The English Lord's Secret Son (9 page)

“Which makes you a kinswoman of mine, Stella Radclyffe that was.” It was a statement, not a question, delivered with what she considered magnificent arrogance.

“I suppose there’s no point in denying it.” Stella threw back her head.

“No point at all,” he agreed. “May I come in?” Behind her he could see into the spacious hallway, elegantly furnished with a curving staircase beyond it.

“I’m sorry.” Stella stood firm, holding on to her not-
inconsiderable nerve. “Cate should be here. She won’t be home until well after six. Why do you want to see her anyway? You’ve done nothing but harm.” Her breath rasped in her throat.

Harm?
That gave him a jolt. He decided not to pursue it. “I’d like to see the boy,” he replied. “Don’t be afraid I will say anything to him. I just want to
see
him.”

Stella’s face had turned bone-white, but her tone was tightly controlled. “Not possible. My grandson has nothing whatever to do with you.”

“Spare me,” he groaned, having trouble processing what the hell was going on with this woman. “Why are you so frightened? What could you possibly have to hide? You and Catrina.” His blue eyes slashed.

Stella’s tongue, for once, was unguarded. “Aren’t you the man who betrayed her?” she challenged. She was going out on the attack, feeling near hysterical under an avalanche of deep resentments.

“For goodness’ sake!” He didn’t deign to respond, the expression on his striking face openly contemptuous. “Allow me to see the boy and I’ll go away. I give you my word.”

He didn’t need to add:
But I’ll be back.

Stella held up a hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you?” he asked simply. “What did Catrina tell you about me—a pack of lies?”

“You’re married, aren’t you? You have children?”

Tell her.

He was about to when a child’s voice called loudly and, it had to be said, belligerently from somewhere at the top of the stairs. “I’m here, Nan.” The tone signalled the boy was ready to defend his nan and the house if need be.

“Do not upset him,” Stella was reduced to begging.

“As if I would,” he said shortly, maddened by her attitude. The next moment a boy who had to be around seven years old raced down the stairs, his expression growing more protective the closer he came to the front door. “Who are
you
?
” He looked up at Wyndham, taking his grandmother’s trembling hand. “Why are you standing there? What do you want?”

Wyndham’s heart bounced, but remarkably his reply was both calm and quelling. “I was simply paying my respects to your grandmother. She happens to be a kinswoman of mine.”

So why the strained faces?
Jules pondered. “I don’t believe you,” he said flatly, though he was fairly certain the man was telling the truth.

“I could provide you with proof. I’m Julian Carlisle, by the way, and you’re Jules, Catrina’s son.” Wyndham held out his hand.

It was such an authoritative hand, Jules was compelled to take it. This man
had
to be okay. He looked important.

“It’s a great pleasure to meet you, Jules.” Wyndham shook his son’s hand, looking down into the Carlisles’ vivid blue eyes. No mistaking them. Though the boy had Catrina’s blond hair as he grew he would display more and more Carlisle physical characteristics. The height. The chiselled features. Right now he was just a beautiful, brave little boy coming swiftly to his grandmother’s defence. Anyone would admire that. Wyndham did.

“How come my first name is the same as yours?” Jules asked, staring up at the man, his brain seeking answers.

Stella put a protective hand on his shoulder. “Jules,” she hushed.

“Well, it’s not such an uncommon name, is it?” Wyndham suggested and smiled.

That smile directed right at him made Jules’ breath catch somewhere in his chest. He didn’t know why except it was a
great
smile. People always told him he had a great smile. It struck him that despite the funny atmosphere he
liked
this man. He looked one hundred per cent trustworthy. Anyone would be proud to have him for a...for a...dad.

Jules turned his head to stare up at his grandmother, saw the worry on her face. “What’s wrong, Nan?” he asked. Why wasn’t Nan inviting their visitor in? She was normally softly spoken, but he had heard Nan speaking with frost bite in her tone. Was she really a relative of his? Then it hit Jules. The voices. Same kind of posh accent. Nan was English. His gaze flashed back to the man. The man was too. “You’re Lord Wyndham, aren’t you?” he asked as a door in his mind opened.

Wyndham could only nod. He felt like a man who had been robbed of what he would have held most precious.

His son.

His son denied him for long, empty years. He had thought of it as the abyss. What Catrina had done was diabolical. All right she had cut him out of her life. She had no right to cut out his child. He wanted to do something drastic. He wanted to rant and rage as he had never done. He had locked it all in. He wanted Catrina right there before him. Preferably on her knees, her slender neck bent, ready for the sword. He wanted the
truth
.
He felt capable of forcing it out of her. But when he spoke it was with an air of apology.
“My fault, Jules, I’m afraid. I gave your grandmother a shock. I should have rung ahead, but I wanted to surprise her.”

Jules began to nod his understanding, then broke off as further uncertainties set in. “There’s something I don’t understand,” he said.

It was issued like a real challenge, Wyndham thought. The boy was displaying his intelligence and his finely tuned perceptions, exceptional for one so young.

“No matter, Jules.” Wyndham began to turn away. “Your mother will explain it to you.”

“Explain what? Wouldn’t it be better if you did?” Jules started to follow the man as he walked down the short flight of stone steps.

Wyndham turned. “No, your mother will do it. Go back inside, Jules,” he said with quiet but unmistakeable authority. He lifted a hand to Stella, who was standing like a pillar of salt. “I’ll phone Catrina when I get back to the hotel,” he said.

My God, I have to warn her,
Stella thought
.

“Goodbye now, Jules,” he called.

“Goodbye, sir.” The man’s smile washed over Jules again. It was like sunlight. It restored Jules’ sense of comfort and well-being.

“Will I see you again?” he called with a betraying eagerness in his voice. This was a real live lord. Wait until he told Noah! Not that either of them would want to be one. They were
Australian
.

Wyndham raised a hand. “Sure to, Jules,” he said.

Try explaining this away, Catrina. Try it, just try it.

The words reeled away like a mantra in his head.

* * *

Once Stella shut the door, Jules wouldn’t leave it alone. “You’re his kinswoman. That’s a relative, isn’t it, Nan?”

Jules was into discovery. Next he’d be onto Ancestry.com. “Yes, darling,” Stella said, desperate to get to the phone. “The funny thing is I never laid eyes on him until today.”

“Why’s that?” Jules grabbed at her hand. “Why have you never gone back to England for a visit? Aunty Annabel used to visit you, didn’t she? I think I remember her.”

“You probably do, although you were only five.”

“What happened to her?” Jules asked.

“Aunt Annabel died young, dear, because she never looked after herself. She mixed with the wrong people.”

“That’s sad. I hope her dying was peaceful?” Jules said from the depths of his tender heart.

“Very peaceful, darling,” Stella assured him. “Now, what would you like for afternoon tea? Something light. I have roast chicken and all the trimmings for dinner.”

Jules gave her the strangest look. “Don’t you want to talk about it, Nan?”

She paused to look down at him. “What’s
it
,
darling?”

“I was listening from the top of the stairs. You sounded like you were a bit afraid of him. Were you?”

“Certainly not!” Stella pronounced firmly. “I suppose I was a bit overwhelmed. He is a lord, you know. The fifth Baron Wyndham.”

“Aunt Annabel was a lady. Does that mean you were one too before you came to Australia? We don’t have lords and ladies here, thank goodness. I think we should all be the same.”

Stella’s smile was grim. “You could be right. I was a very modest Miss Stella Radclyffe, as was Annabel.” In fact both had had the title of The Honourable, but she didn’t bother telling him that. “My sister, Annabel, married a hugely successful businessman, Sir Nigel Warren, who was knighted by the Queen. Therefore she had the title Lady Warren.”

“I see. But it is better when everyone is the same,” Jules pronounced, “yet part of me was impressed. I thought Lord Wyndham was really cool. He looks a bit like some painting I’ve seen in a book. Sort of haughty, but I think, kind
.
I can’t wait for Mummy to get home. Should you ring her and tell her?”

Stella almost sighed aloud in relief. “What a good idea. You go upstairs and get changed and I’ll ring your mother.”

And that was what Stella did.

Catrina listened in silence, then said, “God help us all! He knows, doesn’t he?”

“Of course he knows,” Stella said with a severity that was palpable even over the phone. “I’d abandon any attempt to pull the wool over his eyes.”

“Isn’t it
eyes
what this is all about? Living proof,” Cate said, halfway between gravity and black humour.

“Is it ever!” Stella rasped. “Jules liked him,” she said, as though that were a betrayal.

“Of course he did!” Cate responded. “What’s the big surprise? They’re blood. I have to go, Stella. Thanks for warning me. Ashe won’t let this lie. I kept the existence of his son from him for seven years. I suppose he had the right to know,” she admitted unexpectedly.

“You remember what he did to you,” Stella reminded her with some wrath. “Just don’t panic. Be strong.”

“You’re the strong one, Stell.”

“I’m not.” Well, she
was
,
but in all modesty it was her habit to dismiss it
.

“You certainly are when it comes to pulling your weight. I want you to know I think you do a great job with Jules.” Catrina put down the phone. The sky outside her floor-to-ceiling office window was a deep blue.

But a storm was coming.

* * *

Murphy Stiller, wearing another one of her power suits, barged into her office without knocking. “Finished the Mangan proposal yet?” Her ill humour was evident.

“Not only finished, I’ve run it all by Hugh,” Cate said blithely. “Anything else I can help you with, Murphy?”

No reply. The usual glare.

“I mean, it’s not as though we’re buddies.” A note of derision had entered her voice.

“Hardly.” Murphy gave her a smile of sheer malevolence. “I don’t care much for you.”

“Not a lot of people care for you, Murphy,” Cate pointed out. “Probably not even your mother.” Cate once had been drawn into a long, informative chat with Murphy’s large and formidable mother.

“Let’s keep my mother out of this.” Murphy bit down hard on her lip. “My mother is a tyrant. She’s also a desperately unhappy woman.”

“If so, I’m sorry to hear it.” Mrs Stiller, like her daughter, Murphy, was a born bully with the devil in her. Blood would out.

“Well, I couldn’t care less,” Murphy cried, unrepentant. “She dotes on my brother, Alex, but she thinks I’ve never measured up.”

Instantly Cate felt pity. Fancy growing up with Mrs Stiller for a mother. “I’m sure she doesn’t. You’re a highly successful woman.”

Murphy didn’t thank her for the comment. “So how did you and Lord Wyndham get along?” Her near-black eyes were full of innuendo. “Kept him happy, did you?”

“Get your head into gear,” Cate said shortly. “How come you felt it necessary to tell him I had a son?”

Murphy had the grace to flush. “Tell you, did he?”

Cate kept her expression neutral. “It was of little interest to him, but I’m getting a bit tired of your interference in my private affairs, Murphy. You’ve done it many times. The next time I’ll go to Hugh.”

“And complain?” Murphy’s loud challenge would have blown another woman to smithereens.

“You bet,” Cate said. “I know you love your job, Murphy. Think about it.”

Murphy Stiller’s olive cheeks took on a hot flush. “Think you could get me fired? So poor old Hugh has the hots for you, does that make you think you’re invincible?”

“Is anybody?” Cate asked. “I’m sick of these references to Hugh’s attraction to me. Hugh is a hundred per cent loyal to his wife. So lay off, Murphy. Now I don’t have time to talk, so you’ll have to excuse me. Would you mind shutting the door when you go?”

Murphy did her stuff. She gave the door one almighty slam.

* * *

Thirty minutes later Cate was trying hard to focus on a mining lease, when the phone rang.

She knew who it was before she lifted the phone.

“Wyndham.”

“What can I do for you, Wyndham?” She spoke with cool detachment. She could have been a great actress. No trouble at all. “Is something wrong?”

“Now I know the reason why you’ve been so worried.” His tone was so much like a whiplash it brought the blood to her skin. “Make any excuse you like, but I expect to see you at my hotel in under a half hour.”

“Impossible,” she said. “I’ve work to do.”

The steely tone was calculated to get anyone moving. “Thirty minutes,” he said. “Don’t show up, I’m coming after you. I can promise you it won’t be pleasant. Far better we have our conversation here.”

It reminded Cate of the many TV crime shows she had watched, where a suspect was offered the option of spilling the beans right where they stood, or going down to the police station.

She let the phone fall. She had to head off for his hotel.

CHAPTER SEVEN

H
E
LET
HER
IN
.
Fury was burning like a slow fuse. When it hit the target it would burst into a conflagration.

His target was her. Yet she threw her arms extravagantly into the air as if she didn’t have a care in the world

It was the signal for him to turn on her, his body so taut Cate was made fully aware of the power in him. “I’ve never known anyone like you,” he said, in a hard, unforgiving voice.

“So you used to say.” Her comment was foolishly facetious, adding fuel to the fire.

“Don’t make me angrier than I already am,” he warned. “Your mother rang you, of course?”

“My adopted mother,” Cate found herself saying, taking an armchair. “She’s a jolly old Radclyffe, you know. You’re related.”

“That jolly old Radclyffe who just happened to have been born at Radclyffe Hall washed her hands of her own family. She’s your
real
mother, your biological mother. She had to have a reason for running off to Australia. Pregnant no doubt, which doesn’t make sense as she was a married woman.”

“Stella had her reasons. She
did
adopt me. I have the papers.”

He stared at her as though convinced she was a pathological liar. “I don’t believe you.”

Her own temper flared. “Harsh words aren’t they? Especially coming from someone like you.”

“Is that the best you can do?” he exclaimed, dropping into the chair opposite her. Even then his eyes were involuntarily drinking her in, he thought in disgust. “Your boy, Jules, is my son.”

“What if I swear he isn’t?’

“You could swear like the worst inmate in your worst jail. Jules is my son. You were pregnant when you left England.”

“I wasn’t.”

He ignored that, his eyes ablaze.

“Okay, I was,” she admitted. It would be too easy for him to prove paternity. That was if he wanted to. Her only hope was he would simply go away. “I wasn’t really sure until a couple of months later. I should tell you it came as a huge
shock. When the doctor told me I screamed so loud it’s a wonder you didn’t hear me deep in the Cotswolds.”

He bent forward as though he couldn’t bear to look at her. “This is it, is it?” he asked with contempt. “You’re going to confront the gravest matter with your silly jokes.”

“No joke, I assure you,” she said so sharply he lifted his dark head. “Giving birth is no fun.”

“God, Catrina,” he breathed. “Have you even for a moment regretted not letting me know? I have rights. Have you forgotten about that, about common decency? I would have done everything in my power to help you.”

She lit up with anger. “
How
exactly? Have money put into my bank account?”

His black brows knitted. “I would have come on the first plane.”

She turned her head away. “That’s as big a lie as it gets. You cut me out of your life, Ashe. You and your horrible mother.”

That got to him. Horrible mother? He felt like shaking her. “What does my mother have to answer for?” he rasped. “She was as shocked as I was by your defection. She stood by me. I couldn’t have asked for stronger support.”

Cate, too, was nearly jumping out of her skin. “Your mother was a
monster
,” she cried.

He looked utterly shocked, so shocked she floundered. “She
was
.” She registered she had lost it.

“My mother is dead,” he said. His expression was fixed yet incredibly alert like a big cat about to pounce.

“What?” she gasped.

“Hard of hearing, are you? My mother is dead. She was very badly injured in a riding accident. She died a few days later in hospital.”

Cate felt her skin blanch. “What can I say? I’m sorry? I
am
sorry, but your mother was hateful to me.”

He gave an incredulous laugh. “Catrina, I’m finding this very hard to believe. If my mother was hateful to you I can only say she hid it extremely well.”

“From
you
,” Cate retorted. “I grant you she was pleasant enough right up until our last confrontation. Then she made it abundantly clear where she really stood. She told me it was time for me to get myself back off to Australia. Disappear from your life. I simply wasn’t good enough. Marina only just made it. Perhaps she’d been aiming for one of the royal princesses?”

He felt as if his head were spinning. “What in the name of God are you talking about? You expect me to believe my own mother behaved in that way?”

“I don’t care what you believe,” she said flatly.

He lurched to his feet. “Catrina, try to see this my way, I beg you. Apart from anything else, my mother isn’t around to refute these charges. All
I
know is, she was so upset she could barely show me your
pathetic
note.”

An icy sensation enveloped Cate. “How could she show you a note when I never
left
one?” she shouted. “Why would I, for God’s sake? Like a coward—I never thought you were that—you scuttled off to London while your mother did your dirty work.”

“Hey, hey, hey,” he warned. “Go no further.”

He looked furious, even disoriented, his eyes a stunning flame-blue. She decided it was time to beat a retreat, even though she knew he would never lay a hand on her.

“Don’t you
dare
leave.” His voice was a deep, dark purr low in his chest.

She took a panicky breath. “You can’t touch me. I’ll have you up on a charge.” She made the empty threat.

“You’ll have us
both
up,” he said. “Come back and sit down, Catrina. I don’t assault women, even women without a conscience, like you. What I’d really like to know is, how can such a lovely creature be so downright cruel?”

Her legs were so unsteady beneath her she had to resume her seat. “You were the one who screwed me up, Ashe. I loved you with all my heart.”

He towered over her. “I won’t listen to you.”

“You listened to your mother. Don’t you want to hear what
I
have to say?”

“Not right now,” he said very tightly. “I don’t think I could handle it. I just want you to admit one thing. Your child is my son.”

“Hell with it!” she cried. “Yes, yes,
yes
!
”

“That’s all I need to know. My son, my precious,
precious
son!”

It was coming...it was coming...the Storm. Important she be ready. No one on earth would take Jules from her. “So what do you intend to do about it?” She threw out the challenge. “Have him over to England for the holidays? Let him mix with your kids?”

His eyes flashed lightning. “What makes you think I have kids?”

“Well, don’t you?” She leapt to her feet again, unable to sit still. “Or is Marina barren? It can’t be
you
.
You got me pregnant in no time at all.”

“You can never fix this, Cate,” he said.

The first time he had ever used the shortened version of her name. It shook her badly. “That’s irrelevant now. I want you to stay away from me, Ashe. Stay away from my son. I’ll tell him about you in time. Not yet. Not until he’s old enough to understand. I’d like to leave now.”

“That’s what you do, though, isn’t it—
run
?
What you can’t deal with, you run from. Were you nervous about my taking up the peerage? What it might entail for you?”

She gave a laugh that was more than a little on the wild side. “Don’t be so stupid.”

“What was it, then?” he demanded. “Tell me. Tell me the truth and I’ll let you go.”

She was horrendously upset but she had to fight. Only how could she continue to attack his mother? Mothers were sacred. Sons always defended their mothers. That was the way of it. She knew how protective seven-year-old Jules was of her. “I did tell you, Ashe, but you wouldn’t believe me,” she said with more restraint. “I know your mother adored you. I know how much you loved her, your sisters, your family. You were the perfect son. She had lost her husband. She had to hold on to her son. To do that, she had to rule your life. Your mother didn’t have a real problem with me until it became known you were heir to the baronetcy. She thought I was just a summer flirtation, a fling. Soon enough I would go back home. End of story. End of concern. You would marry Marina and live happily ever after.”

“Except I didn’t marry Marina,” he exclaimed, trying to cope with what she was saying.

“What?”
Her voice rose steeply despite her determination to keep calm. She stared at him with stunned eyes.

His tone was soft and deadly. “I didn’t marry Marina. She married one of my closest friends. You met him. Simon Bolton.”

Simon, of course.
She shook her head, not able to conceal her amazement. “But she was deeply in love with you. I wasn’t such a fool I didn’t know that.”

“Sadly I wasn’t in love with her,” he said with more than a trace of regret. “I was in love with some sort of a...” he hesitated, searching for the right word “...sociopath.”

“To whom you were deeply attracted,” she pointed out furiously. “Don’t worry, there are a lot of sociopaths about,” she said. “Mostly men. Women marry charming, generous, caring men only to find out a short time later their dark, abusive side. Only the other day, before the happy couple got to the wedding reception he bashed her up. You see, we’re never really
sure who we’re dealing with. I learned that lesson fairly early in life. So who did you eventually marry? Hang on!” She held up a hand. “I think I know. It was Marina’s friend, the dark-haired one with the lovely glowing skin and the unusual name...Talisa?”

He didn’t answer, as though he didn’t have to acknowledge it. Yet he had been prepared to be unfaithful to Talisa only nights ago, Cate thought.

“Think Talisa can handle your love child? It could come as a shock too difficult to bear.”

His silence continued as though he were groping through a minefield to find answers. “I have your last note to me,” he said finally. “Let me show it to you.” His suit jacket was hanging over a chair. She saw his expensive crocodile-skin wallet lying on the table. He picked it up, extracting a folded, rather tattered-looking piece of paper.

“This is my note?” she asked in sharp derision. “I can’t wait to read it.”

Note, what note?

Much of life was a mystery.

“So how is my son doing at school?” he enquired as he passed the sheet of yellowing paper to her.

Cate frowned, gingerly beginning to open the sheet of paper up. “He’s doing fine. He’s clever. Like me.”

“Or he’s even cleverer. Like
me
.”

Cate nodded impatiently, intent on absorbing the contents. They were handwritten in her rather distinctive script. To her horror, it looked like her handwriting only it
wasn’t
.
There was something terribly wrong here. She really needed a forensic tool to make a detailed inspection. Were there tiny breaks in the flowing script as if someone had rested a second before going on? She never did that. Her writing was continuous without break. Finally she made her decision, though she knew it would meet with extreme hostility. She looked directly at him. “Anybody, absolutely
anybody
,
could have written this.”

“
You’re
the one,” he returned trenchantly. “I compared it with all the little love notes you used to leave for me. ‘How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.’”

“More like how do I
hate
thee.”

“It’s
your
handwriting, fine handwriting really with a few little eccentricities. The embellished C of Catrina, for instance. It’s there.”

“Of course it is. Essential to do it like that. Only you have to prove
I
was the one to do it. It might look like my handwriting but I didn’t write this. Not in a million light years.” Then it dawned on her. She spoke up knowing he would hate her. “Your mother wrote this,” she said, not with a note of shock but comprehension. “I’m sure of it.”

His mother?
He suddenly felt a lack of oxygen, rallied fast.
“Drop the tone and the accusation,” he warned.

“Don’t try intimidating me, Ashe,” she said, angling her delicately determined chin. “Don’t even think of it. I’m not the naïvely trusting girl I once was. You take a little moment to think about it. Your mother was a talented artist. I saw countless sketch books of her drawings over the years. Numerous sketches of you in particular, her darling only son. Your sisters were well back in the queue. They had to accept one of the realities of life. Mothers fixate on sons. Then there were Alicia’s watercolours. She was gifted.” Jules had followed in her footsteps; Cate had long since accepted that. Such was the permanence of
blood
.
Jules had inherited Alicia’s talent. His recent sketches of her and Stella were very good, even capturing their expressions. Jules had taken them to school and the art teacher had praised him, posting them up.

For a moment she felt real sadness, as though Alicia’s presence was hovering over them. She covered up her angst by looking down again at the letter. It read:

Dearest Ashe,

Don’t hate me but I can’t bear to stay. You’re lovely but I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I don’t want your life. It scares me. The voice inside me is telling me to go home. You and I would never work. Not for long. You have Marina. She’ll suit you far better than me.
I’m not feeling good about it
—
I know we had started to make plans
—
but I realise now I’m not ready for any of it. I’m too young. The more I’ve thought it through, the surer I am I’m doing the right thing. By the time you read this I’ll be back home where I belong. We had great times, but they’re over. Please don’t try to contact me. That’s the last thing I want. Have a good life.

Catrina.

Cate had to shut her eyes on the misery she had endured. The thoughts of betrayal she had battled so long might not have been so. Alicia had simply taken matters into her own autocratic hands.