The Outcast Earl (37 page)

Meriden looked a bit guilty. “I thought about it,” he admitted. “For a few minutes. However, I suspect Sir Peter’s reputation is a product of his lonely, brilliant mind. You all know him as a wizard at cards, and, yes, I had a summary of his social behaviour from my agent yesterday morning and it makes for worrisome reading. But his liaisons are with known courtesans and occasionally well-heeled widows and matrons at loose ends, no worse and no better than his more respectable peers. He doesn’t seduce debutantes, though there have been a few who have tried to claim he has and the rumours persist, and we have two years to watch him closely. I’ve already sent instructions to the effect. I met him in Spain, before he was knighted, during the war. He saw and lived through some fairly terrible scenes, and having lived through a few myself and hearing about the atrocities Malone engineered, I have to wonder if his London lifestyle isn’t more about not being able to sleep at night without replaying those visions than it is about an actual gambling habit.”

Betsy sighed. “Saving her from Malone is going to get out eventually—Malone won’t be able to keep his mouth shut. It’ll redeem him a bit, anyway, especially if he stays away from Genevieve.”

“I think you’re going to have to let the sleeping dog lie there. If there’s a need to remove either Sir Peter or Genevieve from London, we’ll do so well before her nineteenth birthday and without apologies. Otherwise, I can’t see that she’s any worse off than she might have been in an arranged marriage to any other higher-born peer, which could have been effected next spring, after her birthday, with nary a whisper. As it is, she has two years to get to know him.” Meriden’s voice was clipped and precise. “From my perspective, Gloria is in more danger.”

Betsy sighed. “I hate to speculate, but I have long known that your mother has loved long and passionately, although I couldn’t have begun to guess who her lover was. But of the names recently lifted, I think it’s safe to say there’s at least one who has a prior relationship with your mother but no apparent public connection.”

“Yes.” Fiona narrowed her eyes after silence had settled for a moment. “I’ve seen her with him, even chatting in the ballrooms, during the last two seasons. Of course, it didn’t
look
intimate, but people aren’t always themselves in such places. If Winchester even noticed, Mother probably told him she was promoting a match between March and Gloria, and that gave Winchester the idea to pursue it in truth. March is by far the most disreputable of his two sons.”

“
Lennox?
” Abigail gasped. “Could Winchester have caught her with him?”

“Yes,” Betsy said firmly. “Lennox House is just a few doors from Winchester House. They wouldn’t have needed to meet for any illicit reason in ballrooms. She easily could have slipped out of your house and into his on a fairly regular basis.”

Fiona held up a hand. “We’re speculating.”

“Surely,” Abigail whispered, “even Lennox would not approve a match if he was Gloria’s father. That would make March and Gloria half—”

“I rather suspect he’s Genevieve’s father,” Betsy said decisively. “First, if he’s still having an
affaire
with her, Genevieve is the youngest of you four.”

“Supposing he is Mother’s lover, and Genevieve’s father, that explains why Winchester kept the engagement even from Mother. If Lennox had known of it—to either Malone or Devon—he would have prevented it at all costs,” Fiona pointed out, her eyes narrowing in a gesture that was surprisingly familiar.

“Then the only real course of action is to convince her that she can come to us—well, at least to Abigail and I—if she ever needs to flee,” Meriden interjected. “I take it March doesn’t know?”

Abigail’s blood rushed to her head and she let out a small gasp, her hand gripping Meriden’s in sudden realisation.

“The reason you went to Winchester, Charles,” she whispered, ignoring his question. “Why would your grandfather feel
an obligation
to my
mother
?”

She looked up, shocked to see the earl’s face suddenly pale. “My grandfather often went up to London for Parliament and business. My grandmother never went along.” He stood up, his hands visibly shaking, and Abigail lowered her face into her hands.

“Yes, why
did
you go to Winchester, Meriden?” Fiona accused, standing as he did.

Abigail watched as Meriden stared at Fiona, dawning comprehension on his face. He was obviously making connections that Fiona couldn’t see, and he wasn’t happy about the answers. Abruptly, Meriden strode past her, his fingers shaking as he knelt down on the floor and opened the cabinet below the portrait safe. Abigail sat forward and watched him curiously. He was scanning a row of thick books, and had already pulled out one. Glancing up, he ground out, “Fiona, how old are you?”

Fiona scrunched up her face. “Twenty-four,” she said firmly. “On the shelf. Independent. Don’t think you’re going to arrange a marriage for me, too.”

“No, no,” Meriden said, more calmly. So that’s 1797.” He drew out one of the tomes, then a few more down the row, and sighed. “I have some reading I must do, and only I can do it.” He looked around at the other three, his eyes resting lastly on Abigail. “Teatime isn’t for two hours, Abby. The drawing room is mostly useless, so why don’t I leave you three here and I’ll retire to my sitting room.”

Abigail blinked. She was unsure about the suddenly worried look on his face, but there was little she could do. “If you’re certain?” she asked him gently.

Meriden swallowed and nodded, meeting her eyes very seriously across the room. He looked surprised when Abigail rose, but she said quietly, “I’ll just walk out with you. If you’ll excuse me for just a minute?” she added to the ladies, as Meriden bowed and murmured his excuses.

He let her take his hand through the doorway. “What’s wrong?” she whispered when they were in the main hall. Reaching up, she straightened his collar and stock, unsurprised when his stern face got even harder.

“I had never seen Fiona so close until last night, and then again at breakfast. Otherwise I might have seen it sooner, or looked more closely,” he answered quietly. “I think Fiona may be—and how awkward is this?—my aunt. But I won’t know until I read my grandfather’s diaries. He was meticulous about his trips, down to the smallest details. And he did list the women. By name.”

“Oh, Lord.” Abigail breathed in and out. “In the meantime, we have to work out some practical plans for Fiona. And I have to find out what my aunt—I suppose Lady Arlington, she’s not my aunt, is she?—is thinking.”

Meriden bent his head so that their foreheads touched. “Remember, no matter what your aunt does, I will always provide for all your needs. And, as for Fiona, regardless of her relationship to
my
family, obviously she can stay here as long as she wants.”

Abigail gave him a brief smile. “I’ll tell her, but I doubt she will stay long.” Stepping back, she added, “Go on, now.”

It would be a long afternoon and evening until he had satisfied himself with whatever evidence could be found. And she wanted him back in her company as soon as possible. Indeed, Abigail could hardly think of being apart from him now.

Chapter Eighteen

As soon as they gained the library after dinner, Charles turned. “We’ll ring for the teacart tonight, Grady,” he said, practically closing the door in the man’s face.

Grady looked surprised but bobbed his head and strode away. Charles sighed and locked the door, then joined the ladies at the far end. He considered the arrangement, then noted Abby’s position on the settee. Deliberately he sat beside her, gathering one of her hands in his arm. “Fiona,” he said easily, watching her, “Abby tells me you are making plans, about what comes next for you.”

It was an invitation to share, as much as he dared without outright demanding to know.

On his arm, he felt Abby stroke the inside of his coat sleeve gently. He must be projecting his inner tension, at least obviously enough to have communicated it to Abby.

“I’ll be leaving with Betsy and the servants for the Morewells’ after the wedding, and then travelling back to London with them.” She looked troubled. “I would have liked to have returned in time for Gloria’s and Genevieve’s weddings, but Aunt Betsy pointed out that it was an endorsement of the match that I shouldn’t make publicly. She’s suggested I live with her, but I think not permanently. I need to remove myself from Winchester’s orbit altogether, and she is still his half-sister and can remain a source of information to us. I need to find a house of my own. I’ll probably look in Belgravia—there’s much about London that I like, and friends I have beyond the
haut ton
. I should not want to distance myself from it completely.”

Charles watched her for a long moment, then looked at Lady Arlington, who was suddenly eyeing him suspiciously. “I would not want to discount the possibility of you being Winchester’s daughter,” he said to Fiona after a lengthy silence, “but earlier this afternoon, when I left, it was to delve through my grandfather’s diaries, starting with 1797.”

Fiona turned her face to Meriden imperiously. Meriden shook himself. Even Abby, now that she knew what was coming, sat up at the gesture on Fiona’s eyebrows. No one else at Winchester House had ever made it. But Charles had, and frequently did.

Gently, he explained, “After my grandfather died, among his papers there were documents listing those in England to whom my family either owed some sort of fealty or who owed us some favour. My grandmother knew about several of the families and names on the lists, but could shed no light on the reason that Johnanna de Rothesay—Lady Winchester—was included. Nevertheless, the family’s solicitors had prepared a quarterly report on the activities of Lord and Lady Winchester for many years, as well as their four daughters. I’d been reading them regularly since my grandfather died in 1814, more out of curiosity than anything. You needn’t think I was spying—it was more like a summary of what I might have observed had I lived in London myself. And the de Rothesays are not the only people in England that my solicitors report on regularly, for various reasons.” He looked around but all the women had their attention fixed on him firmly.

He shrugged. “When Rutherford’s last quarterly report detailed Winchester’s imminent financial ruin, I did what I could in repayment for whatever debt my grandfather believed himself to be in to your mother. I bought the mortgage on Winchester House to keep your mother and her daughters from being forcibly dislodged and then, yes, I went to Winchester. I knew I needed to marry—I had it in my head that, if Lady Winchester had once helped my grandfather with something, perhaps she would feel inclined to help me as well. I needed to re-enter society and your mother is a well-established, respected hostess and matron.”

Charles sighed. “But there, in Winchester’s study, I sat and stared at the portrait of your mother and you girls behind Winchester’s desk, and for some inexplicable reason I found myself asking for a bride instead. And here we are. Except I still didn’t know exactly why my grandfather felt obligated to Lady Winchester—until this afternoon, I mean.”

Fiona stared at him, then at Abby, and furrowed her brow. “I don’t understand.”

Aggravated, a bit awkwardly, Charles shifted in his seat. “I retrieved a couple of my grandfather’s journals before I went upstairs, earlier. And then I sat and read the relevant parts of them. You see, my grandfather had an affair late in 1797.” He glanced at Betsy, but the lady’s lips were pressed together tightly as if she suddenly understood.

“She was a young matron, newly married—definitely too young for a lecherous old man, as my grandfather described himself then, even by the most relaxed standards. Still, her husband was foolish enough to let her entertain herself in London, while he went off to his own pursuits. They were together for the entire sitting of Parliament’s autumn session, which would have been November and part of December in 1797. He named the woman as Johna but omitted her last name. More than that, my grandfather knew that Johna was just barely pregnant when she left London. And he suspected Johna’s husband was incapable of siring children of his own.”

“Dear Lord.” Betsy could not hold back the exclamation, while Fiona seemed stunned.

Abigail swallowed, and hesitantly stated, “Fiona, your hair colouring could easily be Wessex black as much as Winchester black. And I know Charles must not think of these things too often as he rarely wanders in the gallery, but his great-grandmother—I mean, his grandfather’s mother was an Irish lass—”

“Named Fiona Mae,” Charles finished quietly.

“I was born in late August,” Fiona murmured.

“So it’s probable—and it can be only that, as your mother continued to have a relationship with Winchester—that you are my grandfather’s daughter, which means I must now properly and very respectfully call you Aunt Fiona.” Charles’ lips twitched, as he tried to draw her out.

It was Betsy who laughed uproariously. “What a damned mess,” the woman exclaimed. “I assume,” she said sharply, looking at Charles, “that you checked other years as well?”

“Up until now, only the period before Abigail’s birth, but I will look,” Charles returned seriously. “Grandfather had a mistress in Birmingham then. It was more convenient for him, what with our interests there. He would not have been in London when Abigail was conceived.”

Charles bent forward towards Fiona, but she was still blinking rapidly, clearly trying to assimilate. He said more carefully, “As Abigail noted, I rarely walk in the gallery. But before dinner, I took a walk through the portraits, looking. Although it’s not evidence, I believe you may very well belong on that wall, and I want you to hear it from me—not just Abby. You are
always welcome
. For
any reason
,
any time
. Specifically, I’d like you to come and spend the holidays—as much of December as you wish—here with us.”

“I think you’ve shocked her, Charles,” Abby said. “Fiona?”

Fiona visibly shook herself. “I…I clearly have some thinking to do,” she said after a long moment. “But I-I thank you for the invitation, and I will think on it, seriously, and write to you. But it is the night before your wedding, Abigail. Shouldn’t we have tea and get on with it?”