A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(106)

“I heard that,” Haverford said—also in Welsh. “And you heard the lady, Sherbourne. Mind the carpets.”

“We’ll talk later,” Charlotte assured the child. “I’ll tell you all about your dear mama.”

Then they were gone, the boy flicking one mildly curious glance over Brantford before taking the duke’s hand and skipping off to the kitchen.

Brantford gulped down the remaining portion of his brandy. “I haven’t the least notion what that farce was about, Sherbourne, but you and I will come to terms regarding my investment in your little colliery, or I’ll see you ruined down to the nineteenth generation before next year’s season begins.”

“We’ll renegotiate,” Sherbourne said, thrusting his hand into a pocket. “Let’s start with an explanation for this miniature, given by you to my wife’s best friend—her late best friend, who was the mother of your only begotten son.”

*



How do I hold Brantford accountable for his sins, while keeping every single groat of his money, and denying my darling wife the pleasure of drawing his lordship’s cork?

Brantford stared down at the miniature Sherbourne had placed on the sideboard. “You claim that is a likeness of me?” He reached toward the portrait, but withdrew his hand—his shaking hand—without touching it.

“You initialed it,” Charlotte said. “Look at the back.”

He managed to pick up the miniature and stared at the back, while Charlotte glowered at him. Brantford sank into the chair before the hearth and held the miniature out to Sherbourne.

“Take it. Take it, please. I never want to see it again.”

Sherbourne remained beside his wife, lest that good woman start laying about with her iron poker.

“I recognize your penmanship, Brantford, having seen it on the contract you signed. You gave that portrait to one Fern Porter, whom you enticed into a liaison, though she was a vicar’s daughter and innocent of men prior to her association with you. After you proposed marriage to her, she conceived a child and informed you of her situation. You struck her, turned your back on her, and married another.”

Brantford set the miniature on the low table. “I was young, not much more than a boy.”

“You had finished university years earlier,” Charlotte spat. “You were an adult, she was just out of the schoolroom, and you ruined her. Promised her undying love, promised her marriage, and played her false.”

Brantford took out a lace handkerchief and dabbed at the corners of his mouth. “She should not have—”

“Don’t,” Sherbourne said.

Charlotte had raised the poker. She shot a quizzical look at her husband.

“I spoke to the earl. You, Mrs. Sherbourne, must do as you see fit. I admonish his lordship not to compound his sins by minimizing his own faults, lying, or casting blame. He ruined a young woman, made no reparation for the harm done, and now she’s dead, leaving an innocent child all but orphaned.”

“I wasn’t sure,” Brantford said, using the handkerchief to mop at his brow. “How was I to be certain she wasn’t deceiving me? How is a man to know?”

“Mr. Sherbourne,” Charlotte said, passing the poker over to Sherbourne. “I cannot trust my self-restraint in the presence of such vile, cowardly, spineless, dishonorable, disgraceful, weak…the entire language lacks enough adjectives to convey my contempt for you, my lord. Your son is lucky that he’s growing up without a hint of your presence in his life.”

Brantford hunched forward, as if Charlotte had struck him physically.

Sherbourne held his peace, because clearly the lady had more to say.

“Fern suffered,” she went on. “She suffered scandal and disgrace, she suffered through a confinement with no physician to attend her. She suffered an awful birth, her pangs going on for days. She suffered yet more knowing she would not live to see her child grow up, knowing nobody—not her, not the miserable coward the child must claim as his father—would love this child the way he deserved to be loved. So much of her suffering is your fault, and I hope you are repaid tenfold for your despicable selfishness.”

The winter wind was balmy compared to Charlotte’s tone. She sent Sherbourne a look, then made a grand exit from the parlor.

Finish the job, that look said. Find justice for Fern and for the child.

“Haverford has offered to aid me in arranging your ruin,” Sherbourne said, setting the fireplace poker just so on the hearth stand. “Radnor will want to do his part, and my lady wife counts any number of well-placed relations on her family tree. I suspect she has written of your irresponsibility to every one of them. I cannot put a bullet between your eyes—that would be too easy, and make the boy an orphan in truth—but I can make you regret your treatment of Fern Porter every day of your miserable, titled life.”

Brantford sat up and put away his handkerchief. “Might I have some brandy?”

“You came here expecting to all but extort funds from me. I owe you nothing in the way of hospitality, much less fairness.”

His lordship studied the miniature on the table, his gaze growing sly. “I’ll just collect the lad and go. Keep the damned money. I don’t need it.”

“And the boy does not need you.”

“Now see here, Sherbourne. That child is my blood, my only begotten son, you said it yourself. The likeness is undeniable, and I’ll not have you interfering.” Brantford drew righteousness around himself like presentation robes, his sense of entitlement so ingrained, not even shame could dislodge it.