Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO- MICHAEL
Michael Edmund Barrows, the Viscount Rutheridge, took the front steps of his London townhouse two at a time. He detested being late, but the tea with his Aunt Dora had taken far longer than usual, setting him behind for his fencing appointment with Lord Austin.
“My lord,” his butler, Horace, said, taking the hat and coat that Michael thrust at him. "There is a young lady waiting for you in the front parlor. I have left Benson and Benedict with her."
Michael frowned and skidded to a stop. Why would his footmen be assigned to guard a young lady in his own home? Wait--why was there a young lady in his home?
Horace nodded at his wrinkled forehead. "I'm not quite sure that she should be here, my lord, yet she had a story that I thought best dealt with. Privately."
"Thank you, Horace."
When Michael strode into the parlor, he was vaguely aware of a knock at the front door behind him.
He left that to Horace’s care, as he had something far more pressing to deal with.
True to his butler’s word, there was a young woman in the parlor.
Something about her made Michael frown and kept him from sending his footmen away.
She was certainly pretty enough. She had blonde ringlets about her face and wide green eyes with a thick fringe of lashes. She wore a raspberry-colored day dress that was of decent quality, even if it didn't quite fit properly.
"My lord," she gasped as soon as he entered, "thank goodness you're here. These brutes are treating me like a common criminal, they are."
"I'm sorry, you are…?" He tilted his head, his dark hair shifting over his forehead, reminding him that he was in need of a cut. Perhaps after his fencing appointment, he would have his valet trim it.
In response to his question, the lady only laughed. "There's no need for that here, Michael. We don’t need to pretend not to know each other in your own home."
He racked his brain trying to place the lady, but the more he tried, the more certain he was that he’d never seen her before in his life.
He frowned. "I don't know who you are."
She pressed a hand to her ample bosom and blinked rapidly, as if trying to contain tears. "That’s going to be very difficult to explain to our son, my lord.”
Michael’s eyebrows flew upward. "Our son?"
His question was produced in much the same way as when Dr. Halveston thwacked the spot beneath his knee and his foot swung forward--reactionary, automatic.
"He's just a wee baby," the woman said, starting to cry. "We've been put out of our rooms and I don't know what to do. I've been writing you letters."
"Letters," he repeated stupidly.
Michael had received no such letters. This was the first he’d heard of any child, and there was no possibility of having a son, not when he’d never engaged in the pre-requisite activities.
The truth of the matter would have come to him immediately if he hadn’t been so thrown by the bizarre interlude.
It was only natural he felt a bit set back on his heels--it had been a very trying morning even before he’d arrived home to find a delusional young lady in his parlor.
This was not the first ambush he’d experienced today, though this one was perhaps even more subtle than the tea he’d shared with Aunt Dora and her meddling friends.
"Are you sure you have the right house?"
The footmen shared weighted glances. Even though Michael knew this was all some horrible mistake, he wondered what whispers would come of it. Rumors were like a glass of port spilled on a carpet--a momentary lapse in balance could lead to a permanent stain.
The young lady produced a handkerchief from somewhere on her person and started sniffling into it. "I never thought you would treat me like this. Never thought you would fail to care for me or our child."
Just as she uttered the last shocking sentence, a real lady--the last lady Michael would ever want to witness such a scene--strode through the door.
Miss Claire Preston was as icily beautiful as she’d ever been, though even Michael had to admit that the recent addition of an expensive wardrobe had sent her beauty to stunning new heights.
Today she wore a navy day dress with a trim jacket over it.
The lines of the gown looked like her--sharp and a bit severe, but stunningly beautiful.
How was she, of all people, here? Especially considering that they hadn’t spoken in nearly four years?
Claire frowned at the room collectively, at him in particular, then focused her disapproval on the lady blubbering on the chaise lounge. The young woman didn't seem to notice they had additional company.
"How could you?" she cried. She was really gaining steam now, her volume increasing. There was even the wetness of tears upon her cheeks.
If Michael hadn’t been the object of her vitriol, he might have been impressed with her commitment to the charade.
“Michael, what on earth did you do?” Claire asked crisply.
At the sound of her voice, the other woman jolted and looked up from her wrung handkerchief. “He had a child off of me and now won’t even send us so much as a farthing.”
“I had no idea that congratulations were in order,” Claire said, smirking at Michael.
“They aren’t,” he insisted, barely restraining himself from bellowing at the entire room.
“He abandoned us,” the woman insisted with large, tear-filled eyes.
"How dreadful,” Claire tsked, even as she motioned to the maid standing at the sideboard and very clearly mouthed tea. "Michael, how could you do such a thing?"
“I didn’t,” he insisted.
This was like a terrible fever dream. He’d never felt this out of sorts, not even when he’d been dosed with laudanum after a bad fall from a horse years ago. He pinched himself discreetly, to see if it helped. It didn’t.
"Yes,” the young woman warbled. “How could you do this to me and baby Michael?"
Claire gave a serene smile, even as Michael raked his fingers through his hair.
“You named your son after you? How charming. Though it does seem strange that the wee tyke isn’t here.
I assume you aim upon rectifying that immediately.
I daresay, Michael--it’s bad form to keep your heir and the mother of your child in an apartment. They should move in here, immediately.”
“Exactly what I was thinking, my lord.” The young lady perked up enough to glance around the richly-appointed parlor with clear avarice, as if imagining herself lady of the house.
“Apologies,” Claire said to her, as Michael choked on his indignation. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“It’s Miss Thompson.” The young lady nodded. “Miss Isabella Thompson.”
“A lovely name,” Claire said. “It will look charming engraved upon the wedding invitations.”
Michael very nearly staggered; he held one hand to his forehead and took a deep breath to gather the shreds of his composure. Dear heavens, were Claire and this Miss Thompson in on this con together?
“Ofcourse,” Claire said, tilting her head, “That name would look just as well under the deportee notices in the paper. I’ve heard New South Wales is very fine this time of year.”
The young lady blinked; her formerly soft features hardened in an instant. “Excuse me?”
“No, I don’t think I shall,” Claire said coolly.
“If anyone should go to the papers, it’s me,” Miss Thompson insisted.
"Madam," he hissed, "we’ve never met. I don't know who you are."
"Of course you don't," Claire said.
The maid brought a tea tray, took one look at the assembled mess, blinked with wide eyes, and was gone again.
Claire made herself at home on the sofa as if there weren't a young woman sniffling in her vicinity and poured herself a cup of tea. "It seems your rakish tendencies have grown so well-known that even the charlatans of Cheapside have heard of them."
Claire sipped from her teacup and observed Miss Thompson with a cool detachment that Michael envied very much at the moment.
"Pardon?" he said.
"She's come to shake you down, of course. She knows you by reputation only. She certainly doesn't know about your family's inherited birthmark."
The young lady on the sofa stopped her sniffling long enough to say, "Of course I do.”
Now that Claire had pointed it out, Michael could hear the edge of a cockney burr riding the young woman’s words.
Claire raised her eyebrows. “You do?”
"I know all about the mark. Our baby Michael's got one too."
"Then it's easily proven. Your infant, I assume, has the same birthmark on his buttocks."
Michael shot Claire an incredulous look; she ignored him.
"Yes," the young woman said stoutly.
"And it's in the shape of a…" Claire led.
The young woman looked back and forth between Claire and Michael as if one of them might offer the answer.
"A strawberry," she finally guessed.
Claire shook her head. "Not even close.” She turned to Michael. “Your footmen should see this person out."
"Ah, well, it was worth a try," the young woman said, dropping the affectation of tears altogether. "Spare a coin for a hackney?"
"Don't be ridiculous," Michael blustered. “I should have you arrested.”
This morning had been one ridiculous mishap after the next. First his Aunt Dora persistently offering to arrange a marriage for him with her absurd group of friends, and now this.
"I’ll pay for your hackney cab on one condition.” Claire rummaged in her small beaded reticule.
"What's that, m’lady?"
"That you forget this man's name and his address. He’s not up for grabs, you see."
"All right, then." The young lady accepted the coin from Claire's gloved fingers. "Lovely doing business, m’lady."
She bobbed some semblance of a curtsy and hustled to the door. The footman followed quickly after, as if to make sure she didn't attempt to shove an expensive vase into her ill-fitting bodice on the way out.
Michael stared after them, his eyes wide.
"Really, Michael," Claire said, "you should train your butler to be more careful."