Peering at father and daughter as he held one hand clasped over his injured eye, Colton threw up the other hand in a fine display of derision. “Now, my lord, perhaps you begin to see the light of it. . . .”
Adriana snuggled her head upon her father’s chest. “He doesn’t want me now any more than he did ten and six years ago.”
“That’s not true!” Colton barked. “I do want her, very much in fa—” Startling himself into abrupt silence, he tilted his head, wondering if the lady had socked his senses loose. What he had almost admitted would have led him posthaste to the altar, and in a manner his father had planned for him. Did he not have some last shred of resolve left?
“Please, Papa,” Adriana mewled, plucking at the decorative patch on his velvet dressing robe. “Let’s go inside. I don’t want to talk about Lord Sedgwick’s contract ever again. If Lord Riordan still wants me to marry him, I will be amenable to his proposal.”
“Now just a damn moment!” Colton roared, causing the elder’s brows to fly upward in amazement. “I have some rights here!”
Gyles patted the air in a calming motion, hoping to placate the enraged man. Not since Colton rebelled against his father’s edict had Gyles heard the man raise his voice with such intense ire. It gave him reason to hope he really cared for his daughter. “ ‘Twould behoove us to settle this matter later, my lord, after you and Adriana have had a chance to think this thing through more rationally. ‘Tis apparent my daughter is upset, and to lengthen this discussion at this present moment would only heighten her distress. Give her a day or two to settle down, and then we’ll talk about it again.”
Colton champed at the bit, anxious to settle the matter before Adriana did anything they would both be sorry for later. Samantha had informed him of the rumors concerning Riordan that were making their way around the area. Now, after hearing the girl say she’d accept the man’s proposal, his jealousy prodded him unmercifully. Of all Adriana’s past suitors, Riordan was the one he feared most. The man had the wits, looks, and charm to steal the lady from him. Only the contract his father had initiated years ago gave him some advantage over the other man, and if that was all the weapon he had to halt the girl from marrying the man, then he’d argue till he was nigh blue in the face before allowing Adriana to terminate their agreement. As much as he personally admired Riordan, he had no doubt that he’d prove the nobleman’s worst enemy if they became embroiled in a confrontation over the lady.
“Lord Gyles, you have not heard my side of this fray yet, and I most respectfully petition you to do so ere you lend an ear to Riordan’s plea for your daughter’s hand. Have I not more of a right to her than he does?”
“I shall give you a fair hearing,” Gyles declared. “Of that, be confident. I only ask that you allow me some time to talk with my daughter and to hear her grievances against you. I won’t commit her to another man until you have been given every opportunity to voice your petitions and complaints.”
Though Colton was disinclined to leave, out of the corner of his undamaged eye he could see Bentley silently pleading for him to relent. Grudgingly he did so.
Squinting at father and daughter as he held a hand clasped over part of his face, he gave them a shallow bow. “Until a later time then.”
Pivoting about, Colton stalked to the landau and climbed inside. From the window, he watched Gyles lay a comforting arm around Adriana’s shoulders and escort her inside. The door closed behind them, seeming to signal an end to the courtship that Colton had been agonizing over for the last two months and longer. The hollow feeling in his chest removed any doubt from his mind that he could no more live without Adriana than he could his own heart.
Colton drew his cane from its place of residency beside the seat and rapped the handle against the interior ceiling of the landau, giving the signal for Bentley to take them from this place. The conveyance lurched into motion, and in the lantern-lit gloom that surrounded him, Colton stared morosely into the darkness beyond the window as he clasped a handkerchief over his injured eye in an effort to stem its unrelenting watery flow.
Fourteen
* * *
Harrison shifted the candlestick to his left hand and rapped the knuckles of his right upon the door of the marquess’s bedchamber. He was fully aware that his lordship had returned home in a fretful mood only a couple hours earlier, and then, much sooner than usual, had secluded himself in his private chambers. Under normal circumstances, he would not have disturbed the man, but the courier had advised him the missive was of grave importance. “My lord,” he called through the heavy, wooden portal. “A messenger has just arrived from London, bearing urgent news for you.”
A loud crash, the splintering of glass, and a smothered curse preceded a gruff request to delay any entrance at the moment. Within the chambers, Colton dragged the sheet over his naked loins as he swung his long legs over the edge of the bed. He doubted that he had closed his eyes even once since he had turned down the wick and snuffed the remaining flame. His mind had been too busy foraging over possibilities that could preclude the continuance of his courtship with Adriana and the legalities that he’d be willing to put into play to halt the termination of their future together. For the life of him, he just couldn’t let her walk away as she now seemed determined to do. His heart would shrivel in sorrow.
With a laborious sigh, Colton threaded his fingers through his tousled hair, looked across the room toward the dancing flames cavorting in the fireplace, and then again at the glass-strewn carpet near his bed. His injured eye was nearly matted shut and undoubtedly would need a bandage if he had to go anywhere.
“Come in, Harrison,” he called out, “and make sure you bring enough light to aid you where you step. I’ve just knocked over a lamp.”
“Forgive me for waking you, my lord,” Harrison replied as he hurried across the room.
“I wasn’t asleep,” Colton admitted.
The steward placed the candlestick upon the table and gave the missive over to him. Breaking the waxed closure, Colton unfolded the parchment and, clasping one hand over his eye, began to read the contents of the message as the elder set about cleaning up the broken glass.
Miss Pandora Mayes is near to dying and begs you to come with haste.
“I must travel to London immediately, Harrison,” Colton announced. “Tell Bentley to ready the second carriage with the working steeds and bring along another driver. We’ll be traveling fast and hard, and I don’t want to wear out our best horses. As for the glass, you can clean that up later.”
“Shall I pack a satchel or a trunk for you, my lord?”
“A couple of changes of clothes and essentials should I be detained over the weekend. Hopefully, if I am delayed, I’ll at least be back by Monday morning.”
“That would be nice, my lord. I’m sure your mother would enjoy having you home for Christmas for a change.”
“I’ll make every effort to return in time.”
In less than an hour, Colton was in the coach and being whisked eastward toward London. Shortly after dawn the next morning, they reached the outskirts of the city, and from there, Colton directed the second driver to the actress’s town house. When finally the conveyance was drawn to a halt before the place, Colton quickly alighted.
“I may be awhile, Bentley,” he informed the man who had been slumbering inside the coach. “There’s a stable and an inn down the road apiece. Do what you have to do for the animals and get some food for yourselves. Perhaps you can even find a place to rest for an hour or so. If you’re not here when I come out, I’ll come looking for you at the inn.”
“Aye, milord.”
At the entrance of Pandora’s town house, Colton rapped his knuckles against the solid plank. Eventually it was opened by an elderly, darkly garbed rector. The man seemed somewhat surprised when he noticed the bandage over the younger man’s eye.
“Your lordship?”
“Aye, I’m Lord Randwulf. Are you the one who sent the note?”
&nb
sp; “I am, my lord. I’m Reverend Adam Goodfellow, rector of the parish church in Oxford where . . . Miss . . . ah . . . Mayes was once christened. She bade me come to London to attend her in these her last hours and asked me to notify you.”
“Have you been here long?” Colton inquired.
“I arrived yesterday, my lord, after being sent her note. The surgeon was with her, but left her in my care, having given up all hope of pulling her through.”
“May I see her?”
The wizened man swung the door wider and beckoned Colton in. “I’m afraid there isn’t much life left in Miss Mayes, my lord. Indeed, sir, I rather suspect she has been holding on merely to see you.”
“Then you’d better lead me to her.”
“Of course, my lord,” the clergyman replied and shuffled about. His stride was no faster, and in the narrow confines of the corridor, Colton felt hindered by the slow progress of the ancient.
“If you’ll excuse me, Reverend, I believe I know where her bedchamber is.”
“Yes, of course,” the man replied with a meaningful inflection. Flattening himself against the wall of the narrow passageway, he swept a hand before him in an invitation for the younger man to pass.
Colton did so quickly and, upon reaching the far end of the hall, pushed open the door on the right. The bedroom was lit by the meager glow of a single oil lamp sitting atop a bedside table. Residing like a pale wraith in the bed that he had shared with her numerous times was the actress whom he had not seen for at least nine months. In the scant light, her eyes seemed nothing more than dark shadows hollowed out in a death mask. Her cheeks were sunken, her lips ashen. The vivacious bloom that had once brightened them was no longer evident.
Although seemingly entombed in the dark gloom, a plump, frizzy-haired woman of perhaps thirty or more sat in a chair in a corner of the room. Her blouse had been pulled aside an ample breast at which a tiny newborn nursed, but it was her slovenly appearance that made Colton mentally cringe.
Colton approached Pandora’s bedside with silent tread, and as he drew near, her lashes fluttered slowly open. A faint trace of a smile curved her lips as her eyelids hovered droopingly over hazel orbs.
“Col . . . I’m glad you’ve come. I was so afraid you wouldn’t,” the actress rasped, as if thoroughly spent. She managed a frail smile and then peered at him more closely, noticing his patch. “Did you lose your eye in the war?”
“No, I merely got something in it last night.” A lovely vixen’s handbag.
Pandora reached out a slender hand toward him. “Sit beside me.”
Colton lowered himself to the edge of the bed and, gathering her hand close against his chest, leaned forward to search the darkly shadowed eyes. At one time the hazel orbs had sparkled with life and seemed vividly alive, but now their lackluster seemed part of the darkness that encircled them, visually foretelling her approaching doom. “I came as soon as I could, Pandora. What ails you?”
“You . . . have . . . a daughter, my lord,” she rasped weakly. “You . . . planted . . . your seed . . . within me . . . the last time . . . you were here.”
The shock of her statement filled Colton with cold dread. Almost as suddenly his mind became inundated with visions of Adriana. “But . . . but you said you weren’t able to have any children. You swore to me you couldn’t!”
“Ahhh, that was before you came along,” she managed, a frail smile sketching across her pale lips. “Took . . . a bold man to do the deed, . . . but you . . . were he. . . .”
Colton was stricken by remorse. “And you’re dying now because of my seed?”
“Oh, you.” Pandora tried to laugh, but quickly forsook the notion, too exhausted to exert herself to that extent. “You needn’t blame yourself. ‘Twas a difficult birth.”
Colton reached out and smoothed the limp, curling hair away from the ashen cheeks. “I know several knowledgeable physicians living here in London. My family has used them enough to verify that their reputations are above reproach. I’ll send my driver to fetch one.”
She lifted a hand to halt him. “ ‘Tis far too late for me, Colton. I’ve lost too much blood, but . . . there . . . is one . . . thing . . . I would ask of you.”
“What is that?” He held his breath, fearful of her request. Even before they had ever made love, he had warned Pandora that he would never marry her. With far more to lose now than ever before, he couldn’t bring himself to even contemplate capitulation to that request.
Her dull eyes pleaded with him for a long moment before she issued an appeal. “Let . . . the Reverend Goodfellow . . . say the . . . words over us . . . ere I die . . . Colton.”
Throughout his career as an officer, Colton had gone to great lengths to avoid wedlock, especially with ambitious women. In spite of his tiff with Adriana, she was the only one he had ever wanted to marry. Jolted by a sharp aversion brought on by the actress’s appeal, he gave no heed to the words that spilled from his lips. “But I’m as good as promised to another. . . .”
“I will die . . . tonight, Colton. Would . . . there be . . . any harm . . . in allowing me . . . some peace of mind in my last hours?”
He remained taciturn, unable to commit himself when marrying the woman would likely mean that he’d be losing Adriana.
“Please, Colton . . . I know . . . you explained . . . how you wouldn’t marry me . . . but I’m . . . I’m begging you . . . for my sake and for our child. . . .”
Colton felt a prickling along his nape. His instincts urged him to use extreme care in making any decisions. “What is to become of the child?”
The woman’s thin lips twisted ruefully. “I would . . . ask that . . . you take her . . . home with you . . . and be a . . . good father to her. You will . . . in time . . . come to . . . see how much . . . she favors you. She . . .” Pandora swallowed with difficulty, and it was a long moment before she gathered enough strength to continue. “Although I haven’t . . . been with another man, I know . . . you need proof . . . that she . . . is yours. As you will see . . . our daughter . . . has a . . . purplish birthmark . . . upon her backside . . . just like her father.”
She gestured rather lamely to the woman in the corner. “Alice . . . has been . . . cleaning the theatre . . . for some time now. She lost her newborn . . . only yesterday . . . and has consented to watch . . . over mine.”
Thus bidden, the scruffy woman rose from the chaise and brought the infant forward. Halting beside Colton, she seemed to smirk as she took the child from her breast, making no attempt to cover the large-nippled, blue-veined, filth-crusted melon as she turned the newborn over. Uncovering the tiny rump, she thrust the girl’s buttocks close to the lamp and, with a grimy finger, pointed to the identifying mark.
Colton’s heart sank. As often as he had glimpsed reflections of himself in mirrors he had passed while striding naked across a room, he knew for certain the dark splotch had the same shape as the one he had been born with; his father had had one and his grandfather before him. The presence of the birthmark seemed to confirm the child was his, yet he wasn’t ready to accept what he saw at face value. After all, its presence endangered whatever future he had with Adriana, and as much as he had first balked at that idea upon his return home, the very thought of losing the girl now aroused within him a desire to escape the trap into which he now found himself plummeting. Although the identifying birthmark looked genuine, he couldn’t resist testing its authenticity by rubbing a thumb across the baby’s hind part to make sure it hadn’t been deftly applied using the grease paint of an actress.
Alas, his efforts to wipe away the stain proved to no avail. If indeed a fake, then it had been crafted by a gifted artist, for the purplish splotch seemed genuine.
Loath to commit himself to what Pandora was asking of him, Colton remained expressionless as the nursemaid returned to her chair. A part of him compelled him to do the right thing by the child. After all, if the birthmark was authentic, she belonged to a long line of Wyndhams, of which he was the last and
only hope for the continuance of the name. He certainly didn’t want to have any of his offspring, even one begotten in the heat of lust with an actress, reduced to a pitiful state as an outcast of society, but there was also a side of him that urged caution. If he yielded to Pandora’s plea and she didn’t die, then he’d be forever bound to her, and that had never been his intent.
“Reverend . . . Goodfellow . . .”—Pandora’s words were now nothing more than frail gasps as she lifted a hand and feebly indicated the rector—“said any bastard child . . . is forever doomed. . . . He also . . . said . . . I couldn’t . . . be absolved . . . of my sins . . . unless I marry the father of my babe.”
Colton might’ve argued the latter point with the man had he been of such a mood, yet that was far from the issue now raging in his mind. At the crux of what was eating at him was the quandary: whether to do the noble thing or leave a daughter of his to suffer the stigma of being born a bastard whelp throughout her lifetime. Could he condemn an innocent to such a fate? He and Pandora had known what they had been about when they had indulged their passion, but the child, as innocent as she was, would be the only one to carry the burden.
“I’m . . . dying, Colton . . . help me,” she gasped pitifully. “I don’t want to burn in hell. . . .”
Had his father been alive, Colton knew the elder would have had just cause to give him a stern lecture on the follies of a man sowing wild oats and then having to reap the harvest of foolish behavior. Now here he was, facing a decision he had once deemed totally out of the question. As many warnings as he had given to those he had bedded, those admonitions now seemed as dust underneath his feet.
Colton sighed heavily. “Though I’ve had little experience in getting married, I believe a license is required.”
Reverend Goodfellow stepped forward with a hand clasped to his chest. “In my years as a rector, I have counted myself fortunate to have been in various positions wherein I was able to do some notable favors for those in higher positions. As a result, I have been able to obtain for Mistress Mayes a special license from His Grace, the archbishop. Only your signature is required, my lord. . . .”