“No.” His voice was patient. “
My
door.”
She struggled to sit up again. “Sir, are you in my husband’s employ?”
He barked out a laugh. “I dare say not.”
She released an exasperated breath, but attempted to sound polite. “I do not perfectly understand why you are in my husband’s rooms.”
He raised an eyebrow. His eyes remained flinty. “I do not perfectly understand why you should think these your husband’s rooms.”
“His regimental offices gave me this direction.”
His face relaxed, and his mouth turned up at one corner. “Ah, regimental inefficiency. That does explain it.” He rose and crossed the room, picking up a bottle and raising it to the light to check its contents. He paused, ready to pour the liquid into a glass. “Who is your husband, by the way? Perhaps I know him.” He glanced back at her.
“John Grayson.”
He started, spilling the brandy. “The devil he is.” His voice deepened with anger.
Maggie regarded him with alarm. “I assure you, sir, my husband is Captain John Grayson.”
He strode to the side of the bed, his gray eyes glinting. “Madam.” He spoke in even and measured tones, as if humoring a lunatic. “
I
am Captain John Grayson.”
M
aggie’s blood felt as if it had turned to ice. “This is a cruel jest, sir.”
“Jest? I assure you, madam, this is no jest. I am John Grayson.” His eyes flashed.
She straightened her posture. “John Grayson is my husband. You most certainly are not.”
He laughed, the sound malevolent. “Indeed I am not.”
Maggie wrapped the shirt he’d given her more tightly around her body. “Tell me where my husband is.”
“Tell me
who
he is and perhaps I may do so.” In a mimicking gesture, he folded his arms across his wide chest.
“I told you who he is. Who are you?” She met his insolent gaze. He stood at the foot of the bed, each hand gripping a bedpost. His bulk loomed over her.
He let go of the posts and snapped to attention, a sneer on his lips. “John Grayson, Captain, 13th Light Dragoons.”
The 13th Light Dragoons was John’s regiment. How could this man mock her so? Had John discovered her presence in London? Was this his ploy to prevent her finding him? Surely, he would not be that cruel. “You lie.”
His eyes threw sparks. “If one of us is a liar, it is you, madam.”
Maggie clamped her mouth shut. He was too deftly throwing her words back into her face, and she must not let him see the panic deep within her belly. She would proceed more cautiously. This imposter could be anyone, a gambler, thief—a murderer, like she’d thought herself until reading John’s name.
“Do you know what I think?” he asked.
She turned her face away and gazed upon the spare furnishings of the room, the bureau cluttered with his belongings. A cracked mirror. Clothing strewn about.
He leaned down close to her face. “I think you are playing a rum game, madam. You knock on my door. Drop your baby into my hands, then blink those big blue eyes at me and expect me to believe you are searching for a husband who has my name.” His eyes flashed. “Cut line.”
Maggie rose to her knees on the bed, bending toward him, forcing herself to stare directly into his flinty eyes, no matter how piratical they appeared. “I did not choose to have my baby in this place. With you.”
Their gazes held.
He drew back abruptly. Tapping his fingers to his lips, he paced to and fro, stopping again in front of her. “Madam, why were you required to search for your husband? Should he not have been by your side at this . . . delicate time?”
Maggie made a pretense of checking the sleeping baby, remembering precisely why she must search for her husband.
“Did he know of the child?”
She shook her head, and mentally kicked herself for revealing so much.
She’d been so foolish to marry John. As green as grass. All too ready to believe the first pretty words spoken to her. At the time a secret marriage had sounded so romantic.
She’d grown wiser since.
She lay back and ran her finger over the baby’s downy head. One thing she did not regret was this baby. She would never regret him. He was her family, her only family.
Gray stood with hands on his hips, watching her. A street hawker’s song, “White turnips and fine carrots ho! White turnips and fine carrots ho!” sounded in his ears. What he would not give to walk straight out his door and lose himself in the throngs of peddlers, beggars, merchants, and thieves filling the nearby streets, to put distance between him and this woman who tempted him with her eyes and connived to cause him to assume responsibility for her.
There was no husband, of that he was certain, though there obviously was a man who fathered the child. She was too clever by half, with this story of searching for a husband. How the devil she came upon his name was the mystery. And why the devil did she think she could twist him in her coil? Her trick was worse than any Lansing had masterminded during their days in the Peninsula.
He trod over to the table, picked up the bottle of brandy, and shook it. No use. “Deuce,” he muttered.
He glanced back at his unwelcome guest. She sat up and wrapped her arms around her bended knees, staring into the distance. With her dark curls tumbling about her shoulders she looked like a man’s fantasy. Her skin was smooth and pale as cream, but her cheeks were warm with color that reflected the array of her emotions. Her lips had the definite bow-shape a portrait artist would yearn to paint, their pink tint a nearly irresistible temptation. Her hands were graceful and delicate, a lady’s hands.
Perhaps she’d been some gentleman’s discarded mistress. A credible idea. The man might have known Gray and spoken of him. But who would do so? He’d hardly mixed in society since he’d been sent back to England three months ago, ostensibly to recuperate from the wound he suffered at Orthes. After witnessing Rosa’s death, he hadn’t cared a fig where he went, but General Fane thought it prudent to get him out of the path of her vengeful, grieving father.
Damned if Gray had not managed to create a political incident after all, along with all his other sins. He thought he’d averted political scandal by marrying Rosa when he’d returned from Gloucestershire. But all that had been yesterday’s debacle. Today he must worry about this new woman in his bed.
Suddenly she scrambled from beneath the covers and swung her exquisitely shaped legs over the side of the bed. She stood, holding on to the bedpost to get her balance.
“What the devil are you doing?” he snapped.
“I am looking for my dress.” She took two shaky steps forward.
That soiled rag? “What the devil for?”
She answered him with a hostile look.
Gray snatched the dress from the floor. “Why do you want this wretched thing?”
The dress was a drab garment, now a damp mess. Hardly a dress belonging to a gentleman’s mistress, come to think of it.
“I wish to leave.” She grabbed for the dress and stumbled.
Tossing the garment aside, he caught her as she fell. She slammed against his healing wound, causing a stab of pain that nearly knocked him off his feet.
She swooned against his chest, and the pain receded to be replaced by a stirring in his groin. Through the thin linen of the shirt she wore, he felt the fullness of her breasts. Her stomach, all soft and round, pressed against him.
She was so very vulnerable. So in need of comfort.
He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close like he would a hurt child. She clung to him.
After a moment, she pushed away with a strangled cry and almost fell again. Gray swept her into his arms, her weak struggles in vain as he carried her to the bed and set her down, careful not to disturb the infant.
“Hold fast,” he commanded, covering her with the bed linens and tucking the blankets around her. “Do not get up again.”
Her eyes glistened with tears, like liquid jewels.
Damn her. How much did she think he could bear?
“You wish to leave?” He valiantly resisted the pull of her tears. “Believe me, madam, I would be delighted.”
Her chin lifted and her lips pursed, though the tears still shone in her eyes.
“I assure you I have made arrangements to be rid of you,” he went on, his voice harsh to his ears. “I have sent for my cousin’s wife to convey you to your home. I can hardly be seen accompanying you, can I? I expect her presently, but you must remain in bed until she arrives.”
“Why should I put myself in her care? Why do you not simply put me in the street?” Her tone was defiant, but her voice trembled.
He stared down at her. She looked like an abandoned kitten, small and weak. “I have been asking myself that very question.” He forced a smile.
A lone tear trickled down her cheek and she swiped at it with the back of her hand. “Simply tell me of my husband and he will see to my care. I need not trouble you further.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Ah, this fictional husband, again. If Grayson is your husband and I am Grayson, then you must obey me, I believe. I am consigning you to the care of my cousin’s wife. She will convey you and the baby back from where you came. That will conclude my husbandly duties.”
The baby wailed. His tiny body shuddered and his arms and legs trembled. She instantly sat up and gathered him in her arms. She jiggled him and patted his back. He continued to cry. A look of panic flickered in her eyes.
“Put him to your breast.”
She pulled the shirt away from her breast and again guided the nipple into the baby’s mouth. The baby quieted instantly. He stared at her, riveted again. She glanced up, the hint of a smile on her lips. Quickly he turned his head.
He strolled to the window, not daring to look back at her. To watch the baby nurse at her breast touched off something warm and tender inside him, a feeling he did not wish to examine too closely. The sooner Tess came, the better.
In spite of his resolve, Gray glanced back at her, now looking beatific. The Madonna of the Barcelona church.
He swung back to the window, rapping his fingers distractedly on the sash, keeping time with the horses’ hooves on cobblestones. Outside a carriage pulled up, his cousin’s crest painted on the side.
“She has arrived,” he said.
He hurried out the door and reached the street just as his cousin’s wife, the Baroness Caufield, was being assisted from the carriage by her footman. When she saw him, she gasped in alarm and rushed forward with a flounce of lilac skirts and bobbing blond ringlets. “Gray, I came as soon as I—oh, my, you are ill! Is it your injury? It has turned putrid, I know it has—”
He took her arm. “I am perfectly well, I assure you.”
“No, you are not! You look a fright. You must come with me to Curzon Street this instant!” She put a gloved hand to his cheek. “Indeed, you ought to have done so when you arrived. Harry ought to have insisted you allow us to care for you.”
Gray removed her hand and gave it an affectionate squeeze. “I am recovered, Tess.” He steered her out of the earshot of her footman, who was making a poor attempt at looking blandly disinterested. “But I am in the devil of a fix.”
Gray paused at the doorway. “There is a lady inside—”
“You have a . . . a female in your rooms?” Her eyes widened, kindled with interest.
“Not that,” he snapped. Gray took a deep breath. “I opened my door to a woman and she gave birth on my carpet. I need your help to rid me of her.”
Tess gave a small shriek. “Do not say so! She gave birth? But why should such a creature come to your rooms? It is nonsensical.”
“I agree. Very nonsensical.”
Gray launched into a more detailed explanation of the day’s events. He considered telling Tess about the woman’s claim to be Mrs. John Grayson, but decided not to do so. Who could predict what Tess would make of that information? No, he’d let the beauty tell Tess whatever story now suited her.
He must have captured Tess’s complete attention, because she listened to him without once interrupting. When he finished, she adjusted the paisley shawl around her shoulders. “Well, let us go in. I will promise nothing, however.”
“I merely need you to convey her home. I certainly cannot.”
With a swish of her skirts, Tess passed through the door he held open for her and entered his rooms. The woman held the baby in her arms. She was no longer nursing him.
“Here she is, Tess,” he said, bringing his cousin forward. “Madam, may I present Baroness Caufield.”
The woman had turned very pale. “Ma’am,” she said, barely audible.
“Oh, my dear.” Tess rushed to her side. “I am Lady Caufield, but you must call me Tess. Is this your dear little baby? What a love he is. I say ‘he,’ but I don’t know, do I? Silly. I suppose we always hope for a boy. Is he a boy? So tiny, poor thing. Are you in any distress? I cannot imagine what you have been through with only Gray, of all people.”
“I have not fared ill,” the mother said, darting a glance toward Gray.
Tess continued. “I am astonished, as one might expect, but we must convey you to your home at once. We will concoct a story that you happened upon my house. We cannot allow it to be known that an unmarried gentleman assisted you. Think of the scandal! Simply give Gray the direction of your home and he may tell Coachman. What a dear little baby you have. Has he a name? No, it is too soon, I am sure. My husband’s given name is Harry, which is a lovely name, do you not agree? You may certainly use it if you like.” She finally took a breath. “Oh, he is so sweet. May I hold him for you? The dear thing.”
The mother looked as if a cannon had exploded next to her ear, but Tess often had that effect on people. She handed the child over to the cooing and ahhing Lady Caufield.
Gray congratulated himself for the scheme of sending for Tess. His cousin’s wife had no children of her own and, as a result, thought it her duty to bestow her maternal proclivities upon everyone else.
Tess would sweep mother and child away, and in a few moments, Gray’s solitude would be restored.
“I must find my dress,” Maggie said, struggling to get out of the bed.