Susan Johnson (23 page)

T
he next morning at breakfast, there was no other word for it but pandemonium. With everyone at the table, including children, the combined families numbered twelve. The noise levels were considerable, the conversation skipping from subject to subject as Lydia’s and Georgina’s children asked about one activity or another they wished to partake in or harassed their siblings. The duchess, in turn, read aloud various items from the gossip columns that required dissection of one kind or another while the duke looked up from his paper from time to time to offer up some nugget of current interest.

Duff and Annabelle sat side by side, largely silent, quietly exchanging glances and smiles, surreptitiously touching each other under the table and in general basking in the glow of a night devoted to sexual pleasure.

Everyone was cheerful, the family scene both spirited and ripe with contentment.

Bamford came into this agreeable tableau, and walking over to the duke, leaned down and murmured something into his ear.

The duke immediately set down his paper and came to his feet. “Please go on without me. A small matter of business has arisen.”

But Duff recognized an odd note in his father’s voice, and pushing his chair back, rose as well. “I’ll go with you. There’s the Tattersalls auction pamphlet we should look over before noon.” He smiled at Annabelle. “I’ll be right back.”

The duchess glanced at her husband, but said nothing.

Witnessing the look that passed between the duke and duchess, Annabelle felt a shudder of unease race up her spine.

But Cricket knocked over a glass of milk at that precise moment, and as the two men left the room, everyone’s attention was centered on the spill.

“Some problem, I gather,” Duff murmured a moment later, keeping pace with his father as he moved toward his study.

“A solicitor is asking for me, Bamford said. No doubt the Harrisons have engaged legal help in their blackmail attempt.”

“They should be bought off. Then, they’d have no further claim to Cricket.”

“I’m not averse to that. However, I dislike being threatened. Nor do I care to deal with people of their stamp. Plunkett can handle the matter for us. And I will say as much to this solicitor of theirs.”

But when Duff and his father entered the study, they found one of London’s prominent barristers awaiting them. Both men understood that the Harrisons couldn’t afford McWilliams, and each, in their own way, braced themselves.

Mr. McWilliams, of McWilliams, Steepleton, and Lowe, came directly to the point. Turning from the window where he’d been surveying the street below, he walked over to Duff.

“Papers for Miss Annabelle Foster, pertaining to a custody action,” he said. “If you would be so kind as to give these to her. I understand she is currently in residence. The Earl of Walingame has retained the services of our firm to handle the case for him,” he added, dropping his second bombshell with the bland expression of a prosecutor.

“I understood the earl had quitted England,” Julius pointed out.

“Prior to his leaving, he spoke with us. He wishes sole rights to a female child in Miss Foster’s possession.”

Duff’s temper showed in the sudden set of his jaw. “What proof do you have that the child is his?” he said, resentful and offended.

“Those facts will be fully disclosed in court,” the barrister replied calmly. “I’m sure your barristers will apprise Miss Foster of the relevant position she occupies in regard to this matter. Good day, your lordships.” And with a bow he’d perfected after much practice, McWilliams left the study.

As the door closed on him, Duff swore roundly and at length.

“Is the child Walingame’s?” Julius finally inquired, his face without expression.

“Fuck if I know,” Duff growled. Julius had informed Duff of Walingame’s departure after the fact, along with details of his and Giles’s visit.

“Then we could have a problem.”

“She claims Cricket is her sister’s. I could quiz her, I suppose.” Duff blew out a breath. “But there’s no guarantee I’ll hear the truth.” That aristocratic women went off to the country or abroad and returned with
nieces
and
nephews
was so common as to affect families high and low. Those outside the aristocracy were no exception.

“There are servants who would know,” the duke offered. Servants often testified for or against their masters in court in matters such as this.

“Molly wouldn’t. She was hired after Cricket was born. As for Annabelle’s staff in London, most have been with her for years. They are loyal.”

“Maybe not all.”

“God-damn,” Duff muttered. “We should have killed Walingame instead of letting him go.”

“That’s still not out of the question. Although, as you know, I prefer him alive on the Continent to dead with his cousin as heir. With Walingame out of England, we’re assured of peace. His cousin is an unknown.”

“Call Plunkett,” Duff rapped out. “He’ll know what we can and cannot do.”

Before the order could be issued, however, the duchess appeared.

“I just saw McWilliams in the hall,” she remarked. “And from your faces, I gather he did not bring good news.”

“I’m not sure you want to know,” Julius replied. “Seriously, darling, you might do better to stay out of this.”

“Since that isn’t likely,” she said with a smile, walking to a chair and sitting down. “Do tell me what this is all about.”

“It has to do with Annabelle.”

“What has to do with me?”

None of them had heard the door open, that fact evident from their surprised expressions.

“Please, dear, go away,” Duff said. “We’ll take care of this.”

But the gruffness in his voice couldn’t be denied, nor was Annabelle likely to be willingly sent away like a child. “Tell me or I’ll ask McWilliams myself.” To Duff’s startled look, she added, “One can’t overlook his blazing shock of hair, even from a distance.” The barrister was one of the most prominent in the city and well known. As was his bright orange hair.

“Come sit down,” Duff offered. She hadn’t been told of Walingame yet and that news might be better heard sitting down. “Although it’s nothing of huge import,” he added reassuringly.

From the tone of his voice she knew better, but she did as he wished and sat. “Now, tell me what you will. I’m quite ready.”

“First I want to assure you of your safety.”

“This sounds rather ominous.” Not that she hadn’t been expecting problems from the Harrisons.

“Walingame is alive—but he’s left England,” Duff quickly added as she went pale. “He sailed from Dover and he’s gone. Absolutely.”

Her eyes were huge. “You’re sure?”

“Very sure. We have people following him. He landed in Calais and set off for Paris.”

“So this isn’t about the Harrisons,” Annabelle noted, glancing from person to person as though searching for some clue to the mystery.

“Walingame is suing for custody of Cricket, but don’t worry—he won’t be successful,” Julius said firmly.

“Of course he won’t!” Annabelle cried, incensed at such a despicable thought. “He has no right to Cricket! She’s Chloe’s child!”

Her anger instantly obliterated Duff’s skepticism. No matter how skilled an actress, such flushed outrage couldn’t be feigned. “We’ll tell McWilliams he can go to hell and take Walingame with him,” Duff rapped out.

“Perhaps it won’t be that simple,” the duchess interposed. “If Walingame is after revenge, he may want to drag Annabelle through the courts. You know how the public is captivated by scandal.”

“Surely testimony from the midwife who delivered Cricket should be enough to stop this suit,” Annabelle offered, knowing better than most how to manage detraction. “Mrs. Malkin has known us for years. She will gladly clear up this matter.”

“Why don’t we put that question to Plunkett?” the duke suggested. “None of us are knowledgeable about the legal process.” But he was relieved that the issue of paternity wasn’t in doubt. If Walingame had been the father, even Plunkett may not have been able to solve the dilemma. By law, women generally had no rights to their children.

“Well, it seems, then, as though the problem is solved,” the duchess cheerfully announced.

Perhaps it wasn’t a day in which the cosmic forces were properly aligned, for the duchess had no more than pronounced an end to their troubles when Bamford entered with another unwanted message.

“I am sorry to inform you that the Harrisons are here with a bailiff and a solicitor,” he announced mournfully.

“Little Cricket is in demand,” Duff drawled, his gaze amused. No longer disturbed by paternity issues, he was once again in a bantering mood.

“I daresay, I hope there aren’t any more litigants who wish to profit by her birth,” Elspeth noted derisively. “Although, darling,” she went on, smiling at her husband, “at this point Annabelle and I will defer to your masculine powers of persuasion or intimidation, as the case may be. Come, Annabelle, we most certainly do not want to be here when the Harrisons come in.”

“I shan’t argue,” Annabelle replied, yielding to unimpeachable reason. And feeling less anxious about Cricket’s future with ducal power and influence on her side, she willingly followed the duchess from the room.

The Harrisons and their solicitor arrived short moments later to find only the duke and the marquis in the study.

Millicent Harrison, frustrated in her hope of seeing Annabelle and giving her a severe set-down, blurted out, red-faced and miffed, “Where is that…that…doxy of an actress?”

Duff came out of his chair like a bolt.

“Let me take care of this, Duff,” the duke murmured.

Duff’s heated gaze swivelled to his father.

In contrast, the duke’s expression was benign. But he lifted one brow the merest distance in mild reproof.

Duff sat back down.

“Now then, what do we have here?” Julius inquired from behind the vast expanse of his desk. “Please state your business quickly, Mr…. er” He looked directly at the solicitor.

“George…Carleton…Your Grace,” the Harrisons’ lawyer stammered, clearly awed, his face turning red as a beet. Nervously twisting the papers he held in his hands, he stumbled over the lines he’d previously rehearsed. “We have…come on a matter…that my clients—er—Mr. and Mrs. Harrison…assure me is…will be…in Your Grace’s best—ah—interests.”

“About the money they want, you mean,” Julius said coldly.

“Yes…well…that may be, but you would be relieved of any further—er—implication—or rather, the marquis would be—in terms of—the child.” The poor man was visibly wilting under Julius’s hard stare.

“I have no intention of haggling over money.” If ever the word
arrogance
was represented in the flesh, Julius evinced that attribute in voice and pose and haughty gaze. “However,” he went on in the same chill tone, “on one point we can agree. The child is not my son’s. So I suggest your clients restrain their greed. My barrister will contact you. Now, you may go.” During this conversation the duke never spared so much as a glance for the Harrisons.

“We can take the child! It’s ours to take!” Mrs. Harrison threatened loudly, infuriated at being ignored when she’d spent her entire life lording it over country yeomen and servants. “Think about
that
happenstance when you get all high and mighty with us!”

Julius swung around in his chair to direct his scornful gaze her way. “If you so much as consider taking the child,” he said, his voice like ice, “I will see that you are sent off to the penal colonies—the whole lot of you—your worthless son included. Now we are done.” Coming to his feet, he looked at the solicitor with such rage, the man trembled, then turned and ran from the room.

“Say something, Jeremiah!” Millicent Harrison demanded, her bloated face white with fury.

Her husband opened and shut his mouth like a beached fish. If his wife didn’t know the power and influence of a duke, he did. And had he known that only seventeen dukes existed in all of England, he would have been even more frightened.

“Jeremiah! Tell him we have rights!” she shrieked. “Tell him he can’t talk to us like this!”

Apparently deciding his current life was far superior to one in a penal colony, Jeremiah Harrison grabbed his wife’s arm, muttered something unintelligible to her, and literally dragged her from the room.

Julius softly sighed as the sounds of Millicent Harrison’s noisy rancor faded down the hall. “I apologize. I dislike losing my temper.”

Duff blew out a soft breath. “It would be difficult not to with a woman like that. Think of Annabelle’s poor sister, caught in her clutches.”

“A sad situation indeed. Christ—I need a drink. You?” The duke glanced at Duff as he moved to a well-stocked liquor table.

“Yes. How does one live with a woman like that without doing her bodily harm?” Duff murmured, following his father across the room.

“God knows. It makes one grateful for a wife like your mother, though,” the duke said, tossing a smile over his shoulder.

“I agree.” Having stopped just short of where his father was pouring drinks, Duff leaned one shoulder against a bank of bookshelves. “So, what happens now?”

“I wash my hands of the entire sordid mess. Plunkett will give our blackmailers as little money as possible. We have already discussed the finances; he will deal with this George Carleton person. And that will be that,” the duke enunciated with crisp finality. Picking up the brandies, he handed Duff his.

“To peace on earth,” the duke murmured, raising his glass to his son. “And the last of the Harrisons in our lives.”

“Amen to that.”

Both men knocked back the liquor, ringing down the curtain, as it were, on a noxious scene.

“Now that we have—or will have—bought off the Harrisons’ interest in Cricket—and that will be in the nature of a signed document, by the way, Plunkett tells me—what are your plans, if any, with Miss Foster?”

Duff shrugged. “I have no plans.”

“You seem quite enamored.”

“I am.”

“But?”