Andrew Lord of Despair(111)

Douglas felt a faint inclination to smile at the fig leaf Heathgate had extended. This great effort, this show of solidarity and civility, wasn’t for him, it was for the child.

Of course it was.

“A memorial service, then,” Douglas said, “and a funeral at the estate. I will take my leave of you once the magistrate has finished, and you have”—he paused to look particularly at Astrid and Greymoor—“you all have my sincerest thanks.”

“One more thing,” Fairly said, pushing away from the French doors and taking a seat beside Douglas on the sofa. “Who shall have guardianship of Astrid’s child?”

Astrid’s husband squeezed her hand before turning his gaze on Douglas. In the two years Herbert had been married to Astrid, Douglas hadn’t seen his brother so much as touch the lady’s hand once.

“You, Douglas, are head of the Allen family,” Greymoor said. “What would your decision be regarding the child?” The use of the conditional was not lost on Douglas, who heard the question as: What would your decision be, had you the authority to make it?

For there was no Allen family worth the name. Perhaps there never had been.

Douglas opted for honesty—no point in abandoning that course at this late stage.

“I want no responsibility for any child, ever.” A man who could not sense a murderer in his own family dared not assume such responsibility. “If this child is a boy, and Greymoor had the raising of him, it would relieve me of having to deal with the succession, and that would be the answer to a prayer.”

Fairly’s expression went carefully neutral, but Greymoor and Heathgate exchanged a relieved glance. Astrid’s head was bowed, but Douglas could see she, too, had been prepared for him to fight on this.

Fight them, with what? Funds, truth, and honor resided on their side of the ledger.

“I guess that’s settled then,” Greymoor said.

“Douglas should at least be the child’s godfather,” Fairly interjected musingly. “Appearances, you know.”

Douglas stiffened, resisting the notion he should have anything to do with a child others were better suited to nurturing, but he found Fairly staring at him with particular intensity.

This idea of Lord Fairly’s was a challenge, and a chance to make some small reparation for the harm Douglas’s family—and Douglas—had done to the child’s mother. Moreover, the light in Fairly’s eyes guaranteed Douglas would be given no opportunity to harm the child.

“Very well,” Douglas conceded. “I shall be a devoted, though lamentably distant, godfather.”

“My wife will stand as godmother,” Heathgate added thoughtfully. “That should serve well enough. And if it comes down to it, Amery, even if the child is a girl, you might petition Privileges to have her offspring inherit the title. Your family has had a run of… bad luck, with respect to its male line. In our case, a similar lack of surviving adult males resulted in tremendous leniency when it came to imposing the barony and earldom on Andrew.”

“That,” said Douglas slowly, “is an encouraging thought.” Though leniency tended to show up where coin had been bestowed, and Douglas had nowhere near Heathgate’s resources.

“Are we finished then?” Greymoor asked. “Anything further from anyone?”

“Yes,” Astrid said firmly. “Something needs to be said, and I will be the one to say it.”

Douglas braced himself for the tirade she was due to unleash, the invective he and his brothers had earned, the scathing denouncement she would ring over his head. To feel the lash of her scorn and rage would be a relief, provided any feeling at all penetrated the numbness enshrouding him.

“Douglas,” Astrid said, tears filling her eyes, “we are all so sorry for your loss. For your losses…” She went to him and put her arms around him in a swift, fierce hug.

He was so stunned, so unable to comprehend the gesture, he simply sat for a moment, blinking rapidly. He might have eventually mumbled his thanks, but he was saved from worse mortification by a servant announcing the arrival of the magistrate. The gathering broke up, but Douglas only knew Fairly shoved a drink in his hand and got him back to his room before he embarrassed himself.





Twenty-one





Andrew stared at his wife, incredulous. “You are leaving me?”

She shot him a pitying look and continued tossing clothes into the valise sitting open on the chest at the foot of her bed.

“For God’s sake, why?” Andrew yelled. “You said—”

“Yes?” Astrid gave him that same look, laced with mild curiosity. With only mild curiosity.