Chapter 10 #2
James turned to look at the footman. “How do you know she is a lady, Hobbes?”
The footman, encouraged that the master knew his name, took a step forward into the room. “Her clothes, sir, and her hands, and the way she carried herself, head up, like she’d never had to answer to no one.”
“I see.” He arched a brow. “And what does the lady want?”
“To see you, sir.”
James nodded. “I see.”
The footman glanced at the valet, who was fastening the buttons of James’s brown-and-gold-striped waistcoat, and lowered his voice. “She said she was your mistress, sir. And she’s carrying a bundle she claims is your babe.”
“I think I would know if I’d gotten one of my mistresses with child.” James stood holding out his arms so the valet could slip on his amber velvet coat. “I can’t imagine who the lady or the child might be.”
“She was very insistent that she knew you, sir. Said you had to see her. Threatened to leave the babe on the stoop if you didn’t.”
The valet sniffed.
“On the stoop?” James straightened the cuff of his coat, glancing toward the long windows as he did so. “I suppose the evening is warm enough for a well-swaddled babe.” He looked over at the footman. “The babe is well swaddled?”
“Oh, yes, sir, can’t even see the little tyke’s face, nor its mother’s. She’s wearing one of them cloaks with the great big-framed hoods and a veil.”
“The master would never dally with anyone so unfashionable,” the valet muttered. “He is a man of principle.”
“Thank you for your faith, Crandall.”
“Not at all, sir.”
James adjusted his other cuff. “Still, I doubt my sister would take kindly to a babe squalling on the doorstep, even if the brat is mine. Although if tonight should prove to be my last, she might appreciate a small piece of myself for the world to remember me by.” He smiled wryly.
Rather fitting that it should be a bastard.
To the footman he said, “You may show her up.”
The footman returned up the back stairs to James’s private quarters, escorting a heavily cloaked and veiled woman. As the footman had said, she was clutching a bundle to her chest, a heavily swaddled bundle that squirmed and mewled in her arms.
James stood as the lady entered, waiting until his footman and valet left the room to speak. “Will you unveil, ma’am, so I might know with whom I am speaking?”
The woman shook her head.
“Come, now, my dear, if we have been on intimate enough terms to have produced a child together, you cannot be shy about baring so innocent a portion of your body as your face.”
The woman shook her head again.
“Perhaps this is a game. Your anger is piqued because it has been so long since we last parted that you have carried and borne a child. My child, I am given to understand. I suppose I am to guess, then, the identity of the lady hidden beneath the cloak.” He began to circle her.
“Let me see if I can recall the names of those lovelies who graced my bed last summer and last fall.” He assessed her form, inhaled her perfume.
“Too small to be Barbara, too tall to be Jane. Too shy to be Sophie.” He heaved a mock sigh.
“Lord knows she was inventive between the sheets.” The figure twitched and he chuckled softly. “Far too impatient to be Arabella.”
He came round to face her. “Alas, I’m afraid I shall need more clues. Shall I inspect the child and see if he, or is it a she, bears the mark of the mother?”
The woman clutched her baby more tightly, and the bundle gave a peculiar howl.
“You are the strangest of callers, my dear. You will not speak, you will not unveil. I doubt you’ve left a card. I am left with but one recourse.” He stepped closer to her.
She stepped back.
“Come, come, you cannot be fearful of me. Of a friendly kiss.” He caught her around the waist and drew her close against his chest. He lowered his lips to hers and kissed her through the fine mesh of her veil.
“Just as I suspected.” He traced the shape of her mouth with the tip of his tongue.
No taste of champagne and sugar cakes this time, and yet, unmistakable. “The taste of Elizabeth Harcrest.”
She struggled in his arms. The bundle struggled in hers.
It dropped to the floor.
James stepped back, eyes fixed, as the folds of swaddling fell in a heap, from which emerged a stout brown pug. The dog assessed the room with large liquid eyes, then sneezed to make his disgust clear.
“Oh my,” he said. “I should hope our coupling produces more handsome offspring than that.”
“Roland!” Elizabeth dropped to her knees. “Are you all right?” The pug took a step toward her, then sneezed again.
“He appears uninjured.”
Elizabeth glared up at James. “I’ve no intention of coupling with you!”
He put a hand to his heart. “Then I fear it is I, rather than that dog—that is a dog, isn’t it?—who has been wounded.”
Elizabeth rose to her feet. “Of course he’s a dog! He’s Madeleine’s dog,” she said as if that made everything clear. “And you will be wounded for certain if you don’t call off this duel.”
“I have no intention of calling off the duel.”
“But why?”
He looked at her for a long moment. “It’s a matter of honor.”
“Ridiculous. It’s a matter of pride between men. If anyone’s honor is at stake it’s mine, and I’d rather be disgraced than have either of you harmed.”
He smiled, amused. “Most women would be delighted to have two men swinging swords about for the sake of their honor…”
“I’m not most women.”
“So I’m beginning to understand.”
“Then you’ll do it,” she said, her voice rising expectantly. “You’ll call off the duel?”
He folded his arms across his chest. “No.”
“But—” she began.
“Elizabeth,” he said in a tone that demanded she listen. “Your brother has requested satisfaction, and while you may believe it is a matter of pride, I believe it is a matter of honor that I give it to him. Despite what others, and possibly you, may think, I do have a sense of honor.”
“I know that, James. I’ve known you forever. Can’t you just apologize?”
He shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”
“I think it takes courage for a man to say he’s sorry publicly, greater courage than taking the field at dawn.”
“The flattery’s a nice touch, Elizabeth, but it won’t work. You see,” he said carefully, “I’m not sorry.”
She inhaled sharply. “Rafe was right? You wanted to see me disgraced?”
“No. Well, yes, perhaps, initially.” He ran a hand through his hair, disarranging his valet’s careful work. “Let me explain.”
“You’ve nothing to explain. I understand perfectly; you’re nothing more than your sister’s puppet!”
“Good Lord, woman, you leap from conclusion to conclusion like a child playing skipping games.”
She drew back her veil and her enormous hood flopped back over her shoulders. “So now you’re likening me to a child?”
“That’s not what I meant at all. Though eighteen is barely out of the nursery.” He paused, distracted by the accordion folds of fabric and ribbon collapsed about her shoulders. “Where did you get that ridiculous cape?”
“You are likening me to a child, and it was my mother’s. We keep it about for the occasional masked ball.”
“I take it back,” he said, amusement and exasperation combining in equal parts in his voice.
“You are a child, a wild child. Playing dress-up in your mother’s old clothes, appearing unchaperoned at the servants’ entrance, claiming to be my mistress, claiming that that”—he cast a quick look about for the dog, who had settled into a plush brocade chair and was happily chewing the tassel of an embroidered pillow—“creature is my offspring.”
“How else was I to see you?”
“You weren’t supposed to see me!” He glanced around his dressing room, at his dressing gown draped over a chair, at two crumpled stocks on his dressing table and the discarded choice of ribbons for his braided queue. “At least not here. You were supposed to wait for me to call.”
“I did. An entire day and a half.”
“Such a paragon of patience,” he said in a mocking tone. “I declare, Elizabeth, you’d rival a saint.”
She placed her hands on her hips, parting her cloak in the process. “You of all people should know I am no saint.”
His eyes swept over her breasts, the inviting curve of her lips. “Indeed, you are no saint, Elizabeth Harcrest,” he said softly, “but, verily, you could tempt one.”
She flushed, caught off guard. But only for the briefest moment. “And how would you know, James Dinsmore? You’re the furthest man from sainthood I’ve ever met.”
“Most likely,” he agreed.
“And precisely when did you plan to call upon me?” she demanded.
He frowned. “You Harcrests can be damned persistent!”
“And you Dinsmores are damned evasive!”
“I hadn’t decided.”
She snorted. “You weren’t coming.”
“Why did you want me to call, Elizabeth? What did you expect we would discuss? The weather, the latest fashions, drama, literature, philosophy, horseflesh, marriage?”
Her bravado seemed to fade with her color. “Don’t you want to marry me?” she asked in a voice that was nearly a whisper.
“Why do you even ask, Elizabeth? What does it matter? Your brother has declared me unfit for it. It’s amongst the reasons he wishes to kill me.” He stepped closer to her and curled a finger under her chin. “Do you want to marry me, Elizabeth?”
“If it would put an end to the duel.”
“How very noble,” he said, caressing the line of her jaw. “Perhaps you could be a saint after all.” His breath was warm against her lips. “The patron saint of desire.” He kissed her.
It was Elizabeth who broke away first. “You won’t fight him, then. You’ll call the duel off?”
“Don’t you know,” he said, a trace of regret in his teasing voice, “things never turn out well for saints?”