Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (4 page)

"Nah, guv. Me mam died."

"Then spend the night with the grooms in the mews. I'll see you get a good meal and some warm clothing, and tomorrow we'll talk. I really am rather stretched at the moment."

"Aye," said the boy sympathetically, responding to the easy manner of the other. "That duke. He yer gaffer?"

"My master?" The swell gave a twisted smile. "Yes, I suppose he is. Marleigh!" he called out, and the butler stuck his head out the door.

"Your lordship?"

"Send one of the grooms to collect this child. What's your name, boy?"

"Sparra, yer lordship," said the urchin, much awed. "Beggin' yer pardon if'n I bin rude, yer lordship."

"Don't start to toad-eat, little bird," said the swell as he turned away "It's the one thing I will not stand for."

Then he ran up the steps again, followed by his herd of friends. The big doors shut again on the light.

Sparra wondered whether to make himself scarce, forget about the goldfinch. Dukes, lords—such types didn't shine right for kids from Figger's Lane.

Before he could decide, a sturdy boy some years his senior came up the basement stairs.

"You the one as is to be taken in?" he asked with great superiority.

"Yus," muttered Sparra.

The older boy looked him over, then his face relaxed a bit. "Never know what's next with Arden. Don't look so nervous, lad. It's a good house, even when the duke's here and we have to watch it. Come on then."

As they went down the stairs towards the warm lights of the kitchen, Sparra asked, "If this is the duke's 'ouse, 'ow come the young'un can bring me in?"

"'Cause he's his son. One day this'll all be his anyway. That's not to say he won't catch it for creating such a stir in the street. The duke's the only one Arden looks out for."

Even at this late hour Belcraven House was ready for unexpected guests, both above and below stairs. As the French chef whipped together a hasty gourmet meal for the duke, he served up a bowl of soup and a slab of bread covered with thick butter to Sparra, though Sparra was forced to sit on the floor in the scullery to eat it. After one horrified glance, the chef had banished the ragamuffin boy from the kitchen.

Sparra didn't much care. This was as close to heaven as he could remember. As he slurped up the rich soup with whole chunks of meat in it, he wondered if there was anything he could do to save his benefactor from tomorrow's reckoning. He was still pondering this when he rolled himself in two dry blankets and settled down in a cozy corner of the stables. He was soon asleep, comfortable and well-fed for the first time since his mother died.

* * *

The next morning the marquess awoke with a sense of resignation instead of his usual zest for life. Whatever his father's reason for this unannounced visit to Town it augured poorly for himself. As his valet shaved him, Arden wondered why he could never get along with his father. He admired him tremendously, but whenever they were together they were like flint and steel. The slightest tinder and a conflagration would result.

It was damnable luck that the duke had turned up during a scene. Lord Darius Debenham—commonly called Dare—had laid a monkey that the marquess couldn't make it to Drury Lane and back with Blanche's handkerchief before midnight. The marquess never refused a bet. That blasted man's horse had been none the worse for the experience. Probably never had a good run before.

That reminded him.

"Hughes, how's that boy?" he asked, as he began to arrange a black cravat around his high collar. It should suit the mood of the day.

"He seems very happy with his situation, milord," said the valet. "In fact, if I may be so bold, it would be harsh to return him to his previous existence after showing him a taste of a reasonable life."

The marquess lowered his neck carefully to produce the correct creases for a Mathematical. "The devil you say. What the hell am I supposed to do with him?"

"I'm sure some position could be found, milord. The staff find him quite bearable, given his upbringing. Didn't complain much at having a bath, said please and thank you, and asked what he could do to help."

"A regular little gentleman, in fact. Oh well, I'll think about it after I've seen my father."

The marquess was eased into his dark blue jacket and stood before the mirror to consider the effect. "Think it'll turn my father up sweet?" he asked Hughes dryly.

"Any father would be proud of such a son," said Hughes and indeed, he thought, it was true.

The marquess had his father's height—over six feet but with more muscle than the duke. Not a heavy man but broad in the shoulders and with the strong legs of a bruising rider. And of course he had his mother's looks in a masculine way—the fine lines of the bones and a curve on his mouth a girl would envy. He had the duchess's golden curls, too.

The marquess was a delight to dress. His fawn pantaloons showed off his legs a treat and the blue superfine jacket was creaseless across his straight shoulders. The ivory silk waistcoat and three fobs was just the right touch. Yes, the duke would find nothing at which to cavil.

Whatever Hughes's opinion, the marquess found no approval on the duke's face when he presented himself in his father's study. The duke and the duchess kept separate suites in the house, and these rooms were always prepared for their occasional visits. The rest of the house was given over to their son's use.

The duke was seated in a wing chair by the fireplace.

"Good morning, sir," said the marquess, trying to read his father. He did not presume to take a seat.

The duke looked his son up and down, and though the marquess knew he was perfectly turned out, he was made to feel grubby.

"You will please explain what was happening when I arrived last night, Arden."

The marquess did his best. His racing feat was not admired.

"Is the actress your mistress?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do not bring her, or her successors, to this house again."

The marquess stiffened, but it was in acknowledgement of the justice of the reprimand. "Very well. I apologize, sir."

The duke inclined his head slightly. "And the boy?"

"He appears to have found favor with the servants, sir. I thought to find him a place."

The duke inclined his head again. "I understand you still owe him a guinea. I am sure you honor your debts."

The marquess marveled that the duke always seemed to know what was going on. There was, however, the slightest possible lightening of his father's expression. "Of course, sir."

The disciplinary part of the interview was apparently over. The marquess felt the tension seep out of him. Whatever had brought the duke to London so unexpectedly was obviously not to be laid at his door.

"Sit down, Arden. I have something to discuss with you."

As the marquess took the opposing wing chair he detected something in his father's voice which led him to another concern. "I hope
Maman
is well," he said.

"Completely."

Despite the reassuring reply, the duke's untypical uneasiness worried the marquess considerably. He felt an alarming need to fiddle with his cravat or cross and uncross his legs. This elegant room, with its rich gold brocade curtains and Chinese carpet, held no particularly unpleasant memories, but the duke carried the atmosphere with him. Wherever their meetings took place Lucien de Vaux felt as if he were back in his father's formidable study at Belcraven Park quivering under a caustic tongue-lashing or stoically listening as his tutor was instructed as to the number of strokes his latest escapade warranted.

He had always preferred the latter. The system had been quite clear to him from an early age. Beatings were rarely harsh and were reserved for the kind of mischief common to boys. The sting carried the message that he had done something of which his father disapproved but which did not seriously distress him.

A dressing down by his father was an indication that he had fallen below the standards of the de Vaux, that his father was ashamed of his son and heir. Arden had frequently wept.

Why did this occasion recall those painful times when it was clear the duke was not angry?

Eventually the duke broke the silence. "There is no way to dress this up with ribbons and bows, Arden, but I'm not sure in which order the news will be easiest." He fixed his heir with a direct look. "I have to tell you that you are not my son."

The shock was total. "You are
disinheriting
me? For God's sake, why?"

"No!" said the duke. "The very opposite. I have known since your birth that you are not my son."

Icy shock was replaced by hot fury, and the marquess shot to his feet. "You slander my mother!"

"Don't be ridiculous," said the duke wearily. "I am as tender of the duchess's reputation as you. Ask her if you wish. It is the truth. The briefest indiscretion with a childhood sweetheart...."

The marquess saw the old pain in his father—no, not his father....

The world shifted around him, and he grasped the back of the chair by which he stood. His heart was thundering in his chest. It seemed an effort to breath. Surely grown men did not faint....

He heard the duke as if over a vast chasm. "It happened when I was in Scotland after grouse. I broke my leg. There was no question of my having fathered you."

"His father would not lie. His father... this man sitting rigidly before him, had always been truthful, if cold. So much, so much was explained. The marquess felt as if his heart had been ripped out of his body. It was a draining effort, but he focused on essentials. "Why did you acknowledge me?"

The duke shrugged, not looking at him at all. "There were two sons already. It happens in every family now and then, and I loved your mother deeply. She would never willingly have parted with a child." He flicked a glance at his heir and then looked away quickly, paler still. "Then there was the accident and she was near her time. We could have pretended the child had died, I suppose. I have wondered... but it would have destroyed her." He sighed heavily. "She clung to you as to none of her other babes. It was not a time of rational thinking."

The marquess felt things begin to settle, to settle into a new and darker world. He looked down and saw his hands were bone white where they gripped the chair. He was quite unable to relax them. "What you are saying," he said, seeking in coldness a mask for the fury of hurt burning within him, "is that you have since wished me out of existence."

He looked up. The duke met his eyes firmly, but there was a whiteness about his mouth. "I have wished, and still wish, the de Vaux bloodline to continue unbroken."

It seemed the most difficult thing he had ever done in his life, but the marquess drew himself up and assumed the grand manner to which he had been so carefully raised. "I understand you, I think, sir. Do you wish me to shoot myself perhaps? Or shall I just flee to the New World under an assumed name? I fail to see how that will gain you a de Vaux heir, though. Or is
Maman
...?" He broke off in incredulity.

"Of course she's too old, Arden," said the duke sharply. "Stop emoting. I do not wish to disinherit you or dispose of you. I just wish to God you were my son." The duke stopped on that admission. After a moment he said, "Now, however, I wish you to marry my daughter."

The marquess gave up and collapsed into his chair. "That idiot last night must have hit me harder than I thought," he muttered. Or perhaps it was just shock which made his head float apart from his body, his thoughts seem like wisps of mist. One thought could be grasped, however. He had been reprieved, after a fashion. Like a man sentenced to hang who finds he is merely to be flogged.

The duke rose and poured two glasses of brandy. He thrust one into the marquess's hand and sat once more. "Drink that and pay attention, Arden."

The fiery liquid flowed down and drove the mist from his brain. The pain of reality returned, but the marquess forced his body to come to order, and prepared to try to make sense of things.

"After your birth I was under considerable strain. I myself formed a liaison and, unbeknownst to me, a child resulted. I received news of the girl's existence this morning. She has the de Vaux blood, though no one, now her mother is dead, knows of it except us. If you marry her, the line continues."

Stupidly, the marquess could only think that his father had betrayed his exquisite mother. "I have a better idea," he said bitterly. "Make
her
your heir."

The duke's voice was as chilly as a dash of cold water. "You are being nonsensical again. Are you refusing to do this?"

In his pain, with his devastated pride, the marquess longed to do just that, to throw the whole business in the duke's face and tell him to go to hell and take his bastard with him. But the pride of the de Vaux was in him, no matter how little it seemed he deserved it, and he struggled for an icy control to match the duke's.

"Do we know anything at all of this girl?" he drawled.

"Her age. She is just turned twenty-four, nearly a year younger than you."

"Firmly on the shelf, in other words," observed the marquess coolly. "She's doubtless an antidote."