories. Or at least, he has lost many of them,” the physician explained.
“That seems a rather convenient excuse.” The woman’s eyes narrowed.
“Hardly.” Alaric’s interjection earned him another glare, but he found he did not mind it.
After months of everyone treating me like porcelain, it is rather nice to have someone shout at me, though I would rather see her smile. I bet that is something to behold.
“I know who I am, my age, and that I am a duke. Though for a few days, even that was beyond me. Some things have come back, some have not. I know that I have a friend called Frederick Hale, for instance. Or I think I do. It is hard to know just what you have forgotten when so much remains a mystery.”
“Like the fact that you are married?” The woman folded her arms across her chest.
“Am I?” Alaric’s eyes widened, and he made a note to ask Mr. Wilkins why the man had neglected to mention this fact to him. “To whom?”
The woman gaped at him. “To me.”
“How fortunate,” Alaric said without thinking.
It was only after the words slipped from his mouth that it occurred to him that it might not have been the proper thing to say.
Perhaps I should check with Mr. Wilkins.
Her expression shifted from angry to outraged, then to amused, and finally into something Alaric could not quite recognize. She looked between him and the physician as though expecting either of them to tell her they were joking.
His physician sighed. “His Grace needs time. His memories are returning, but in odd sequences. The mind is poorly understood at the best of times, but in his current state, he is vulnerable.”
“It is why we have tried to keep things so secret, Your Grace,” Mr. Wilkins explained. “I dared not write to you lest it be intercepted, and I could not leave His Grace. Not when he could be so easily exploited.”
“And yet he found the time to write this to an orphanage? To claim a son that he did not even bother to tell me about?” His wife took a letter from a bag she was carrying. “That is your seal and your signature, is it not?”
“It is my seal, but not my signature.” Alaric surprised himself with his certainty as he pointed to the first A. “The lines are all wrong.”
He grabbed a nearby quill, dipped it in ink, and signed a scrap of paper. He was not sure why he knew the signature was not his, but he did.
You can remember this, but not that you have a beautiful wife?
He handed the slip to her and watched her lips purse as she compared them.
“Though I will admit they are similar, the signature is not mine.” Alaric pointed to the one on the letter she held.
“That does not change the fact that you have a son.” The woman pointed to the small boy who was standing by the door. “This is Oliver.”
“Oliver.” Alaric took a step toward the child, but stopped when he saw him shrink away.
It tugged at something in the back of his mind, and he felt a prickle of unease mingle with guilt.
Could this be my son? The boy did look strangely like him. He had the same eyes, the same hair, the same brow, even.
The hairs on the back of Alaric’s neck stood on end, and he gestured for the woman to sit. “I think it would be best if you explained everything to me, starting with just who you are. I want to hear this story. I have no intention of being taken advantage of.”
“Clearly, some things do not change,” the woman muttered and glanced at the boy, then at Alaric.
Alaric thought he could read her thoughts. After all, this boy had already been abandoned once, and whether or not he was his son, Alaric wanted to avoid adding to the pain he had already endured.
“Perhaps it would be best if young Oliver waited with Cook in the kitchens? I think she may even give him some cake if he would like.” Alaric tried to make his voice as gentle as possible, not wanting to scare the boy.
The boy looked up at the woman and then back at Alaric. He said nothing. The woman gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Cake sounds like a very good idea. And perhaps some hot chocolate, too? Would you like that, Oliver?”
The boy’s eyes widened, and he nodded, though Alaric noticed he still seemed reluctant to leave the woman’s side. She apparently sensed it as well. “I promise I will join you soon. The Duke and I need to discuss some things. Annabelle will look after you until I join you.”
The boy looked toward the door and, with a start, Alaric realized that a maid was waiting. He had not noticed her.
Have I always been so distracted? He waited until the boy had left with the maid, gestured once more for his wife to sit on the sofa opposite him, and for Mr. Wilkins to close the drawing room door.
Alaric waited until his wife sat down. “I suggest you start with your name.”
“I am Catherine, Duchess Catherine Deverell of Coldmere.” She held up her hand, showing him a glittering gold ring. “Your butler will attest to the truth of that, I am sure.”
Alaric looked at Mr. Wilkins, who nodded. “Very well, Catherine. What makes you so sure Oliver is my son?”
Her eyes widened, and Alaric wondered what he had done wrong. They were married after all, surely it was only normal that they used one another’s names?
So many rules, and I have forgotten nearly all of them.
“That... that is what the letter says,” Catherine said slowly, gesturing to the letter she had placed on the coffee table between them.
“It was given to me yesterday when the head of the orphanage came to visit. It states that you have been looking for the boy for some years, and that you wished for him to live with you and be raised as a gentleman. That young Oliver should be brought to the London house.”
“And what of the boy’s mother?” Alaric asked, taking the paper in his hands.
It was thick and expensive. He recognized his seal, and though the writing was similar to his, he was sure it was not.
“It makes no mention of her.” Catherine clasped her hands in her lap.
“Interesting.” Alaric leaned back in his chair. “And we know I did not write the letter.”
“So you claim.”
“So I have proven.” He pointed to the scrap of signed paper.
“If not you, who? Why would anyone do this?” She frowned at him.
“If he is my son, perhaps they think he can be my heir.” Alaric ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes.
Bits and pieces floated back to him, a man’s voice droning on about primogeniture and the necessity of legitimate heirs.
“Though you are my wife, and from your tone, it seems that you did not bear me this child?”
To his surprise, Catherine’s cheeks flushed a deep scarlet. “No, I did not.”
“Then that would make him a bas– ” Alaric stopped himself, sensing that this was not the sort of language one should use in front of a lady. “He would have no claim to my title, nor my lands. I can say with certainty that I have never had another wife.”
Mr. Wilkins nodded. “I have served your family since before you were born, Your Grace. You trust me with more than most. If you had a wife, I would know.”
“And I assume if I had been searching for a long-lost child, I would likely have involved you?” Alaric tilted his head toward the butler.
“Yes, I believe so, Your Grace.” Mr. Wilkins clasped his hands behind his back.
Alaric nodded, stroking his chin thoughtfully. He thought of the small boy that had been escorted away by the maid.
“But you cannot deny that he looks like you.” Catherine gestured to the closed door. “He is your son.”
“I have no memory of a son.” Alaric shrugged.
“You have no memory of a wife, yet here I am,” she pointed out.