Her Secret Affair (36 page)

He looked away, his jaw set, as if he were contemplating a grim future. “I’ve a second cousin who can inherit. I’d always intended to do my duty and produce an heir, but that’s impossible now.” He fervently kissed her hand, his expression raw with longing. “I love you, Isabel. I can’t imagine sharing my life with any other woman but you.”

She had longed to hear those words from the man she cherished above all others. But with his shameful proposition, Kern had robbed the joy from her.

She slipped from the bed and snatched up her chemise, her fists clenched in the fine linen, holding it to cover her breasts. “I’m afraid, my lord, that you’ll have to survive without me.” Her voice grew ragged with unshed tears. The overpowering grief suddenly made her furious. “You see, I won’t be like my mother. I won’t squander my life pining for a man who sets himself beyond my reach. Nor will my children be born bastards as I was.”

Her declaration struck Kern like a blow. She didn’t understand; perhaps she could never understand. For as long as he lived, he would never forget the look of disgust on Hathaway’s face. The ache in Kern’s jaw was a reminder of how the world would view his actions.

Hathaway had raised him to abide by strict rules of propriety. From boyhood, Kern had never questioned his responsibilities as lord and master of his people, his obligation to be the model of moral behavior. Out of love for Isabel, he’d already bent those unwritten laws of decorum. He had offered to dedicate himself to her, to sacrifice his duty to take a blue-blooded wife and to sire an heir of impeccable lineage.

Damn! Couldn’t she see? He wasn’t setting himself above her so much as acknowledging the cold realities that life imposed on them. Though his rank forbade him to marry her, surely he could give her no greater vow than absolute fidelity.

Or could he?

Could he turn his back on all the principles Hathaway had drummed into him, all the precepts that had guided him along the rocky path to manhood? Could he, who had pledged to bring respect back to the name of Lynwood, take the natural daughter of a courtesan as his wife?

The desire to do just that tempted him mightily. He got out of bed and snatched up his clothing. Tormented by fantasy, he fastened the buttons of his breeches. Isabel whirled around, presenting her back to him as she drew the chemise over her head and then stepped into her petticoat. She looked so small and vulnerable, he wanted to seize her up in his arms and carry her away to a place where the censure of the world could never hurt her.

To you, I’m the bastard of a trollop. I’ll never be anything more.

How wrong she was. He didn’t know quite how it had happened, but he regarded Isabel Darling as the center of his existence. Without her, the future stretched out like a bleak, endless darkness. He needed time to think, to determine what to do.

Walking to her, he curved his fingers around the tender warmth of her forearm. “Come with me, Isabel.”

Her chin shot up. “No. I won’t be your whore.”

Her anger cut him, but it was no less than he deserved. “I’m not suggesting you should be. I’m concerned about your safety. Look at what happened to Minnie.”

She stared down at his hand with such freezing contempt that he let loose of her. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself,” she said. “I’ve managed to do so for years.”

“For pity’s sake, don’t be foolish.” Anxiety roughened his voice. “It’s far too dangerous for you to remain here without my protection. You can stay at Lynwood House for the time being. At least until we find out who killed your mother.”

“So you can try to seduce me again? I think not, my lord.” She gave a firm shake of her head, causing her unbound hair to swirl around her half-clothed form. “I’d sooner stay among those who respect me.”

He deserved her reproof. It reminded him that he lacked the right of a husband to safeguard his wife. Yet neither could he let her come to harm. “I’ll send several of my footmen here to watch over the house.”

She leaned down to pick up her gown. “Don’t bother yourself. I don’t intend to be alone for long.”

“What the devil is that supposed to mean?”

“Exactly what you think.” She held the wine-colored silk to her breasts and regarded him with maddening aloofness. “It means I’ll find another man to protect me. A man who regards me as worthy of his name.”

Chapter 19

“Sir John can’t ’ave no visitors, m’lord.” Her eyes red-rimmed raisins in a pudding face, the old housekeeper peered out through the crack of the half-closed door. “’E’s took ill, God save ’im.”

Kern pressed his hand to the wooden panel when she would have shut it in his face. “I must see him, whether he’s ill or not. It’s a matter of vital importance.”

She snuffled loudly. “Ye don’t understand, m’lord. The poor man’s dyin’ on ’is deathbed. The doctor’s wid ’im now.”

Dying?

Kern thrust the door open and stepped past the startled housekeeper. He strode through the dim foyer to the narrow staircase that hugged the wall.

“Ye mustn’t go up there. Ye mustn’t disturb the master.”

Ignoring her wail of protest, he took the risers two at a time. Bloody damn, he shouldn’t have waited until morning to call on Trimble. But yesterday he had been trapped in torment over losing Isabel. He’d spent the night pacing, aching for her, imagining her in the arms of an admirer.

I’ll find another man to protect me. A man who regards me as worthy of his name.

She had spoken out of pain and anger, out of the need to strike back and hurt him. She could not have meant those words. Isabel was too scrupulous, too honorable to invite another man into her bed so soon.

Yet what would happen over the course of days, weeks? She lived in a brothel. The other whores would encourage her to take lovers. God knew, Isabel had been so devastated by his infamous offer, she might seek solace in the most elemental human closeness …

He found himself standing in the upper corridor, breathing hard, his fists clenched. He had to get a hold on himself. What mattered now was to eliminate the threat to her safety.

Four closed doors faced him. It took him all of three seconds to find the right one.

As he entered the spartan chamber, the odor of sickness struck him. On a narrow bedstead, his scarred face yellowish-pale in contrast to the dark coverlet, lay Sir John Trimble. His breathing was shallow, his eyes closed, his body as still as death.

Was this man Isabel’s father? The man who had forsaken his bastard daughter all those years ago? It was hard to believe. Kern had judged him an honest man, not given to subterfuge.

A gaunt man with wispy white hair bent over the patient, carefully removing the small leech from Trimble’s limp arm and dropping it into a jar. The man straightened and wearily regarded Kern.

Kern strode to the doctor. “I am Lord Kern, a friend of Sir John’s. Tell me how he fares.”

The smaller man gravely shook his head. “Poorly, I fear. He’s fallen into a stupor. I cannot rouse him, though five times already today I’ve bled the ill humors from him.”

The housekeeper lumbered into the room, her gnarled fingers twisted in her apron. “’E come ’ome yesterday afternoon, complainin’ of a bellyache. Afore I knew it, ’e’d collapsed in the entry.”

“What precisely is the nature of his illness?” Kern asked the physician.

“’Tis peculiar, the sudden severity of his symptoms.” The doctor scratched his balding head. “Retching all day and night. A yellow cast to his skin and a quickened pulse, even now while he lies senseless. I suppose he might have eaten something putrid.”

“But you think otherwise.”

The man shrugged. “In all my years, I’ve treated but a single other case that exactly matched this one. ’Twas a housewife who tried to do away with herself by ingesting a quantity of arsenic.”

Poison.

Kern’s blood ran cold. Yesterday, Trimble had visited the brothel, then left to look for Callandra. Kern had spoken to Callandra on his way out. Newly arrived from Hathaway’s, she had expressed surprise that Trimble was looking for her.

Now Kern wondered. Was she lying? Had Trimble found her and confronted her about the murder? Had she then somehow poisoned him to keep her secret safe?

Frustrated, he turned to the housekeeper. “Did Sir John say where he’d been yesterday? To whom he’d spoken?”

She shook her mobcapped head. “’E were too weak an’ sick to talk. I ’astened to fetch the doctor, an’ when I come back, ’e were in a bad way.”

“Did he say anything at all? A name, perhaps? Callandra or Callie?”

She started to deny it again; then the doctor intervened. “My lord, I do remember him muttering something last evening. I remember wondering why he kept babbling the name of a Greek god.”

Kern stepped forward. He only just stopped himself from seizing the physician by his lapels and shaking him. “Which god? Tell me, man.”

“’Twas Apollo.”

Apollo.

Perhaps Minnie was mistaken. Perhaps Trimble had not gone after Callandra because he thought
her
guilty, but because he believed she knew some incriminating evidence about Isabel’s father. That meant Trimble was not Apollo, after all. If Trimble then had gone to confront Apollo …

Apollo could have poisoned Trimble.

Kern took his leave and hastened out to his carriage. Before he went back to the brothel to question Callandra again, he intended to test the theory that had occupied him since reading the memoirs and spotting the clue written there. He would have followed up on his conjecture already had he not been distracted by his love for Isabel.

He sprang into his waiting phaeton and snatched up the ribbons, hurrying the horse down the street. With any luck, he might have the means to deduce Apollo’s identity.

*   *   *

Isabel carried her tray down the steep steps to the basement kitchen. The odor of cooked cabbage from the luncheon meal eddied over her as she entered the long room with its stone walls and familiar rows of dainty rose plates displayed on the shelves. As a girl, she’d loved this kitchen. She had pretended it was a secret cave where she could hide from wicked witches and fire-breathing dragons. Now it was a sanctuary for her troubled spirits.

Aunt Minnie stood at the chopping block in the center of the room. She was slicing onions, her plump fingers awkwardly wielding the knife, her injured arm hugged to her bosom. Seeing Isabel, Minnie put down the utensil and wiped her hands on the stained apron that encompassed her broad form. Her gaze sharpened on the tray Isabel carried to the dry sink.

“Here now, you scarcely touched the cabbage soup. ’Twas the same treatment you gave my coddled eggs at breakfast.” A wounded look entered her hazel eyes. “I’m beginning to think you got spoiled by the fancier fare at Hathaway’s.”

“It isn’t that. I’m just not very hungry today.”

“Mother of God. You ate like a bird yesterday, too. Even Persy does better. Sit down there, and I’ll fetch you a scone. Fresh-baked by these two old hands.”

Too weary to argue, Isabel sank onto a high stool. The thought of eating left her indifferent, but she’d make the attempt to please her aunt. She really didn’t want to return to her lonely bedroom anyway, to lie on the bed where she and Kern had made love. She didn’t want to suffer the anguish of loss or remember the endearments he had whispered in her ears.

I love you … I’ll take care of you always … for the rest of our lives.

Minnie plunked a plate in front of Isabel, then dropped a generous dollop of butter onto the china. “Have you a bellyache?” she said shrewdly. “’Tis too soon for you to be showing signs of breeding.”

Isabel froze in the act of buttering the scone. A soft yearning assailed her breast. Very slowly, she lowered the knife to the table. “Oh, Aunt Minnie. Do you truly think I might have conceived already?”

“It’s possible,” Minnie said, her face grave. “’Tis easy to let your passions carry you away, then afterwards you pay the price. You must promise me to be careful henceforth.”

Minnie didn’t know that Kern had left for good. There would be no next time. Isabel would never see him again—unless she had the courage to take the step she had pondered all night. With all the fervency in her heart, she admitted, “But I love Justin. I want his child.”

“Nay, dearie.” Minnie shook her mobcapped head, the stray ginger strands plastered to her neck. “You mustn’t entertain such fairy-tale notions. You’ll only be disappointed. Did I ever tell you about the babe I lost?”

Isabel paused, a piece of the scone poised at her lips. “No,” she said in surprise. “What happened?”

“’Twas right before your mama took me in.” Minnie settled her bulk onto a chair. “I was an orphan, lucky to have a post as upper maid in the household of a viscount. The master’s son took a fancy to me, and he tempted me into lifting my skirts. What a feast was that first taste of pleasure! I wanted more, and so we carried on blissfully for a few months.” She smiled, staring into the distance; then her features hardened. “His parents guessed the truth, but they pretended not to notice till my belly began to swell. Then they lost no time tossing me out into the gutter.”

Isabel swallowed convulsively. She could see Minnie as a frightened girl having no one to turn to, forced to cope with pregnancy on her own. “Oh, Aunt Minnie. What did you do? Where did you go?”

“’Twas summertime, so I survived on the streets. Nobody would hire me, of course. For food, I had only a few pence I’d saved from my earnings. ’Tis no surprise the babe was born too soon and too puny.” A look of immeasurable sadness came over her face, and she hugged her immense bosom. “My poor, wee daughter died in my arms.”

Tears sprang to Isabel’s eyes. Rising from the stool, she hugged the woman who had been like a mother to her, aware of her familiar warmth. “I’m so very sorry. I never imagined…”

“Ah, ’twas for the best. It made me determined to raise myself up, and when I heard your mother was seeking a companion during her confinement, I called on her. Softhearted she was, Aurora. She was taken by the similarities in our stories and hired me. And then you were born and ’twas like a blessing, for I had another little girl to replace the one I lost.”