Tempting Bella (Entangled Scandalous) (26 page)

Sebastian cast a questioning look at Bella.

“Blue blood,” she translated for him.

Impatient, he turned his attention to the solicitor. “Yes, I’m the nephew and brother of a marquess. How does that signify, Mr.—”

“Of course, allow me to explain. I am Juan Trevino. For thirty years, I served at the pleasure of Francisco Valdez Marcos, Conde de Vallado, a most noble and fair gentleman. Unfortunately, his lordship passed to the heavens a fortnight ago.”

Sebastian sat and gestured for the solicitor to do the same in one of two chairs opposite his desk. Bella slipped into the other seat and turned toward the solicitor, her eyes alight with interest.

“I am sorry for your loss,
Señor
Trevino,” Sebastian said, “but I don’t understand what any of this has to do with me.”

Señor
Trevino sat. “It has everything to do with you. You are his lordship’s heir.”

His first reaction was to snort at the absurdity of it. Trevino clearly had the wrong man. Then his heart lost its beat, shrinking into a sharp-edged icicle in his chest. What if this Conde de Vallado was his natural father, the man with whom his faithless mother had shared her favors?

Francisco Valdez Marcos.

Now the reason Cyrus Stanhope had detested him had a name. “I see.” He stood, his cool outward composure at odds with the choking sensation bearing down on his insides. “I am not interested in the man’s money. Please distribute it to people in need in your country. Good day, sir.”

Señor
Trevino pushed to his feet with effort, the pull of age apparent. “I’m afraid you do not understand, my lord. You have inherited your sire’s title.”

Bella bolted out of her chair. “Is this someone’s idea of a joke? We may be English, sir, but we are aware that even the Spanish nobility does not allow bastards to inherit titles.”

Sebastian’s heart jolted at how she jumped to his defense. “Please do leave,
Señor
,” he said, fighting to keep his voice even, “before I have you forcibly removed.”

Beads of perspiration sprouted on
Señor
Trevino’s upper lip. “The lady is correct.” The words tumbled out. “Bastards cannot inherit. You are the legitimate son born to Francisco Valdez Marcos, Conde de Vallado and his late wife, Maria Teresa Alvarez, Condesa de Vallado.”

None of this made any sense. “You think I was born to Count Vallado’s lady wife?”

“Your mother died in childbirth. The count took another wife. It was a long and happy union, but unfortunately, he was not blessed with any more children.”

Tension contracted every line of his body. “You are mistaken,
Señor
Trevino. I am the natural-born son of Mrs. Matilda Stanhope of Yorkshire in her marriage to the Honorable Cyrus Stanhope. I was born in Yorkshire, not in a foreign country, and most assuredly, not to a Spanish noblewoman.”

“I think, my lord”—
Señor
Trevino licked his lips, his nervousness apparent— “if you consult
Señora
Stanhope, she will confirm the truth of what I say.”

Sebastian’s composure stretched to the breaking point. “You think my mother will know of this?”

“I was present when you were handed into the care of
Señora
Stanhope.” The solicitor swallowed hard. “She will confirm she is not the mother of your birth. You, sir, are a count.”

Bella frowned, a thoughtful look on her face. “A count? That’s the Spanish equivalent of an English earl, is it not?”

The solicitor looked hopeful he’d won at least one of them over. “
Si, Señora
.”

Sebastian fought an impulse to throw the man against the wall, to demolish his desk, to lay waste to everything in the room. “Please take yourself out of my presence,
Señor
,” he said through clenched teeth. “I don’t know what folly this is, but I intend to find out.”

The solicitor straightened up. “Very well. I shall go. However, you remain the Count of Vallado. I will see myself out.”

Sebastian continued to gaze at the closed door long after the solicitor had quit the chamber. Releasing a long, shuddered breath, he said, “It’s pure folly, of course.”

“Maybe not.”

He scowled, redirecting his icy fury at her. “Are you so anxious to be married to a title that you’d believe a Banbury tale like that?”

“I understand you are angry,” she said carefully, “but you should at least investigate this business for yourself.”

“You want me to inform my mother that her lover is dead?”

“Isn’t it well past time the two of you had this conversation?”

Closing his eyes, he struggled to settle his churning insides. “Very well. I shall go and speak to my mother.”

…

“Sebastian, what a lovely surprise!” His mother hurried toward him, her face radiant at the sight of him. He never called on Matilda unexpectedly. He mostly visited when courtesy dictated it.

He bent over and automatically kissed her cheek. As usual, just a scant skim of his lips against her cool skin. “Madam.”

She moved toward the sofa in the family sitting room. “Come, do sit. I’ll ring for mineral water with lemon, just as you like it.”

“No, don’t bother, I won’t be staying long.” The joy of seeing him melted away, replaced instead with a wary watchfulness. Perhaps she’d already heard of her lover’s death. “The Count of Vallado is dead.”

All color left her face. “I see.” She released a breath. “How did you learn this?”

“His solicitor came to see me. My sympathies, madam, for your loss.”

“My loss?” She frowned. “I’m afraid I never had the pleasure of meeting the count.”

Impatience brimmed. “Please, madam, let us dispense with untruths.”

“It is the truth. I never laid eyes on the man.”

“How can that be, madam?”

“I think you know, dearest.” Her soft voice was full of sorrow. “He was your mother’s husband.”

The air in the room flattened against him. “Are you saying, madam, that I was adopted?” Pressure pounded in his head at the possibility he belonged to no one, not even this woman.

“Oh, no.” Love infused her voice. “Stanhope blood most assuredly runs through your veins.”

Something in his head snapped. “How is that possible?”

“You are Cyrus’s natural son.”

“No.
No
.” He turned away from her, shaking, eyes closed, his hands covering his ears, trying to stop the roar of the truth in them. “That’s not possible.”

She materialized at his side, her arm on his elbow. “Dearest, please don’t be so distressed. Come and sit.”

He let her lead him to a seat. He went unseeing, unaware of anything but the fact that this woman’s blood didn’t run through his veins. A tide of grief and disbelief surged, threatening to drown him. How was it that only now—after he had lost her—that he realized the depth of his feelings for this woman who was no longer his mother? A part of him had never stopped adoring the woman who had embraced a confused boy and cloaked him in maternal love and protection. Only it was all a lie. “You are not my mother.”

“From the moment I laid eyes on you, I have loved you as my own.”

He closed his eyes against the stunning physical pain ravaging his body. “You did not give birth to me.”

Her answer came in a soft voice, infused with tenderness. “You are not of my body, but you have always been the son of my heart.”

He searched her face, unable to put a name to the agony rippling through him. “Cyrus was my father in truth?”

She dipped her chin in answer. “You have his blood.”

“How can it be?”

She stood and went across the room, and then she was back pressing a glass of water into his hands. “Drink, and I will explain everything.”

He obeyed, the boy in him responding to the brisk, no-nonsense mother in her. He brought the glass to his lips, almost choking on the cool water. When he finished, she took the glass, the swishing whisper of her skirts telling him she’d moved away again. Elbows braced on his thighs, Sebastian looked blindly down at the carpet and fought for breath, mindlessly eyeing the swirling designs between his boots.

Matilda told her story in deliberate, even tones. Of how Cyrus Stanhope had married her, a young girl of good standing, not for love, but because of the generous dowry she brought to the alliance. Cyrus, it seemed, had not always been pious and had taken mistresses in the early years of their marriage. But Maria Teresa Alvarez was different. Cyrus met the young daughter of a Spanish nobleman during his grand tour and had instantly fallen in love. They parted because she was already promised to her first cousin, the Count of Vallado. They renewed their acquaintance years later, when the Count and his wife visited London on a diplomatic mission. Sebastian appeared nine months after that trip, once the couple had returned to Spain.

Sebastian finally raised his head to look at the woman who was no longer his mother, who had never been. “What happened to the woman who gave birth to me?”

“She died in childbirth. The count knew you were not his. He told his acquaintances you had perished along with your mother.”

“How did I come to be in England?”

“Although he was your legal father, Vallado intended to foster you out to a family in the Spanish countryside. I could not allow that.”

His throat closed. How she must have suffered because of him. “How did you bear it when Cyrus asked you to raise his bastard?”

“He did not ask. I insisted. You were just a babe, alone in the world without a mother to protect and care for you. It was our duty to do right by you.”

Shame burned in his chest. “How you must have detested me, day after day, having to face the evidence of a faithless husband.”

Her eyes went shiny with emotion. “You took hold of my heart the moment your nursemaid put you in my arms.” She smiled at the memory. “You had a head full of dark hair, and you looked at me with those green eyes that are so like your brothers’. From that moment, you were mine, and you still are.”

He pushed heavily to his feet, feeling as though he dragged a parcel of rocks with him. “Why did my father hate me?”

She did not pretend to misunderstand his question. “Cyrus did not hate you, but it was”— she paused as if searching for the right words— “difficult for him to be reminded of his moral failure.”

“Difficult?” He choked out an acid laugh. “For him?”

“You were such a gift to us, for our family. Your sterling character and constancy helped steady all of your brothers, then as now.” She placed a hand on his arm. “After you came to be with us, your father changed his ways. I never heard of him taking another mistress. We came to have a genuine care for one another.” Which is how Sebastian remembered his mother and father, with a true affection between them.

His understanding of the world shifted, battering his senses. He looked at Matilda and really
saw
her for the first time in as long as he could remember. Certainly since that long-ago day when he’d concluded his mother was a whore. She stood erect and proud, her form still slim and dainty, hands clasped in front of her. To him, she had always been a jezebel masquerading as an angel. Only now, he knew it had never been so. Matilda Stanhope was the embodiment of goodness.

He walked to the woman who had been his true mother and knelt before her. He took each of her hands, soft with the comfortable wrinkles of age, and brought them to his lips, first one and then the other.

“Forgive me, madam, for I have aggrieved you most terribly. Of all of the actors in this sordid drama, only you have acted with true honor and moral rectitude.”

She urged him to his feet and brought his hand to her softly weathered cheek. “It was no trial. You have always been so easy to love.”

“You deserve a more dutiful and attentive son than I.”

“I have him,” she said in a certain tone. “No mother could wish for a finer son. You have always made me most proud.”

Feeling swelled painfully in his chest. For the first time since he was a boy, he allowed his mother to take him into her arms and comfort him while he cried.

Chapter Sixteen

Bella sat at her new desk unsuccessfully attempting to concentrate on estate business. Sebastian had been gone all night. A note she’d sent around to Matilda the previous evening confirmed he’d left his mother in the late afternoon. So many hours ago. Where could he be?

Davison appeared on the threshold. “My lady, you asked to be informed when the master returned.”

“Yes.” Relief loosened her tense muscles. “Where is he?”

Worry lines creased his forehead. “He has gone to the mews, my lady.”

“The mews? He means to ride?”

Davison cleared his throat. “If I may speak frankly, my lady.”

She rose to her feet, pressure bearing down on her chest. Something was wrong. “Yes, what is it?”

“The master does not seem himself.”

“He has had a trying time of it. I will go to him.”

“My lady, he appears to have imbibed.”

“Imbibed?” Sebastian drinking spirits? “He is in his cups?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Alarm replaced disbelief. She hurried past the butler. “Thank you, Davison. I will see to him at once.”