A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(107)

“You denied any responsibility for him,” Sherbourne said, “and in the face of your callous disregard for the child, my wife provided for him. She convinced an uncle to take in both mother and child, saw to Fern’s safe travel from London, and has been sending money for the child since before he arrived into this world. You have no claim on that boy, legally or otherwise.”

Brantford rose and jerked down his waistcoat. “He is my son. I am a peer of the realm, and you will not deny me a father’s rights.”

Thank a merciful God that Charlotte wasn’t on hand to witness this hypocrisy. “You are a perfect donkey’s arse. Sit, Brantford. Now.”

His lordship evidenced a modicum of prudence and sat. “You don’t understand, Sherbourne. I haven’t any other children.”

“Such a pity,” Sherbourne marshaled his best imitation of Haverford in a genteel rage. “The child had only the one father who might have made his mother’s circumstances easier, a father who could have seen to it she had proper care and assistance at her lying in. That same father might have spared a few coins for the child, might have given the child his name. Alas for the boy, the one father responsible for bringing him into the world is too busy being a peer of the realm to be a decent human being.”

“Damn it, Sherbourne, there won’t be any other children. The physicians don’t come right out and say it, but a touch of the French pox can have lasting consequences. That child…he’ll never have the title, but I could acknowledge him, eventually.”

Had Brantford asked anything about the boy—his name, his present state of health, his uncle’s financial situation—Sherbourne might have weakened, but Brantford clearly saw his offspring as proof of virility, a social accessory or an ornament.

Truly, young Evander was better off without that version of a father’s interest.

“This is how we shall proceed,” Sherbourne said. “You will place your shares in the coal mine in trust for the boy now, and sign them over to him at age eighteen if they haven’t been liquidated.”

Brantford wrinkled his nose. “An illegitimate Welsh pauper has no use for shares in a mine.”

“He has no use for a negligent father. The trustee managing those shares will be His Grace of Haverford. If Haverford is for any reason unable to serve as trustee, Radnor will step in. They will further acquaint their ward with the details of his birth at an appropriate time. You will be given quarterly assurances of the child’s good health and educational progress.”

“Haverford is taking a hand in this?”

“And Radnor.” My friends, who will be guided in all particulars by my wife.

Sherbourne went to the window, where bright sunshine had started to melt the snow. As the sun set, the lanes would freeze anew, and travel would become treacherous.

“At least I’ll be supporting my son.” Brantford was on his feet again, the miniature in his hand. “Let it not be said that when given an—”

“Do we add larceny to your list of transgressions?” Sherbourne asked. “That painting is not yours, and no one has given it to you.”

That portrait was also the primary evidence connecting the child to the earl, and Brantford’s attempt to make off with it was proof positive of inextinguishable self-interest.

“You can’t have any use for it,” Brantford retorted.

Sherbourne prowled across the parlor, glad that he wasn’t holding the iron poker. “Put it down, Brantford, or you will suffer a bad fall on my main staircase. Drink makes any man clumsy, and there’s not a servant in this household who will say otherwise.”

Brantford set the portrait down slowly.

“You are not supporting the child.” Sherbourne had just now made that decision. “I am supporting the child. Haverford and Radnor are overseeing the assets you’ll convey to the trust. I want that young man to know that he owes you nothing, not one bent farthing. If he chooses to toss the mining shares back in your face, that will be his decision when he’s of age. If he chooses to write to you or visit you in London, that will be his choice. He owes you nothing, and never will.”

Brantford huffed, he plucked at the hem of his waistcoat, he looked down his nose, or tried to, despite Sherbourne’s superior height.

“And if I should take this matter to the courts?”

What an ass. “Please, take this matter to the courts. My uncle-in-law has lunch with a Lord Justice at least monthly, and I can call upon more barristers and solicitors than you have hounds in your kennel. By the time you stand before a judge, the boy will be through university. But indulge in all the legal dramatics you please.”

Sherbourne opened the parlor door and swept a hand toward the corridor. “Just know that your only son will be well cared for, despite your negligence, because my wife stood by her friend even when you—with all your means and consequence—turned your back on a woman in need and her helpless child. Now leave, before I toss you down the jakes like the offal you are.”

Brantford stalked out, and Sherbourne followed, waiting at the top of the steps until the earl had quit the premises, and the butler had closed the door behind him.

“Mrs. Sherbourne is in the kitchen, sir,” Crandall said. “She said they’d save you a biscuit. Cook is having an apoplexy because His Grace is also in the kitchen, but Mrs. Sherbourne has eyes for only the boy.”