Nicholas: Lord of Secrets (31 page)

He was banishing his father-in-law, as Leah had been banished, but Wilton at least had the grace to ask one question. “Emily?”

“She will enjoy my grandmother’s hospitality,” Nick said, “and that of her sister’s household, under my protection, and that of her brothers. They are aware of your situation, by the way, and agree that short of causing the scandal you deserve and they do not, this is the best course.”

Wilton sat heavily in one of the delicate, expensive chairs, staring at Nick mutely.

“I suggest you start packing,” Nick said softly, tapping his hat onto his head and pulling on his gloves.

Wilton addressed the carpet before Nick could move to the door. “It was an accident—with Frommer. I wanted to scare him off, of course. He could have taken Leah’s portion, and there was none to be had, but when his gun went off…” Wilton shook his head. “I panicked. It was an accident, I swear. I hate the girl on some level, hate that her mother did what she did, hate that I couldn’t… But I just wanted Frommer backed off enough never to ask the wrong questions, you know? About dowries, of course, but also about inheritances. I made a mistake.”

“As perhaps the girl’s mother made a mistake, one for which you could not forgive her.”

Wilton nodded miserably but said nothing further.

“Wilton,” Nick said before his compassion evaporated in the heat of his contempt, “I believe you did not premeditate murder. You will live out your days in the country anyway, because what you did before and after that accident was deliberate cruelty toward those you should have protected.”

Another nod, and then Wilton seemed to shrink and draw in on himself, a physical metaphor for the shriveling of his soul.

If indeed he still possessed one.

***

“I don’t understand,” Leah muttered, glancing over at Nick as their coach rumbled off toward Darius’s estate. “You went to call on Wilton?”

“I am your husband.” Nick took pleasure in reminding them both, though his errand with Wilton had meant Leah had awoken alone in their bed. “Your battles are mine to fight.”

“You beat him?” Leah’s tone bore equal hints of relish and dismay.

“Figuratively. You and Frommer were legally married, Leah. Your father encouraged the elopement to explain the lack of dowry, but he’d forgotten you also had inheritances—funds he’d stolen several years before—of which Frommer might have gotten wind. Those funds were to go to you in trust upon your marriage, a hedge against your father’s embezzlement of your dowry.”

The coach slowed to make the turn from the lane, shifting Leah’s weight more snugly against Nick’s side.

“Mother mentioned something about that, though she was very ill at the time, and I didn’t know if she was speaking factually or in terms of unmet wishes.”

“Factually,” Nick said, settling his arm around Leah’s shoulder. Her scent was particularly luscious this morning, and to his eyes, she looked subtly radiant. “Embezzlement left your father with a need to put a good scare into any notions Frommer might have had about poking into your finances. As the son of a marquis, Frommer could have seen it done.”

Leah turned to gaze out the window, which meant Nick’s fingers could caress the curve of her cheek. “But Wilton killed Aaron before any awkward questions were asked?”

“Wilton claims it was an accident,” Nick said gently, “and the circumstances don’t particularly contradict him.” Hellerington did, of course, but his account was not entirely unbiased, and Nick could easily see Wilton panicking in a crisis. “The upshot is your father will make financial reparation to his children and behave himself in Hampshire for the foreseeable future.”

She nuzzled his hand, which was enough to make Nick wish the coach were headed back toward Clover Down. “You’re sure?”

“The statute of limitations on murder does not toll,” Nick replied. “Wilton probably doesn’t have that many years left on this earth, given the weight of his sins.”

“The wicked put off meeting their fate as long as they can,” Leah observed. “What do my brothers think of this?”

Their reactions didn’t matter to Nick, provided his countess was happy. “I don’t know. I sent messages to them this morning, summarizing my actions, and set off before they could reply. I gave Wilton to understand we are a united front, of course, because scandal would serve no one. Did you know I am an uncle?”

She shot him a glance at the abrupt change in topic, but acquiesced. Her father’s perfidy would no doubt take time to ponder—and recover from.

“Ethan has children?”

“Two little boys whom I’ve not yet met,” Nick replied, though given Ethan’s proportions, they were probably big little boys. “I can’t wait to chase them through our orchard.”

He waited while she digested that, but when his wife—his countess, his Leah, his lovey—made no comment, Nick abandoned half measures and scooped her onto his lap.

“Better,” he pronounced. “I should not have left you alone in our bed this morning. A woman dealing with a pilfered inheritance, purloined marriage lines, a surprise, mostly grown stepdaughter, and a clodpated husband should not be waking all on her lonesome.”

“A comfortable, clodpated husband,” Leah allowed, relaxing against him. “There’s more, though, isn’t there? You haven’t taken a sudden notion to go calling on Darius today, of all days, because you’ve tired of my charms already—I’ve not tired of yours, in case you were wondering.”

Nick brushed his lips against her ear. “I was wondering if you were sore, lovey. My countess is a passionate lady.” And wasn’t that a fine, fine thing?

“Blame me for provoking you to protracted displays of virility, will you?” She sounded wonderfully disgruntled as she kissed his jaw. “If this is your version of flirting, Nicholas, you are in sad want of direction. It shall be my pleasure to provide it to you upon our return to Clover Down.”

“And it will be my duty…” The rest of the blather flew out of his head as Leah bit his earlobe. The coach rumbled along, the earl and his countess kissing all the while, until Nick caught a glimpse through the window of Darius’s gateposts.

“Lovey?”

She struggled to sit up, which allowed Nick to notice that their spate of kissing had taken a toll on her coiffure.

“That is not a dignified endearment, Nicholas. I am a countess, soon to be the guiding female influence on your only daughter, and I will not allow—”

Nick allowed himself one more little kiss, to stop his lovey’s verbal frolicking. “What would you think about becoming the sole female influence on Leonie and a somewhat younger child, a boy who bears a particular resemblance to your brother Darius?”

She went silent, shifted off his lap, and tucked the stray lock of hair behind her ear, all vestiges of frolic and flirtation gone from her expression. “There’s another secret, isn’t there, Nicholas?”

“Please don’t look so worried, wife of mine. This is a happy secret, a joyous secret that need not be kept secret much longer.”

The silly woman tried to scoot away from him. Nick hauled her back against his side. “Shortly after you returned from Italy, a young woman presented herself to your brother, claiming that Wilton had ruined her. Your brother took her in, passed her child off as his own, and has kept the pleasure of raising the boy to himself these past few years. This struck him as the best way to keep the boy safe from Wilton, and in this instance—in this
one
instance—I will allow I agree with Darius.”

When Leah would have worried a fingernail, Nick took her fingers in his hand and kissed them.

The worry remained in her gaze. “I have a
brother
.”

“A busy little fellow named John. We’re to meet him, assuming he hasn’t run off and joined the Navy.” Nick tried for humor, tried for a lightness he didn’t feel as he watched anxiety cloud his wife’s face. “Darius has asked us to add the boy to our household for a bit, in fact. He wants to put the lad even farther from Wilton’s reach, at least for a time.”

The coach swung past a hedge of blooming honeysuckle, the sweet, soothing scent at odds with the tension Nick felt radiating from his wife. She started blinking, slowly, then more quickly.

“Lovey, we don’t have to take the boy in. I’m sure Darius would understand. I did not promise we would, and you’ve dealt with enough upheaval.” Belatedly it occurred to Nick that a woman who’d lost a son might not be keen on raising a half sibling for the convenience of others. He’d bungled—

“He looks like Darius? He has dark hair?”

What
had
that
to
do
with
anything?
“Sable, I’d say. And his manners are impressive for such a wee lad.” A tear slipped down Leah’s cheek, and Nick nearly bellowed for the coachy to turn the damned vehicle around.

“My Charles had sable hair,” Leah said, taking the handkerchief Nick stuffed into her hand. “Charles and Darius were very alike, the same smile, the same eyes. Charles loved his uncle, and I believe Darius would have died for that child.”

Nick could not tell if this was a good thing, given some of dear Darius’s other antics. “Darius loves this little fellow, Leah, clearly.” He brushed a tear from her cheek. “I was hoping you might love him too. We’re the boy’s family, you see, and he hasn’t had an easy time of it, with just your brother to raise him.”

“Of course.”

Of course—what? What did “of course” mean, muttered in near strangled terms?

“Lovey?” Nick bent nearer, close enough to catch the fragrance of lilies of the valley, near enough to recall the flower symbolized the return of happiness. “Of course,
what
? I can make excuses to your brother, and you need not leave the coach. I can understand that you’re dealing with a lot, and I may have misjudged—”

He shifted back just in time to avoid her elbow as she twisted sharply and flung her arms around his neck. “Nicholas, I love you. I love you so. I love you until I ache with it, and then I love you even more.”

“I love you too.” His arms came around her and held her tight, not for her, but for him—because he needed to hold her when she was upset. “But please don’t cry. I cannot abide it when you cry, Leah.”

And yet, these tears did not strike him as tears of misery.

“You don’t even
know
this boy, and you must scheme with my brother for the child’s safety,” Leah wailed. “You didn’t know me, and you m… married me, and made me your countess. You trust me with Leonie, and your own sisters don’t know of her, and my brother is an idiot to keep this from me, but you’re making him tell me, aren’t you?”

She kissed him before he could answer, and the kiss told him what the words and the tears had not: Leah was happy. She was pleased to have another sibling—which certainly made matters easier—and she was also pleased
with
him
. With Nicholas Haddonfield, her husband, which made Nick happy too.

“I did not make Darius do anything.”

“Yes, you did.” Another kiss, this one damp and salty with her tears. “You threatened to treat Darius to some fisticuffs if he didn’t allow us to help him, all in aid of saving face, I’m sure, because Darius is quite fierce, but oh, Nicholas…”

She subsided to the seat beside him, which was fortunate, because the coach had been standing still for some moments. Nick took his thoroughly wrinkled handkerchief from her grasp and blotted her tears. “I did not want to upset you, Wife. This should be a happy day.” He took her hand in his, the better to comprehend the emotions rioting through her. “Why the tears, Leah? Is John to come stay with us at Belle Maison? Leonie alone will create a commotion. Two children at once, children who are strangers to each other and strangers to you, is hardly how I wanted you to begin your duties as my countess.”

***

Leah could hardly speak for the feelings thundering inside her.

“Nicholas.” She clutched his hand, trying to find words. “I want to call you lovey, too. Did you know that? It’s such a wonderful endearment.”

He smiled, a man purely indulging a daft female. “I would be honored to be your lovey, but that’s not what you wanted to tell me, is it?”

She shook her head. “For years—
years
—I was alone. I was barely tolerated. My father called me a walking disgrace to English womanhood and worse. My brothers did what they could for me, but that just made me feel worse, more ashamed. You have given me your daughter, and that… that…”

Leah bit her lip, trying not to let more tears fall, because Nick looked nigh to panic when she cried. She tried again, before the urge to kiss her husband could overtake the need to find the words. “You assumed I would make a place for John in our household. You faced down my father and exiled him to Hampshire. You’ve recruited Lady Warne to look after Emily’s come out, you, you…”

“I love you,” Nick said, sounding bewildered. “Of course I will do those things. It’s my privilege and honor to do them, because you are my wife and my countess, and I pray to Almighty God we have decades upon decades to raise our children, love our family, and love each other in every possible sense of the word.”

He
understood
. He understood what she’d been trying to say, the magnitude of the bounty she’d acquired when he’d taken her to wife. “Yes, and when you are clodpated, I will love you, and when I am wrong-headed, you will love me.”

Nick’s smile was tender and luminous. In her heart, Leah said a prayer that he’d always have that smile for her, even when they were old and gray.

She made the acquaintance of her very small brother John, and she agreed with Nick that the boy should join their household at Belle Maison. When she offered John her hand, that he might drag her off to the stables and introduce her to his pony, Leah caught Nick giving her that same tender, indulgent smile again.

As it turned out, even after they’d had decades upon decades to raise their many delightful children, love their family, and love each other in every possible sense of the word, he still smiled at her like that. Just exactly, wonderfully like that.

Nick and Leah’s story is dear to me, but preparing it for publication at the same time Darius and Vivian’s tale is in production (along with other related stories) has put significant demands on the folks at Sourcebooks, Inc., who turn my manuscripts into pretty books. I’m especially indebted to my book people for ensuring that Nick and Leah’s romance has found its way into readers’ hands, with specific thanks as follows:

My editor, Deb Werksman, can turn straw into gold. I swear to peaches, this is so. Even after eight books, I’m not sure
how
she does this, but the knowledge that she’s going to read every word of every manuscript, and pluck from a draft the potential for a great read amazes me and inspires me to keep coming up with the drafts.

Susie Yoder Benton is our scheduling goddess, and has kept the raw material for five series, a smattering of enovellas, and a few stray single titles moving into and through the Magic Tunnel of production without her once climbing through the phone or cyberspace and
’splaining
to me the precise meaning of the term deadline. Deb spins straw into gold, but Susie can stretch time.

Cat Clyne has the dubious honor of extracting from me the dreaded marketing synopsis, positioning statement, and (muahaha music goes here) the tagline necessary to appease the voracious shifters who inhabit the shadowed realms of marketing and sales. Whether she wants it or not, Cat also gets a generous serving of whining with every attempt on my part to generate marketing material. Susie stretches time, but Cat sprinkles the magic dust of good humor at the right moment to prevent me from having tantrums.

Skye Agnew, in truth, has security clearances so classified we aren’t even allowed to know what they’re called, and she uses them to run some complex, advanced, invisible, alternate universe. She only masquerades as a production editor so she’ll have an excuse for lapsing into thoughtful silences when other people would roll their eyes and bellow, “Are you
nuts
? I don’t have
time
to look up when the word “sandpaper” was first used in southern England!”

Skye knows the older term was glasspaper, and she knows why, and she has the cites. Scary.

Danielle Jackson is my publicist—it’s fun to write that, as if I’m her sole concern from morning until night, but Danielle is responsible for supporting dozens of books every year. She organizes blog tours, splatters Advanced Reader Copies across the known universe
and
the blogosphere, has a grasp of market mechanics that leaves me agog, and can pull off a thirty-author signing like rolling off a log. More impressive than all that, she answers emails lickety-split. How cool is that?

Dominique Raccah is our publisher, the owner, visionary, and chief alchemist at Sourcebooks, Inc. Dominique has a growing company to run, many planes to catch, and a calendar full of international conferences to dazzle with her insight and imagination, but when one of my books felt like it needed the exasperating, elusive “something” tweaked, Dominique read the entire manuscript and pinpointed the difficulty. Wow and double wow.

With people like this to work with book after book, an author can only be grateful and humble.