Ashlyn Macnamara

CHAPTER ONE

London, 1820

I
F THE
key to announcing bad news lay in the timing, George Upperton’s mistress knew when to deliver.

“What’s that?” Some odd emotion invaded the haze of post-coital bliss, and he rolled to his side. “For a moment there, I could have sworn you told me you were with child.”

Lucy Padgett closed long-lashed eyelids. Strawberry-blond hair tumbled over bare shoulders and breasts as she ducked her head. “I did.”

Like a fist to the gut, her affirmation sent the air rushing from his lungs. He frowned and pushed himself up on one elbow. “Are you certain? This could make for a very bad joke.”

She shifted to her back, arms crossed, and her eyes snapped open, sparkling with blue fire. “Joke?” Her usual melodic tones hardened to ice. “This isn’t a joke. How could you be so coldhearted as to question me?”

“I only …” The fist was still planted in his gut. It settled into the pit of his stomach, hard and leaden, yet managed to expand until breathing became a chore. He pulled in a lungful of air through his nose and tried again. “I thought it took a while before a woman knew.”

“It’s been two months since I last had my courses. They’ve never been late before.”

George counted back the days in his head. Two months … eight weeks … A lot could happen to a man in that time. In his particular case, a lot
had
happened. Quite enough to drive thoughts of Lucy claiming she was indisposed from his mind.

“I thought …”

She wasn’t going to like his next comment, but damn it, he had to say it. They weren’t likely to pass the rest of the evening in a more agreeable fashion. Not after her announcement. The mere thought of engaging in additional bed sport now made that weight in his gut twist until he rather felt like casting up his accounts.

“I thought you’d taken the usual precautions.”

“Precautions?” She yanked the sheet free of the mattress and wrapped herself in it, the same way she draped herself in indignation. “Precautions?” She squeaked a high note on the final syllable. “You know very well the usual precautions are no guarantee. Last I looked, I didn’t create a brat all on my own. I had help.”

George had no clue how to reply to this. She was right, of course, but truth was, he’d never considered the matter. He’d assumed she’d protected herself because that’s what wise women of her standing did—ensured no unpleasant consequences might cost them their protector.

The heavy sensation intensified until beads of sweat broke out on his brow. How coldhearted he’d become. How cynical. He thrust aside an image of Lucy cradling a tiny, gray-eyed boy with waves of light brown hair. His son. Who’d have thought? Of course, he couldn’t cast the poor woman off at a time like this. Bitter experience had taught him just how rejection felt.

“No sense in arguing over the matter now that it’s too late.” He was amazed at how reasonable he sounded, voice low, steady, almost comforting. It nearly set
him
at ease.

Nearly.

The thought of raising a child made him want to carve out a neat hiding spot in his liquor cabinet and remain there for the next few decades.

Blast it all, he couldn’t afford this. He could barely afford Lucy, especially since she’d revealed quite extravagant taste where her wardrobe was concerned. The latest bill from her modiste had sent him straight to his club.

She glared at him. “What do you plan on doing about this?”

“Doing?” Damned if he knew. The bottle of brandy in the sitting room was calling at the moment. A deuced siren it was, just as seductive as the Lorelei.

“You … you don’t want me to raise it, do you?” She sniffed. “I shall require some form of compensation. How else will I live? I certainly won’t find another gentleman once I’m fat with your get.”

“No, no, of course not.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed and plucked his dressing gown from the heap of clothing on the floor. How blithely he’d shed it an hour before. How blindly. “When you mention compensation, what did you have in mind?”

He paid close attention to his dressing gown as he awaited her reply. He slipped his arms through heavy velvet sleeves. Easier to concentrate on the weight of the fabric on his shoulders than to witness her calculated assessment of what she might gain from him.

But he owed her now, didn’t he? He’d taken his pleasure in her body and now he must pay a much heftier price than he’d ever imagined.

“I’ll need the house, of course.”

“Of course,” he echoed. He was already behind on rent.

“And I’ll need to keep on the cook and my maid. Oh, and a new wardrobe.” He imagined her ticking items off
on her fingers. He couldn’t bring himself to look. “In a few months, I won’t possibly be able to wear my gowns.”

The weight in his stomach plummeted, and he sank to the mattress. He covered his mouth with one hand until he was certain his dinner would stay where it belonged before sliding his fingers down his chin. “Lucy, my dear, I meant to tell you … I mean, I really ought to have said something before now. That’s entirely my fault. But honestly …”

The words wouldn’t come. George Upperton was known among his circle of cronies as a prime wit, but now, when it mattered most, he couldn’t summon the means to reveal the truth.

“How dare you!” She leapt from the bed, dragging the sheet along with her. “You utter, utter scoundrel. How could you possibly?”

He glanced sideways at her. Her face had gone a deep crimson that clashed horribly with her red-gold hair. “How dare I what?”

“I’ve just announced to you that I’m in a delicate condition and you have the colossal nerve to hand me my
congé
?”

At delicate, he almost snorted. The notes she’d just hit with that shriek were nearly pure enough to shatter crystal or set nearby dogs to howling. Lucy was anything but delicate. But then the rest of her accusation struck him in the gut. “
Congé?
I’m not as coldhearted as all that. What I was trying to tell you—”

A pounding on the bedroom door cut him off. “What the deuce?”

Lucy stared at him, round-eyed, and drew the sheet more firmly about her breasts. The pounding increased until the heavy oak plank rattled on its hinges.

George tightened his belt, rose, and strode across the room. “Here now. What is the meaning—”

He whipped the door open and found himself face-to-face
with a tall, dark-haired man. A ratty topcoat covered a rough linen waistcoat and loose trousers.

Behind the intruder, Lucy’s maid cowered. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but he insisted.”

George narrowed his eyes and glanced over his shoulder at Lucy. “Might I ask what this man is doing, demanding entrance to your private chambers?”

“I didn’t come here looking for her,” the newcomer growled. He grabbed George by the front of his dressing gown and whipped him about. “I came here looking for you.”

Him? What the devil? George forced a grin to his lips. “You could just as easily have found me at my townhouse during regular calling hours. Now you’ve caught me completely unprepared for company. Suppose we might persuade the maid to put the kettle on, but I’m afraid we’ve finished the biscuits.”

As he clattered on, he sized up the stranger—an old strategy of his that had extricated him from any number of tight situations. The man’s face was squarish, topped by a slash of dark brows with a firm line of a mouth at its base. Nothing familiar about it. Certainly not one of his creditors. His creditors had a better sense of style.

The stranger gave George a shake. “I didn’t come to pay my respects.”

“Yes, I’m getting that impression.” He allowed nonchalance to infuse his tone. It was too difficult to inspect one’s nails when a great oaf had one by the lapels. “But suppose, before you beat the stuffing out of me, you tell me who you are and explain why. Then I may or may not take it like a man, depending on whether or not I agree with you.”

Another shake, this one hard enough to rattle his back teeth. “You talk too much.”