Chapter 15
The boarding house was on a quiet street near the river.
Gage had acquired it two years ago as an investment. However, Kit suspected the investment had less to do with profit and more to do with the fact that Gage had a weakness for people who'd been dealt a bad hand.
Kit climbed the stairs to the second floor and knocked.
Mrs. Briggs opened the door. A sturdy, no-nonsense woman of fifty who served as nurse, cook, and guard all at once. She stepped aside without a word.
Clementine was sitting by the window, and in this light, she looked even younger than she was. Barely twenty, she had a round, pale face and reddish hair that she kept braided over one shoulder. She was a pretty girl, but now she mostly looked tired.
The relief that crossed her face when he entered was so raw it made his chest tight.
"My lord." She started to rise.
"Don't get up." He crossed the room and took the chair opposite her. "How are you feeling?"
"Well enough." Her hand rested on the swell of her belly. "Mrs. Briggs has been very kind."
"Good." He reached into his coat for an envelope. "This should cover the next month. And I've written to the shipping office about passage to Cork. There's a vessel departing in six weeks. That should give you enough time after—" He nodded toward her belly.
Clementine took the envelope. Her fingers trembled slightly. "You don't have to do this."
He frowned. "We've discussed this."
"I know. But the things they're saying about you now—" Her voice cracked. "I heard them, my lord. Mrs. Briggs tried to keep it from me, but the girl who brings the milk was talking about it on the stairs, and I—" She bit her lip. "They think the baby is yours. They think—"
"I know what they think." He said it gently, reassuringly, but she still flinched.
"It's my fault." Her lower lip wobbled and he was reminded again of how young she was. Young, and naive, and utterly at the mercy of the man who'd promised to be her protector.
"It is not your fault," he said firmly. "None of this is your fault, Clementine."
She didn't look convinced as she fidgeted with the envelope in her hands and stared at the floor.
Kit leaned forward. "Listen to me. You are going to have this child. Then you're going to go home to your family. And you are going to have a good life. That is what matters. The rest—" He waved a hand. "The rest is not your concern."
"But the young lady," Clementine said quietly. "The one they say you've been courting."
Kit went still. For a moment he was back in the ballroom, with Clarissa in his arms.
"Is she…" Clementine's eyes widened. "Is she someone you care about?"
He looked away, banishing the mental image. "She's not part of this."
Clementine studied him with eyes that were far too perceptive. But she had the grace not to press.
He stayed for another quarter of an hour, going over the arrangements. But the sound of boots on the stairs came before a knock, and then Gage appeared in the doorway.
He nodded to Clementine, who gave him a small, grateful smile. Then he turned to Kit. "A note arrived at the club for you." He held out a folded paper. "From your aunt."
Kit took it. The duchess's handwriting was unmistakable.
Come at once. — P.
Kit frowned. "When did this arrive?"
"An hour ago. I came as soon as I could." Gage glanced at Clementine, then back at Kit.
Kit folded the note and slipped it into his coat.
"Go," Gage said. "I'll stay with her."
Kit nodded and turned to Clementine. "I'll send word about the passage as soon as it's confirmed."
"Thank you, my lord." Her voice was small. "I'm sorry. For all of it."
He wanted to tell her, again, that none of this was her fault. That the man who should be sitting in this chair, making these arrangements, paying these bills, was currently playing cards at a gentlemen's club and pretending she didn't exist.
The duke had the means to settle this generously and decently, and had chosen not to. For his father, a girl like Clementine was just a passing diversion. And he'd already grown bored with her before she came to be with child.
So he'd turned her away, claiming she was lying about who the father was. Really, he just cared about appearances. And for a duke who was well known for his high morals, a mistress and bastard child were not to be tolerated, let alone coddled.
But Kit didn't have the heart to remind Clementine of whose fault this was. It only made him angry and her tearful, and it did no one any good.
And besides, the duchess's note was burning a hole in his pocket.
"Take care of yourself," he said instead.
The walk to the duchess's townhouse took twenty minutes. He used every one of them to prepare.
The rumors were out. He didn't know how the ton had gotten wind of it, but his aunt would have heard. She would want answers.
He supposed he could tell her the truth—that his father had abandoned a girl half his age who he'd sworn to protect.
But what difference would that make? In the eyes of society, it would be his word against his father's. Besides, he'd already made his decision to take responsibility. So what did it matter if he actually fathered the child. In the end, it was his decision and he would not waver now.
Even so…
The duchess's townhome came into view and his steps slowed.
Kit could handle the ton's contempt. But his aunt's disappointment was something else entirely. Aunt Philippa was the one person whose good opinion he didn't wish to lose. And he was about to walk into her study and lie to her face. Again.
The butler admitted him. "Her Grace is in the parlor, my lord. She asked me to tell you she has a guest."
Kit paused in the foyer. "A guest."
"Yes, my lord." The butler's stony expression said no more information would be forthcoming.
Kit straightened his cuffs and pushed open the parlor door.
His aunt was seated in her usual chair, teacup in hand. She looked up when he entered. "Ah," she said. "Just in time."
She gestured to the settee opposite her, and Kit's gaze followed the gesture to the woman sitting there. He stopped short.
Clarissa.
She was holding a teacup and wearing a pale gown. Her hair was pulled back simply, and she was…smiling.
The smile was worse than any amount of shouting or accusations. It was small and polite and painfully formal.
It was, in short…a mask. And he hated it.
He willed her to meet his eyes, but when she did, it only made him feel worse. Her dark eyes met his, but there was no spark of mischief and laughter. They were dark and flat, and completely shuttered.
"Lord Stratton," Clarissa said, her tone polite but distant. She might as well have been addressing a stranger.
"Lady Clarissa." He bowed, because what else could he do. "How lovely to see you."
The words tasted like ash. What he ought to do was apologize. He knew that. From the moment he'd first gotten wind of the rumor, he'd known what it would mean for Clarissa.
She'd been made out to be a fool. Again. And this time it was all his fault.
Guilt hit him like a physical blow. He'd gone about this all wrong. No, he hadn't expected the ton to get wind of Clementine, but he should have been prepared for it. He should have hidden her better, or kept his distance from Clarissa and found some other way, or—
The duchess set down her teacup and the sound jarred him out of his spiraling thoughts.
She nodded toward the seat beside Clarissa. "Sit down, Kit. We have much to discuss."