Chapter 5
Julian was at the front door just as Richmond, the family butler, hurried down the stairs.
“Your Grace,” he said, “I had not expected you back so early.” He stopped and looked at Clara and then at the bundle in her arms.
“Richmond, let me introduce you to my wife, Lady Clara Hampshire. Or rather, the Duchess of Lynden as she is now. And our son, David.”
“Your wife.” He looked from one to the other and then fell into a deep bow. “My Lady, what a pleasure it is to meet you. Although rather unexpected, I must say.”
“Yes, there is much to explain,” Julian said quickly. “For tonight, Her Ladyship is going to be staying in the blue guest room. Please have Mrs. Parker prepare the room. And I will also need to send an urgent message if you wouldn’t mind waking one of the footmen. In fact, two messages.”
“Of course, Your Grace. And a chamber for the child? Shall I prepare the nursery?”
“I wish to keep him with me.” Clara looked up at him with clear, determined eyes. “I want him to stay with me, if that is quite all right.”
Already, she was maternal. How odd it was, standing here with her holding the baby, knowing that the child belonged to his cousin, and yet all the world believing that the child was his and she was his wife. And come morning, they would have to find a way to make it so.
He had spoken with considerable confidence when he had told her that the vicar at the home parish would do as he asked, but he was not certain of it at all.
The man had been a family friend for decades, and they were close, but were they close enough for him to make alterations to official documents?
He had to believe that he would help them.
Otherwise, there was only Gretna Green, and a Gretna Green marriage would not match their story.
His mind raced. He thought of Arabella. What had she done? And who was this man who had trapped her in Italy? He had tried his very best to extract information from her, but she had not been forthcoming.
Arabella had always done as she pleased, and his parents had indulged her in it.
Later, he had done the same. He had never been able to say no to her, and that had always been a problem.
It was his indulgence of her that had led to this.
He should have been stricter. He should have gone after her to Italy, but her letters had seemed so confident.
“Julian,” Clara said beside him.
He blinked. “Yes.”
“David will stay with me.” This time it was not a question but a declaration.
“Of course, he will stay with you if you wish. There is no question about it.” He turned to the butler. “Richmond, have my cradle brought up out of storage. The carved one with the blue paintings—you know the one.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” he said. “I shall see to it at once.” He hurried away, and a moment later, Julian heard him calling for a footman.
“The cradle was mine,” he explained. “When I was a baby.”
Clara nodded. Then she said, “Do they know that Arabella was here?”
“No,” he said quickly. “One of the maids she trusted had let her in, and nobody else saw her. When I spoke to her, she made it clear that she did not want anyone to know, so I put her in one of the cottages here on the estate. She hid there. The staff does not know about the baby. Only that one maid, and the maid left with her.”
“I see.” She paused. “Were you thinking about her earlier? When we arrived, you were miles away.”
“Yes,” he said. “I was thinking about what I could have done differently. What I could have done to help her. But I could think of nothing.”
“I have had the same thoughts,” she said. “Wondering whether I had been so self-involved that I had missed something in her letters. Whether I could have stopped her. Whether I could have done anything.”
“I truly do not think there was anything either of us could have done. If Arabella wants to keep secrets, Arabella keeps secrets. That was always the end of it.”
“I know it,” she said.
“Let me take you up to your chamber.” He proffered his arm, and she took it. It felt strange, having her on his arm with a baby in her arms. He had had visions of this sometimes—returning home with a wife and child, wondering what that might feel like.
He had been engaged to Josephine once. With her, he had imagined such things. He had imagined her on his arm and a home as a married couple, and it had been her face he had seen in those imaginings.
But Josephine had used him, and then she had disappeared. When she had come crawling back asking for his mercy, she had been a different woman entirely. And he had not found it in his heart to forgive her.
But he had built walls around his heart. A determination that he would never again allow a woman into his heart or his life. He had broken half of that promise already. A woman was once again in his life—not entirely by his choice, but it was what it was.
They made their way up to the second floor.
He nodded down the hallway. “My chambers are this way. The Duchess’ chambers are also down that hall.
” He paused. “They will, of course, be yours. But for tonight, you will stay in the blue room which is this way.” He indicated the other hall.
Someone had already lit a couple of sconces, so it was not entirely dark.
As they walked, she stopped for a moment and looked up at a painting.
“That is your mother,” she said. “I remember her. She was lovely.”
“She was indeed,” he replied. “I cannot believe she has been gone for these ten years. And my father, too.”
“It seems like yesterday that she would host garden parties. I remember enjoying them so much,” Clara said. “She always served the most wonderful tea cakes.”
“She made them herself,” he said.
“She did not,” she replied, the disbelief plain in her voice.
“She did. She could never tell anyone because my father thought it improper for the lady of a great house to be toiling away in the kitchen, but she always did. She loved it. In fact, Mrs. Parker has the recipe somewhere, I am almost certain of it.”
“Does she?”
How odd it was, the two of them standing here in the hallway in front of a painting of his mother, talking about tea cake recipes while his cousin was somewhere out in the world hiding, and both his and Clara’s lives were about to be turned entirely upside down.
Everyone would think they were married, and they would be so in due course.
Their lives would be changed forever. And the truth was, he had not even asked Clara’s permission.
He had simply decided, the way he sometimes had a habit of simply deciding things.
Perhaps this was why Arabella had sent the child to Clara and not to him.
Because she had known what he would do. She had known he would take charge of the situation in the way he saw fit.
Perhaps she had trusted Clara with the baby for exactly that reason.
But whatever the case, it was far too late now.
He had fully inserted himself, and there was no undoing it.
He shook his head. It was ridiculous, really.
He had told himself he was rescuing the situation, but in truth, Arabella had left the child with a woman who had no husband, no home of her own, and no means of providing the baby with any sort of security.
Hiding a baby in a dressing room was not a plan.
And yet, perhaps Clara had simply acted on instinct.
Perhaps she had only thought of who would be best able to care for the child immediately.
Perhaps she had not thought any further than the next five minutes. He could hardly blame her for that, given the circumstances.
A rim of pain appeared behind his left eye, and he rubbed his temple.
“I shall leave you here at your chamber,” he said, and then he shook his head at the garbled sound of it.
“I mean—I should leave you here. I have to go and write a letter to your parents and to your chaperone. I hope Mrs. Wainscott will still be at the ball and able to receive a message.”
“She will be waiting up,” Clara said. “She will be absolutely frantic.”
“Then all the more reason to send word at once. I will tell your parents that we will call on them tomorrow morning to explain everything and that they are not to worry.”
“They will worry anyway,” she said.
“Of course, they will. It is only natural. But they would worry considerably more if we did nothing.” He bowed. “Richmond will see that everything you need is brought up to the chamber shortly.” He paused. “Thank you for taking care of the baby. And thank you for… everything.”
She bowed her head once in acknowledgement, and he noticed how she looked in the moonlight coming through the hallway window—her gown, which was made of a silky material that had felt very smooth beneath his hand as they had danced, appeared almost white, and with the baby in her arms, she looked rather like something out of a painting.
He blinked. What an entirely peculiar thought. The headache was getting worse.
He took a breath, turned, and walked back down the hall.
He turned left toward his own chamber, only to find that a footman had already been by to light the sconces, so he did not have to walk in the dark.
He let himself in, lit the candle on his desk, and pulled out an ink pot, quill, and paper, along with the sand shaker, and quickly wrote two messages—one to Mrs. Wainscott, so that she would not worry herself into an apoplexy about her charge, and one to Clara’s parents.
Exactly how he was going to explain to them in the morning that he and Clara were married and had a baby that was several months old, he did not quite know yet, but he could only hope that at some point in the night, something approaching a sensible answer would come to him.
He rather suspected it was going to be a very long night.