was a rabid dog they were afraid might return.
The anger rolled in from the past, anchoring itself beneath Gordon’s breastbone.
“I’m not going anywhere. Maybe once you could throw me out of the Hall, but not now.”
Sean didn’t answer.
“I could buy and sell this place a hundred times over, but I still wouldn’t be good enough for you, would I?”
Sean closed his eyes. “It’s the girl. You still want her, don’t you?”
“Hell, yes. When I leave here, Jennifer is coming with me. She and I are going to be married.”
“You can’t have her.”
“Why, because I’m not good enough for an Adaire?”
“No, because she’s your sister.”
Chapter Twenty-One
“Did you hear me?”
Yes, he’d heard. The words didn’t make any sense, however, unless Sean was hallucinating. Laudanum had that effect on some people.
He understood that. He was willing to accept any kind of behavior in this situation. However, telling him that he and Jennifer were related? That seemed more bizarre than a simple hallucination.
Did Death have a face? It was there in that room. He could almost see it superimposed over Sean’s features. Pain lingered in his eyes, the set of his mouth, and the tense muscles of his neck.
The tea was cooling in the cup on the bedside table. Perhaps he should drink it. The whiskey might shock him out of this feeling of being disembodied.
“I did wrong by you,” Sean said.
How very odd to hear those words from his father. He’d never expected to hear them. Evidently, Death was a hard taskmaster, requiring absolution.
“I didn’t know until Betty was dying. She wanted to clear her conscience. Once I knew, I should have said something. I should have told you, but what good would it have done by then? You’d already gone. I didn’t know you’d come back for her.”
“I don’t understand,” Gordon said, hearing himself speak. His lips moved. Words flowed out of his mouth, but he was curiously still calm and detached. “Tell me what you meant. About Jennifer being my sister.” The words were wooden and without inflection.
All he had to do was concentrate on one word at a time, one sentence. That and keep breathing, even though he felt more and more like a statue sitting there. He was growing colder, more immobile, frozen into this position of leaning forward, his hands clasped between his knees. It was easier to focus on the sheet than his father’s face.
“It was because of the fire,” Sean said.
Sean didn’t speak for several moments. Gordon didn’t prod, simply sat there waiting, his gaze on the bed.
“Betty became Harrison’s wet nurse, since she was also nursing our son as well. He’d been born only days earlier.”
Gordon still didn’t speak.
“Not many people had seen the earl’s son. The only person who could have told Harrison from our son was the countess and she was near death herself. It was put out that she would probably be blind if she did survive. Betty had an idea.”
Sean moaned and clutched his stomach. Gordon stared at him, knowing he should summon compassion from somewhere.
“The tea is cold,” he finally said, “but the whiskey might help.”
Sean shook his head. “No, I’ll get through this.”
He knew what Sean was going to say. Ridiculous as it was, he could almost say the words themselves. It matched perfectly with what he knew of Betty’s character and her antipathy to him.
“Betty had an idea to switch the babies. She saw it as a chance for our son to prosper. She wanted more for him and she got her wish. He became Earl of Burfield.”
Gordon’s fingers were cold, but so were his feet. His heart was beating, but slowly. Perhaps he would die first and leave Sean staring at him in wonder.
“So what you’re saying is that you’re not my father.”
“No.”
“And Betty wasn’t my mother.”
How very placid he sounded, like the words he was speaking didn’t mean anything. Perhaps he didn’t have any emotions. No, that wasn’t right. He could feel the rage building up beneath his skin. It would break free soon enough.
“And I’m the Earl of Burfield.”
“Yes.”
“Not Harrison.”
“You are Harrison Adaire,” Sean said.
“And he’s your son.”
Instead of answering, Sean grabbed at his midsection again. Gordon helped him sit up, then held the cup of whiskey-laced tea to his mouth. After Sean had taken several sips, Gordon lowered the older man back onto his pillows.
It was some time before Sean could talk again.
Gordon sat there, his thoughts congealed, focused on imagining the night when flames had engulfed the north wing. He’d been inches from