An Improper Proposal (The Distinguished Rogues Book 6) (2 page)

She swallowed the lump clogging her throat. Being an accessory to robbery didn’t make her a lady or honorable. One more reason to hate her life. Lord Hazelton had recently purchased a seed-pearl necklace and matching amethyst brooch for his beautiful young wife, and the flattered woman hadn’t been able to stop talking about it to everyone she met. She had set herself up to be robbed by revealing where it was kept to a room full of gossipy women and gentlemen several times. There was no way Iris could be a sole suspect, so she felt safe enough to pass this intelligence along.

The turnkey smiled. “Mr. Talbot will see you at eleven. Do not forget what’s at stake.”

My father’s life.
She shuddered. “How could I?”

He shrugged and when a knock sounded on the gate, he managed to stand between her and freedom to open it. Although she tried her best, she could not get past him without rudely shoving the visitors aside. Many considered visiting the Marshalsea as a lark, unless you had family trapped here. Fitzhugh tipped his hat to them. “Talbot said to tell you he will dance with you tonight.”

“I will not agree to that.” She looked for the comfort of her father but he’d already turned away for the company of other men, leaving her alone with this scoundrel.

“Were you about to tell your sweet old pa about your arrangements? I wouldn’t do it if I were you. He’ll froth at the mouth and start biting the balustrade. Should by rights send him where he belongs.” He mimicked a shooting star and then slapped his thigh. “Straight to the madhouse for him if I had my way. You should be grateful a man like Talbot thinks to spare him.”

She’d be grateful when they both dropped dead. “Leave my father alone.”

“Then do your job.” The turnkey opened the gate, so slowly she wanted to scream in frustration. When she could squeeze through, she marched away from the prison, furious but afraid. Iris lived in fear that her father would be sent to Bedlam if she did not do what Talbot demanded. No one ever left a madhouse.

She squared her shoulders and set off for Lady Heathcote’s home, Fitzhugh’s threats following her into the better part of London despite her best efforts to forget. She had to find a way out of this mess, and soon.

Two

The world crashed down on Martin Andrew, Lord Louth’s, head at precisely eleven o’clock in the morning in the private residence he owned on Pollen Street, London. “What do you mean Vivian is dead?”

Mrs. Hughes, his former mistress’s housekeeper, looked on him with sorrowful eyes. “She died several days ago, my lord.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I am sorry to be the bearer of such sad news.” Mrs. Hughes winced. “I know you have no reason to mourn Mrs. Rose after all the trouble she put you through, but I thought you would want to know.”

Martin turned away to hide his reaction. Shock. Dismay. Grief. He might not have been Vivian’s protector anymore but he had cared enough about her welfare to allow her to lease the house long after their arrangement had ended. He had not laid eyes on Vivian in six months or more, at her request, nor had he shared a bed with her in closer to eight, also by her request.

Another protector had snatched Vivian up a few days after their parting, ensuring no reconciliation was ever possible between them. The bitter sting of discovering she loved another had tainted their last words to each other, and now he could never make peace with her.

He glanced around, at last noticing the house was draped in mourning colors. “Is she here?”

“No, my lord.” The housekeeper clasped her hands together at her waist. “Lord Fallow took her body and made arrangements for a private burial. He was beside himself and would not permit us to see her or attend services.”

Martin nodded slowly, an uncomfortable ache building in his chest. He might not have been Vivian’s choice as a protector, but she had been in his life for a long time and he wished he’d known about her passing sooner. “Did she suffer?”

There was nothing Vivian had hated more than discomfort or being inconvenienced. He hoped her death had been swift and painless.

“No more than any woman,” Mrs. Hughes informed him. “I thought everything was well but her death took me by surprise.”

Martin turned slowly, unable to believe his ears. “What do you mean by ‘no more than any woman’? She is dead, for heaven’s sake.”

Mrs. Hughes regarded him with widened eyes. “She delivered her daughter easily, looked up into my face smiling, and when I returned to her after taking the girl away for wrapping, she was gone. So suddenly. Without a whimper of protest or warning.”

“Daughter?” Martin staggered back a step. “She was with child?”

Mrs. Hughes winced. “I urged her to write to you and explain. It would have been kinder.”

The sadness that had begun with the news of Vivian’s death surged into dismay at Mrs. Hughes’s words. “I received no letter about any pregnancy.”

“I wish I did not need to distress you more but the birth was very hard on her. More so than I realized.” Mrs. Hughes glanced down at her hands.

Martin sank onto a chair, horrified that Vivian had died giving birth to another’s offspring.

The housekeeper cleared her throat. “The child thrives. Lord Fallon has done all he can for my mistress but once he saw the babe, he washed his hands. The girl has none of his features. Now that I see you again, I am more certain than ever that she is your daughter.”

It took a moment for Martin to gather his struggling wits to realize the woman believed him to be the child’s father. He put his hands on his head and dug his fingers into his skull as shock swept over him. He’d always feared any child of his would be too large for a woman to bear easily, so in bed he played other sorts of games to avoid pregnancy in his partners. He’d always been careful with Vivian. Or so he’d thought until now.

Given the way she waited silently, Mrs. Hughes wanted an admission from him too. But that was impossible. He’d seen no hint of Vivian’s condition during their last discussion. He could not believe that in her anger, in the volley of spiteful words that had been flung at him during their last meeting, that she could have held that back. Had she believed, hoped, the child belonged to Fallon? “I want to see the babe.”

“Of course, my lord. Let me fetch her.”

While Mrs. Hughes was gone, Martin paced the darkened sitting room. Was it a trick, a scheme to foist a child onto him to raise as his own? He’d certainly heard of it happening before and it always caused a scandal for the men involved, and their families.

He tugged the drawn drapes open, determined not to be tricked into anything. Crying alerted him that the child was drawing close. He faced the doorway as Mrs. Hughes stepped into view, attempting to soothe the babe with soft, ineffectual words.

Wrapped snugly in a black shawl, the child’s red face was the only piece of her visible.

Mrs. Hughes stopped before him. “The child has no name.”

The woman held the bundle out to him and he immediately placed his hands behind his back. He stared at the child with no name and no mother, struggling to see a resemblance to his former mistress. In her distress and agitation, the child wriggled and a lock of dark hair peeked below the shawl. Fallon had been fair, if memory served.

Mrs. Hughes pressed the child against his chest and he had no choice but to capture her. A trickle of sweat ran from his temple. However much he tried not to show it, he was utterly terrified that he would crush her. “She’s heavier than I expected a newborn to be.”

 
“She was born large. The largest babe I’ve ever beheld.” Mrs. Hughes urged him backward when the child continued to cry. “Perhaps you should sit, my lord.”

Martin sank into the chair gratefully, babe held carefully to his chest. It was a little better to be sitting. Safer for the girl. If she squirmed out of his arms, she would not have far to fall into his lap. He adjusted his grip a little tighter, determined that would not happen.

“Perhaps this way might be easier.” Mrs. Hughes took the crying child back momentarily then placed her lengthways over his knees.

Martin squeezed his thighs tightly together, forming a solid platform for the wailing child to rest upon. He placed one hand on her midsection and, to his relief, she quieted a little. He exhaled. “Is that better?”

Her crying spluttered to hiccups.

He had no experience with children but thought that reaction boded well. “You are wise not to trust me. Not with my track record. A little thing like you would be so easily damaged.” She could almost fit inside his two hands too. He glanced at Mrs. Hughes briefly. “What will be done with her?”

“That is for you to say.” Mrs. Hughes perched on a chair opposite him. “My mistress had no family, as you must know. This little angel is all alone in the world.”

“A bleak picture you paint. We are all alone. Even in a crowded room it is possible to feel lonely.”

“It is not the same circumstances.” Mrs. Hughes sat forward a little. “She will likely go to an orphanage unless I can find a home for her. She’s a pretty child, isn’t she?”

He glanced at the child’s face. Now she was quiet and calm, her skin had changed from a mottled red to soft pink. Rounded cheeks spoke of a healthy child; squat nose; and a pair of murky dark-gray eyes that shifted to his own face when he spoke. He leaned closer, inhaling the scent of a newborn child and looking for traces of Vivian’s features in her appearance.

He nudged the dark shawl away from her face a little bit.

“You might safely unwrap her, my lord. The room is warm enough for the child not to become chilled.”

He did so carefully, noting the child was long rather than wide. Still big for a newborn babe. The housekeeper had dressed her in a fine white muslin smock, embroidered with flowers at the hem, and her tiny legs were curled upward beneath the gown. Her fists clenched and unclenched haphazardly, revealing the tiniest pale fingernails he’d ever seen. He studied them carefully in fascination.

When she squirmed, curling into a tighter ball and yawning, he was spellbound and used two hands to hold her still. There were no certain hints of Vivian in this creature, but was there any of himself? He inspected what he could see of the girl.

Her ears were tiny shells beside her head, perhaps similar to his own in shape but he could not honestly recall the shape of Vivian’s. Her eyes were not the color of his but they were framed by a pair of straight dark brows, rather than the curve of Vivian’s elegant ones. Of course the color of her hair lacked the vibrancy of Vivian’s. Where this child was dark, Vivian had been the color of a bright sunset. And the dramatic widow’s peak Vivian had always accentuated was also absent from the babe’s appearance.

The only reason to suspect the child was Vivian’s was Mrs. Hughes word. “She doesn’t look a bit like the late Mrs. Rose.”

“Not yet. Children change as they age, my lord. Do you not have portraits of yourself at a young age that seem strange when compared to your current face?”

He shifted in his chair as unwelcome remembrances of his childhood flooded him. She was correct. He’d hidden his childhood portraits the minute he’d come into his title. He’d been made to wear decidedly girlish curls as a boy, which was why he kept his dark hair cropped short now.

He carefully turned the child’s head to the side. There at the back, previously hidden by the shawl, the babe’s short hair was crimped with the hint of a wave. He set the child back to rights, disturbed by that observation.

Vivian’s hair had been straight and stubborn. She’d complained of it often enough upon waking in the morning that he remembered her ire all too well.

Which meant the child
could
be his. He’d been Vivian’s protector nine months ago but it depended on who else had shared her bed. He had believed her to be faithful until she’d revealed her preference for another man. The housekeeper surely would know what Vivian had done behind his back. “What has Lord Fallon to say?”

Mrs. Hughes glanced at the child. “Lord Fallon, of course, knew of the pregnancy early in their arrangement but the child does not resemble him in the slightest.”

He rested his hand again on the child’s middle and earned a half-hearted grumble as his reward. “Did Mrs. Rose have any other gentlemen callers?”

“There was only Lord Fallon, and he doted on her.” Mrs. Hughes swallowed hard. “I’m so sorry to be the bearer of such difficult news. Especially so long since parting ways.”

Even after nine months, he experienced pain at the mention of Lord Fallon replacing him. He’d thought he’d doted on Vivian too and he’d done his best to make her happy.

“I believe I can return the child to bed now.” Mrs. Hughes smiled softly. “You have the touch. She’s fallen asleep.” She took the babe from him before he could deny her, spoke softly to the girl when she whimpered, and slipped from the room.

Martin followed to see where the child was being taken. He might not be entirely sure of his fatherhood but he did feel the beginnings of obligation. The child was alone in the world, denied her mother’s love.

The door to the chamber beside Vivian’s old room stood open and when he stepped inside, more white lace and frills surrounded him than he’d ever seen here.

“My mistress was looking forward to the birth and I couldn’t bear to change anything to proper mourning, but I will if you insist.” Mrs. Hughes hummed softly as she tucked her charge into the wicker basket, clearly smitten over the lass, and began to rub her softly.