Seduced by a Scoundrel - By Barbara Dawson Smith Page 0,109
surprise me.”
“It does me,” James said, his face serious. “I tell you, it isn’t like him.”
“Well, clearly he did so at least once,” Drake said flatly. He took hold of Alicia’s elbow. “This is all very interesting, but you needn’t distress yourself over a tragedy that happened a long time ago. You should lie down and rest.”
She pulled away. “Will you cease your patronizing remarks and listen?” she said sharply. “What I’m trying to tell you … what this letter confirms … is that you are not Lord Hailstock’s bastard.”
Her words struck Drake like a blow. Did she trust his word so little? Through gritted teeth, he said, “We’ve already discussed this point. He is my father.”
She glanced worriedly at James, then back at Drake. “I know,” she said in an urgent tone. “What I’m saying is … you are his lordship’s legitimate son.”
Chapter Twenty-six
Her heart beating in her throat, Alicia watched Drake. He stood unmoving. His narrowed eyes showed only the blankness of shock.
Silence shrouded the chamber. The coals hissed on the hearth; a clock ticked on the bedside table. James wore a stunned expression, too, his brow furrowed, the glass forgotten in his hand.
“Give me that letter,” Drake said, his voice tight.
She handed it to him. Her legs as weak as a newborn kitten’s, she sank into a chair and watched him scan the girlish penmanship. The small square of paper looked flimsy in his big hands. Yet it carried a weighty revelation.
“What does it say?” James asked in a low, shaken tone. “For God’s sake, read it aloud.”
Drake thrust the letter back at Alicia. “You do the honors.”
She wished to heaven she could spare James. Before coming here, she had given serious thought to burning the letter. But there had been enough lies already. Enough secrets.
Wetting her dry lips, she lifted the paper and gave voice to the words that were already burned into her mind: “‘Two nights ago, at midnight, I bore Richard a healthy son. Oh, my dearest Eleanor, I do wish you could see my precious boy! He is a wee mite, black of hair and blue of eyes, and I fancy I can hear you say he looks so like his mama. Richard cares not what I call him. So I have named him Drake, for my da, God rest his soul.
“Yes, it pains me to write that Richard has no interest in his son. In my letters these past months I have hidden my unhappiness, but now I must reveal the sad state of my marriage, for I am dying. And I fear Richard will deny our son.
“He accuses me of having lain with another—not true!—and declares that my vulgar blood caused a wantonness in me. This he would say, though I did guard my innocence until we plighted our troth at Gretna Green. From the start, he was jealous of every man I might speak to, whether he be footman or cleric. We were not wed a month when he returned home early from his business ventures to find a tradesman in my bedchamber, having just finished repairing the flue in the chimney. I was there, too, paying the man. Richard railed at me, and thenceforth he suspected me of the worst possible betrayal.
“Ever since, the coldness of his gaze chills me. To no avail have I begged my husband to give his blessing to our darling son. But he will neither hold Drake nor look at him. Though I will plead to my last breath, I cannot protect my child much longer. With each passing hour, my lifeblood ebbs and with it, my strength. Being alone in the world, I have no recourse but you, my dearest Eleanor. You must hide these documents, let no one see them, in particular not Richard. Safeguard them for my son, so that if the need should arise, he may prove his claim to Hailstock.
“Bless you, my lady, for helping me in my most desperate hour.’”
Alicia slowly lowered the paper to her lap. The anguished words haunted her. “The letter is signed, ‘Claire, Lady Hailstock.’”
Drake stood staring, his chest rising and falling beneath his linen shirt. For once in his misbegotten life, he looked too confounded for words.
No, she thought with a giddy sense of unreality. Drake was not misbegotten. He was Lord Hailstock’s true heir.
James braced his arms on the chair. “So where are these documents?” he demanded, his face ashen, his voice harsh. “A marriage certificate, I presume? And proof of birth?”