Guilty Series (88 page)

He tried to tell himself that his outrage was justified for Emma's gall in coming to his house and for the horrible scene to which she had subjected Viola. Outrage at fate for giving him a son who could never be the heir he needed. Outrage at the whole baffling idea that a mistress would fall in love. The tea, the roses, harmless things, so innocuous. How could any woman think that those things and cold, hard sterling for bedroom services amounted to love?

Viola's voice echoed through his mind, overtaking Emma's wretched sobbing.

Oh, John, do you not see? Women fall in love with you. It's in the way you smile and the things you say. The way you pay attention to what we tell you and how you remember what we like.

Ludicrous, he'd thought at the time. Viola being overly sentimental and kindhearted about a woman she should by all rights despise. Emma Rawlins in love with him was silly, absurd. Yet, only moments ago, Emma Rawlins had debased herself at his feet.

Not so silly after all.

He hadn't known, he told himself. He'd never dreamt the woman had such passionate feelings for him. And a baby with her had never entered his head. Why should it have? He had used the proper protections. Could he be sure the child was his? What business did a mistress have falling in love with a man anyway?

Even as he heard his own attempts at self-defense and justification, they nauseated him. Loathing followed on nausea's heels, loathing for himself and his thoughtless, callous behavior.

That was really the cause of his anger. Not poor Emma, who had been pregnant and hiding from the shame of it in France, writing him all those letters, no doubt terribly frightened at what would happen to her if he continued to ignore her. Nor was he angry at fate. Whether it was fornication or lovemaking, whether it was with or without the protection of French letters, children were the eventual, inevitable result, as hard as that was for a man to remember when a woman was in his arms and his wits were slipping. No, all his outrage was directed at himself.

John stopped walking and leaned his back against a tree. Nothing has changed, he realized with despair. After all that he had done these past nine years to become a responsible man, to do his duty by his estates and his family name, to be a good caretaker of his wife's income and his own, yet in his private life, he was still as careless and
thoughtless of the feelings of others as he had been as a youth. And as heedless of the consequences of his actions.

He sank down to the ground and put his head in his hands, Emma's pathetic wail of sorrow ringing in his ears. Her emotional display might have been pitiful, but it was he who deserved the blame for it. He and he alone.

No, mistresses were not supposed to fall in love, but it was clear that sometimes they did. Viola had tried to tell him, had tried to explain, had tried to make him understand. He had refused to listen, refused to believe it. But he was now faced with the undeniable truth and the wretched results. He was now face-to-face with something he'd been running from his whole life: the weaknesses in his own character.

Viola had married him because she had loved him, she had trusted him, and he had lied to her. It had seemed harmless enough at the time, even kind. He hadn't realized just what a deep and lasting wound he would inflict with something he'd thought so innocuous.

Do you love me?
she'd asked him, her beautiful hazel eyes wide, so hopeful, so painfully vulnerable.

Of course I do
, he'd answered, lightly, laughing, giving her a kiss and a careless smile and the answer she wanted because it had been the easy thing to do. The convenient thing. The only thing
that would get him what he needed. Had his father been in his place, his father would have lied just as he had done. Without blinking an eye.

For the first time, John understood what he was. A heartbreaker. He'd held Viola's heart in his hands nine years ago, and with thoughtless disregard, he had broken it. He hadn't known what he'd been toying with.

Peggy Darwin had loved him, too. She'd said it once, laughing, with a pain in her eyes when he hadn't said it back. Yes, she'd been married, but to a man who did not love her. She'd been starved for affection, and he'd willingly provided it. And he had ended it without a second thought.

Four years had passed since then, but that day in the draper's shop a few months back, Peggy had still looked at him with a hint of what had been in her eyes when she'd said she loved him, a hint of what was in Emma's face today, a hint of what Viola had felt for him when she had married him.

Viola. That hurt most of all. No bandages for her wounds, no way to mend her heart or laugh it all away. She would hate him now as much as she ever had, loathing him as much as he loathed himself. How could she not?

John rubbed his hands over his face. He couldn't bear to think about Viola right now. One thing at a time. He had a baby son, and he had to figure out what to do about that first.

There'd be no walking away. He knew that
much. He'd told Viola that: no more walking away. He'd meant it about her and their marriage, but he knew it applied to every single thing in his life.

John stood up and went back toward the house, making for the stables. He had a groom saddle his horse, and he rode to Falstone.

 

Her tears were dry by the time Anthony found her in the garden. He sat down beside her on the stone bench. He studied her and the baby in her arms for a long moment, then said, “I could kill him, but somehow, I don't think you want me to do that, do you?”

“No.” Viola smiled a little and looked at him. “But thank you for offering. Very noble and brotherly of you.”

“If it's any comfort to you, he did break with the Rawlins woman before the season even began. I know that much.”

“I know it, too.” She paused. “I love him, you know. I have always loved him. Even when I hated him.”

Anthony put an arm around her shoulders. “Would you like me to take you away from here?”

Viola had been contemplating that very thing for over an hour. She thought of her husband, the charming man who could make everyday life such a delight, and she tried to reconcile that man with the one who had stood stone-faced a few moments ago while a heartbroken woman lay sob
bing at his feet. With sudden clarity, she understood what it meant when her husband bore that hard, implacable expression. It was the face of a man in agony who wanted to make everything right and did not know how.

Viola stood up. “No, Anthony,” she answered her brother's question, “I am not going anywhere. What I would like is for everyone to go home. Hammond and I need to work this out ourselves.”

He rose to his feet. “Are you sure?”

Viola looked down at the baby in her arms. This was her husband's son. His affair with Emma Rawlins was in the past, ended before he had ever come back to her, and she was not going to condemn him for things in the past. The past could never be undone, and it was the future that mattered.

She knew her husband well enough to know that he would do right by his son now that he knew about him. By the fact that Emma had left the child behind, it was clear the woman did not want it. The baby was staying right here, Viola decided, and so was she.

That meant she was a mother now. She had things to do. The nursery had to be cleaned. A nanny and a wet nurse would have to be hired. Viola held the baby tight, kissed him, and made him a silent promise. The woman who had borne him might not want him, but she did. And she was go
ing to love him and be the best mother to him that she could be.

She looked up at her brother. “I'm sure,” she said quietly.

E
mma was staying at the Black Swan. John presented his card to the innkeeper's wife and waited in the parlor while she took it up to Emma's room. Ten minutes later Emma came down. Inside the parlor of the inn, she shut the door and leaned back against it.

“The baby is yours,” she said at once. “Are you going to deny it?”

Her face was pale, still blotchy with tears. Her resentment was palpable, her pain obvious, her love for him undeniable.

“No,” he answered. “I believe you.” He looked down at his hat in his hands, drew a deep breath and looked at her again. “I'm sorry, Emma,” he said simply. “I am so sorry.”

She moved across the room and sat down on the settee. He sat beside her. Head bent, she stared at her hands. “Do you think saying you are sorry is going to make everything all right?”

“No.” He set his hat aside. “But I have been told of late that although I talk a lot of nonsense, I am not a man who is good at talking about things that matter. An apology matters, I think. I owe you that, and so much more.”

He saw a tear fall on her hand.

No walking away.

He pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to her. “I did not know about the baby.”

“If you had read any of my letters, you would have known.”

“I read the first few. Why did you not tell me straight away?”

She sniffed, dabbed the linen to her eyes. Without looking at him, she mumbled, “At first, I didn't want to believe it myself. I kept ignoring it, hoping it wasn't true. Weak of me not to face the truth.”

“I understand.” Indeed, he did.

“By the time I saw you at Kettering's ball, I knew I had to face up to things, and I wanted so badly to talk with you, to get you alone to tell you, but you were with your wife.”

The last word was said with venom, which he chose to ignore. He supposed it was understandable from her point of view. “Go on,” he said.

“I came to your house in Bloomsbury Square, but you were not at home. At least, your butler told me so.”

In that, at least, he was blameless. “If you came
to see me, Emma, I knew nothing of it. I must truly not have been home at the time.”

She twisted the handkerchief in her hands. “By then I was starting to show, and I knew I had to leave town. I couldn't bear the gossip, and I took what money I had left from your settlement and went to France. I have a cousin who lives there. I have been living with her and writing to you from Calais.”

“Why did you not send a second to tell me?”

“Who would I send?” She looked at him, green eyes wide and helpless. “Except for my one cousin, who is a widow like myself, my family disowned me long ago. It was because I married Rawlins. Such a scoundrel he was, and he left me nothing when he died.”

She fell silent, crying quietly into his handkerchief.

That was how women became mistresses. Desperation. God, he knew all about that. He also knew women always loved a scoundrel. It was one of the most baffling things about their sex, but it was an irrefutable fact. He was living proof.

He'd never asked her one thing about her life before he'd met her, not about her circumstances, her finances, nor anything else. His concerns had been wholly selfish ones, and the shame of the man he had been would haunt him for the rest of his days. His cross to bear, and one he heartily deserved, but he would never be that man again.

No going back.

“What is my son's name, Emma?”

“James.”

His father's Christian name. Now that was an irony. “What do you want to do about the baby?” he asked.

“I can't keep him, John,” she said, her voice rising with her despair. “I can't. He is a bastard. People will talk about it, say things about me and about him. Horrid things. I couldn't bear it. I'm not very good at being a mistress, I'm afraid.”

“You're not hard enough for it, Em,” he said gently. “I should have seen that. What are you going to do?”

“I am going to America. I intend to make a new life, and I can't take the baby with me. The post coach goes in a few hours, and I must be on it. The next ship for New York sails out of Liverpool in two days, and I have passage.” She sniffed. “Terribly selfish of me.”

“No, it's not. It's perfectly understandable.” He took a deep breath, chose his words with care. “If you cannot keep him, then I should like to. Keep him and raise him.”

“What?” She looked at him askance. “You want to raise him in your own house? A bastard son?”

“Yes.”

Emma's eyes welled up with tears again, and she turned her face away, pressing his balled-up
handkerchief to her nose. She didn't say it, but he knew she was wishing that he wasn't married to someone else, that they could raise the baby—their son—together.

After a moment, she spoke. “What…what do we have to do? Are there papers to sign, or something? I do not have much time.”

“My attorney is just down the High Street. Let's go see him and have it done right now. You can get on that ship and go make that new life.”

“Yes, yes,” she agreed eagerly, her relief obvious. “Let's go now.”

An hour later, papers were in his pocket that made James his son. Emma willingly gave up all rights and claims to the boy and agreed to a cash settlement in exchange. His attorney raised an eyebrow at the amount of the settlement, but John knew it would never be enough. As they were standing by the post coach, he said, “Emma?”

She paused in the act of stepping into the vehicle and turned to look at him.

“If you ever need anything, money or credit, anything of that kind, write to me.” He started to smile, then stopped. “I'll read it, I swear.”

She began to weep again and turned away. She stepped in the post coach and looked at him through the window. “Don't tell him about me, John. Not ever.”

“Good-bye, Em.”

John watched the coach pull away, and he knew
that despite Emma's wishes, he was one day going to tell James about his mother. The boy would ask, and he deserved to know that his mother had been a sweet woman whose only mistake had been falling in love with the wrong man.

He turned and started back to the Black Swan to get his horse. When he reached the inn, he walked toward the stables, then stopped, suddenly rooted to the sidewalk.

A richly appointed carriage stood before the doors of the Wild Boar, a rival inn across the street from the Black Swan. The carriage bore the unmistakable insignia of the Duke of Tremore, and it was loaded with trunks and traveling cases.

Viola was leaving him. Her brother was taking her away. John's heart rejected it utterly, his mind went blank, and his body moved, straight toward the doors of the Wild Boar.

 

They were having a midday meal at the inn before starting home, and Viola had come with them. Dylan and Anthony had gone to the barkeep to each get a tankard of ale and discuss the state of the roads for travel, and the three women were seated at one of the tables in the crowded dining room.

“How does one go about finding a wet nurse?” she asked the other two women. “I haven't any idea.”

“See the local doctor,” Daphne answered. “He would know.”

“Excellent idea. After we're finished here, I will call on Dr. Morrison.”

“Are you certain you wish to take this on, Viola?” Grace asked. “There will be talk. Mean and vicious talk. Taking on a child that is not your own, an illegitimate child, is very difficult.”

“You managed it,” Viola pointed out, referring to Dylan's eight-year-old daughter, Isabel, whose mother had been a courtesan.

“I know, but Isabel was older, and Dylan wasn't married to me at that time,” she answered. “And Dylan isn't a peer. Your situation is a bit different. No other lord's wife would keep her husband's illegitimate child in her own house and raise it. And what if John doesn't want to do it?”

“John will want to keep the baby.” She was absolutely sure of that. She didn't know why. Perhaps it was because she remembered the look on his face when he'd been holding baby Nicholas.

Dylan and Anthony joined them just then and sat down, placing their tankards on the table.

“I agree with Viola,” Dylan said, entering the conversation as he sat down beside his wife. “Hammond will keep it. He's mad on babies at present.”

Anthony made a sound of clear skepticism. “How good a father will he be, is my question.”

“There is only one important question involved in any of this,” Daphne said. “Viola, does Hammond love you?”

Anthony groaned. “Trust a woman to always bring love into any discussion.”

“Does he?” Daphne repeated, ignoring that comment.

Viola looked at her sister-in-law with a wobbly smile. “I honestly don't know.”

At that moment the door of the Wild Boar opened and the subject of their conversation walked in. He took one look around and strode straight toward them.

He yanked off his hat and halted at their table, facing his wife, ignoring everyone else. He took a deep breath, looked into her eyes, and said one word. “No.”

“What?” Viola blinked, staring at him. “No, what? Are you talking about the baby?”

“No, you're not leaving me. I won't let you.”

Viola's lips parted in astonishment as his words slowly sank in. He thought she was leaving him. “John—” she began.

“No arguments about this, Viola.” He gestured around the table with his hat. “They can all go home, but you're not going anywhere.”

She tried again. “I—”

“And we're keeping James.”

“What?”

“The baby. We're keeping him, and we'll raise him. You and I. Together. See, I've been thinking things over and what to do about it all, and it has
to be that way. I know I don't have any right to ask it of you, and it's going to be hard, but we have to do it. He's my responsibility, and I have to take care of him. You know I do. It's only right.”

“Yes, of course, but—”

“And Emma's going to America. She doesn't want him, and I do. And you have to help me raise him. He needs a mother, so you can't leave me. You can't.” His jaw set. “No running away, Viola. Not for either of us. That's been the problem all along, you know. We've both been running away. Mostly me, I admit, but that's not going to happen anymore. I told you that, remember? I promised I wasn't going to walk away from you, and I'm not. Not ever again. And I'm not letting you walk away, either.”

She tried one more time. “John, I am—”

“Damn it, I'm trying to talk to you. Woman, you're the one who always wants me to talk about things. Will you stop interrupting me so I can do so?”

She gave it up.

“God, Viola, sometimes, you drive me insane, you really do. Wanting to talk, and then when I try…” He paused, with a sound of thorough exasperation with her. “No one gets under my skin like you. And I don't know why.”

Viola fought to keep a smile off her face. A
smile would ruin everything, and this was just getting good.

“I don't know what it is, but no one else can give me one look and shred me to ribbons. No one else can make the heavens open when she smiles at me. No one but you, Viola. I've had a lot of women in my life, God knows, but I've only had one who can make me remember that I have a heart inside my chest instead of an empty hole. And that woman is you.”

Any thought of smiling vanished in the wake of that little speech. He was in complete earnest. Nothing clever or amusing about it. It was the most beautiful thing she'd ever heard.

John paused long enough to suck in a breath, then said, “I love that you have eyes like mud and hair like sunlight, and I thank God every day for blackberry jam. I love that mole at the corner of your mouth, and I love the way you laugh. I love fighting with you because I love making up with you. When I made up that poem that day in the boat, I meant every word of it. Every word, Viola. No face so fair and none so dear. And I don't want any other. Ever. For all the precious moments of my life, you're the only one.”

He scowled at her, looking handsome and fierce, and so resentful. “Nobody
ever
gets to hear my poetry. Nobody but you. And I may be the stupidest man on God's earth—”

“Hear, hear,” muttered Anthony.

John ignored that. “And it may have taken me nine years to figure things out, but now I know what love is. I know because you taught me. I love you. Don't deserve you. Never did, but I love you. I love you more than my life.”

He fell silent.

Viola waited a moment, but he did not speak again. She gave a little cough. “Are you finished?” she asked.

He glanced around, and she saw it suddenly dawn on him that the dining room of the inn was filled with people, and that all of them were staring at him. He lifted his chin a notch and straightened his cravat. “Yes.”

He turned and strode away, but stopped at the door to look back at her. “I'll be at Hammond Park,” he told her, all that proud defiance in his face. “
Our
home. Waiting for
my
wife to come back there where she belongs!”

With that, he opened the door and walked out, slamming it behind him.

The room was as silent as a Quaker meeting. It was Dylan who spoke first. “Well,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “I don't believe we need have any further debate on the subject. It's clear your husband is madly in love with you, Viola, because he just made a complete ass of himself.”

 

The nursery was one of the few places at Hammond Park that John never went to. That after
noon, he did. When he entered, one of his maids, Hill, was there, seated in a chair beside a wooden cradle. His cradle once upon a time, he fancied. The summer sun washed over the room, bathing the ivory walls in yellow light.