Aurora's eyes snapped open. "You think there is a link between Lieutenant Podell and my parents in India?"
"If there is, it's Phelan. The whole argle-bargle is too smoky by half. Would you mind if I traveled back to Bath tomorrow to see what answers I can find? You could stay here, seeing the sights, while I went." And she could make micefeet of her reputation and his fortune. "On the other hand, would you mind coming along? Your aunt and uncle would be more forthcoming, I think, with you present."
"I would be glad to go. My whole world is turned upside down, and I won't feel sane until it's righted." Aurora felt better now that they had a starting point, a plan of action. She needed the safety and security of her old home, to touch the familiar. She needed the comforting reassurance of her aunt and uncle, for she was certainly not getting any solace from her husband. Why, he hadn't taken her hand to help her from the carriage, letting the hotel's footman do the honors. And he hadn't so much as smiled at her once since they'd left Lady Anstruther-Jones's house. Worst of all, his valet was moving his belongings across the hall.
"Are you still angry about the monkey, Kenyon? The groom did say as how your curricle could be restored. And Ned is out right now, ordering a cage and finding how to feed the little creature and care for it. I promise Sweety won't be a problem to you."
"Sweety? The simian is a spawn of Satan, and I could purchase this whole blasted hotel for what I'm having to pay in damages. What the devil were you thinking, woman, letting a monkey loose in the lobby?"
"I wasn't thinking anything until you shouted for the manager, demanding he change your rooms again. You frightened poor Sweety into jumping out of my arms."
"Poor Sweety?" he shouted, then, struggling, managed to moderate his voice. "Poor Lady Wystanly's poodle. Poor Mr. Harris's toupee. The poor chandelier, the poor carpet, the poor ornamental fountain that will never come clean. And poor me, who has to pay for the entire mess. And a restorative holiday in Brighton for the manager. But, no, I am not still angry about the monkey. Your Ned and Sweety can both don Windham livery and little red caps and go begging on the steps of Whitehall. I would not care."
"Then why are you in such a pique?"
"Madam, if this is a pique, Trafalgar was a picnic. But you do not understand, do you? Let me explain. If you are not Aurora Halle McPhee, then we are bloody well not married! That is the name on the license, the name the vicar gave when you made your oath. Our marriage, which has now been published throughout the kingdom and entered into the Anstruther-Jones arsenal, can be set aside in an instant. We can ignore the discrepancies, of course, and soldier on, except for the childrenour children, which we'd dashed well create if I stayed in this room one more night. Those innocents would be illegitimate, and I will not have it, do you hear?"
The Prussian dignitaries in the next room heard.
"But nothing is proved, and no one needs to know."
"Phelan Ramsey knows the truth, I'd wager, even if your aunt and uncle do not. Who's to say that five years down the line, or ten, he'd not decide to try his hand at blackmail? Or else he might let something slip while in his cups, or to his cronies at a card game." Kenyon laughed bitterly and threw his empty glass into the fireplace. "First my son, then my wife. The devil take it, am I destined never to know who anyone is?"
"You have a son?"
"I told you I had an heir, right at the church."
"You said you had an heir of sorts. I thought you meant your brother."
"Think about itmy brother wouldn't be in line for the succession if I married you and had a son. Remember, I thought you were carrying Podell's child, so I could not have offered for you unless I had an heir of my own, lest your misbegotten babe step into my title. Podell's get as Windham would have six generations of Warriners spinning in their graves. I was praying for a girlthe odds are even at leastin case something ever happened to Andrew."
"You have a son," she repeated. "Andrew? Where is he?"
"At school, of course. He's eight. No, he must be nine by now. I don't know. My secretary keeps track of those things. But don't go getting all teary-eyed over him. He's not one of your foundlings. He has everything a boy could need."
"Except a father who loves him, it seems. How far away is his school? How often do you visit?"
"He stays with a respectable family when school is not in session. They have children of their own, and write that they think very highly of Andrew. There is no reason for him to travel to Derby. And I rarely know whether I'll be there or in London, at any rate. This is less disruptive for the boy."
"For the boy or for you, my lord? My word, I suppose whole school terms can go by without your seeing him."
It was more like whole years, two since the child had been sent to school, almost never before that. Facing away from the condemnation he knew he'd see in her face, Kenyon said, "I refuse to discuss my relation with my son, Aurora. It is no concern of yours."
"How can you say that, when he is now my son, too?" She set her cup aside and fumbled in her pocket for a handkerchief to blow her nose. "But of course you do not believe he is yours, do you? What, do you think Genevieve played you false?"
"Hah. I know the jade played me false. She ran off with her lover, remember? But no, I thought the boy was mine at the time of his birth. If nothing else, Genevieve was born knowing the importance of bloodlines and successions. She did not set out for London and her various affairs until after the heir was begotten, as far as I know. Of course she could have been carrying on with the servants in Derby, but I like to think she was too proud for that."
"Then why do you question Andrew's birth?"
Still facing away, leaning on the mantel, the earl stared at the fire. "It's not his birth that I question, it's his identity. Genevieve took my son to London with her. She must have loved him, which is the only thing I have ever admired in her character. Either that or she hated me so much. Her French émigré lover's wife had died in childbirth, about the same time Genevieve gave birth to Andrew. That infant survived, and when my wife got to London, she played at being mother to both boys. At first I thought she was consoling le duc , then advising him about nannies and such. About that time, D'Journet decided to throw his lot in with Napoleon, hoping to get back his lands. When he returned to France, Genevieve' went with him, with both infants. She took all the Warriner family heirlooms she could carry, to buy favor with the emperor. My money was going to England's enemies, and she must have known how that galled. My brother was risking his life defending the kingdom, and my wife was supporting the Corsican upstart."
"She was French. Perhaps she looked at it differently."
"She was a traitor to her lawful husband and to the country that had sheltered her. And it was all for naught. D'Journet quickly realized that his cause was hopeless, that Napoleon would never reinstate the dukedom, that France could never return to the old ways. At least when he recognized that his very life was in danger, he sent my son back."
"With Genevieve?"
"She chose to stay with le duc . She would have been ostracized in England, perhaps even charged with treason. But she would not sacrifice her son. Or D'Journet's."
"She sent both boys?"
"Yes, those were her terms. My heir would be returned, if her lover's son was also brought to safety. I can't begin to explain the dealings with smugglers and spies, all the bribes I had to pay merely to send a message, but I agreed. I swore to be father to both children."
"And?"
"And it was a rough passage. The smugglers' ship was shot at by a British man of war. The boat capsized in the storm and only a handful of the brigands managed to cling to the hull until they were rescued. Knowing how much I was willing to pay, one of the smugglers saved a boy."
Aurora stifled a sob. "Andrew?"
"Or Henri. There was no way of knowing. The child was too young to understand the question. He answered to both names, having been raised in the same cradle. And he was distraught over the separation from the only parents he'd known, his brother and his nursemaid, in addition to the horrors of the journey. He did nothing but cry, then he took sick. He would have died but for my old nanny. I tried to pray for his recovery, I swear. Then word came that the duke and his mistress had perished when their castle was stormed. I would never find out the truth."
"So you claimed the boy." Tears were rolling down Aurora's cheeks by now, but Kenyon was looking inward and did not see.
He nodded. "I claimed the boy as Viscount Windslow. He has Genevieve's look, her dark eyes and pointed chin. That's all I could judge by. But I will never know, will I? Just as we will never know what child came home from India."
Kenyon turned and saw that Aurora was crying, and he wished more than anything to take her in his arms and soothe her, but she was not his to hold, to comfort. Until this mess ended, he did not dare. He was going to be a laughingstock, she was going to be a social pariah, and neither was going to find the happiness that had seemed so close. "Don't cry, my dear," he told her, wanting to weep himself. "We'll go to Bath and straighten this hobble out. We can always get married again, when we know the answers."