Bound by One Scandalous Night Page 8

  She hesitated a moment, then her words came out in a rush. ‘I—I want you to know how grateful I am that you will marry me.’

  He did not deserve her gratitude, not when he’d created her problems. ‘I am not certain gratitude is what you ought to be feeling.’

  ‘No one else will believe it is my fault and that is so unfair to you. I know it is my fault.’ Her voice was firm.

  ‘Let us not return to that topic, Amelie. It does not concern me that I am held to blame.’ He accepted his blame. ‘What else is on your mind?’ Something he could change, he hoped.

  She did not speak for several steps. ‘I also feel so ashamed. I only thought of myself. You thought of the baby.’

  ‘Your situation was different than mine. It cannot compare.’ He could leave and resume his life with very little consequence. She could never do that.

  ‘I want so badly to think of the baby the way you do.’ She sighed.

  At times the idea of the baby struck him like a cannonball in the chest. A little life made from that sensuous night they had shared, a little person who would truly belong to him, the line of the triangle that joined him to Amelie for ever.

  Because he was a bastard, his connections to family were always fractured in some way. His mother was not married to his father. His sisters were only half-sisters. But he, Amelie and the baby made a family. A proper family.

  The emotions around that were too acute to be discussed.

  ‘Perhaps if we made plans, it would help.’ So much easier to talk of practicalities.

  ‘Plans?’ she asked.

  ‘Such as where to live.’

  ‘Oh.’ She fell silent again. ‘I have not thought beyond—beyond anything.’

  ‘I had planned to return to Brussels.’ Although he’d intended to remain in Brussels only a short time. He’d toyed with the prospect of seeking his fortune in the Colonies or in the new United States of America, but he would not take Amelie into such uncertainty. ‘We could live quite well in Brussels.’

  He felt her body stiffen. ‘I must go where you wish, Edmund. I do understand that.’

  But she did not want to go to Brussels. ‘Speak the truth to me, Amelie.’

  She took several steps before speaking in a low voice. ‘I—I had hoped to remain near my mother. With the baby—’

  He’d forgotten. She was so young. He must not take her from everything and everyone she loved and needed.

  ‘Would you prefer to stay in London?’ He could continue managing his investments from here in London.

  ‘Oh, yes!’ But her voice lost its excitement. ‘Our town house is so small, though. There is hardly enough room for Marc and Tess.’

  Edmund had no intention of living in the Northdon town house. ‘We would lease rooms of our own.’

  ‘Could we?’ She smiled. ‘That would be perfect!’

  It would suffice.

  The Serpentine came into view. They walked towards it.

  The rippling water of the Serpentine, the green grass and trees added to the ease of talking together. Edmund was glad of it.

  Or was it being in Amelie’s company that soothed him?

  She pulled on his arm. ‘Look, Edmund.’ They walked closer.

  A nanny and two very small children, a boy and a girl, stood at the edge of the water throwing pieces of bread to a gaggle of geese who swam towards the easy food. Edmund did not know how to gauge the ages, but both looked barely out of leading strings.

  The little girl threw a piece of crust and squealed with delight when the geese fought over it.

  The boy pulled away from the nanny and toddled towards the grass and pulled out a clump. He held it in his little fist until he reached the water and threw it in. Half the geese swam for it, but they quickly lost interest.

  The nanny dashed over to the child and brushed his hands clean.

  ‘Is that what we will have, Edmund?’ Amelie asked in wonder. ‘A sweet creature like those darling children?’

  The little boy turned back to grab more grass; the nanny followed.

  ‘No. No more grass,’ she admonished.

  At that same moment, the little girl reached for the ducks and lost her footing.

  Edmund dashed over and scooped up the child before she fell in the water.

  ‘Oh, my goodness!’ cried the nanny as she rushed over.

  ‘No harm done,’ Edmund said.

  The child, oblivious of her close call, merely squirmed around and wrapped her pudgy arms around Edmund’s neck.

  The little girl’s skin felt smooth as finest silk, and she smelled like sweetness and innocence.

  Edmund glanced at Amelie.

  She wore a look of wonder that perfectly mirrored his own emotions.

  Soon he would be holding his own child, their child, a child he and Amelie created together.

  His heart soared with joy.

  Chapter Seven

  Two days after Edmund returned to London, Marc Glenville sent word that Lord and Lady Northdon had also arrived. No invitation to the house had been included, however. That rebuff stung, like so many of the slights he’d endured his whole life. Were they trying to keep him from Amelie? If so, it was wrong. He and Amelie needed the time together. He called upon her every day.

  They went out each day and visited the sights of London, places he’d never had the opportunity to see—the Tower, Westminster Abbey, the Egyptian Hall. They were easy in each other’s company. That was an encouraging sign.

  Her family remained an impediment. Her father avoided encountering him when he called and if her mother appeared, she acted civilly, but nothing more. Amelie avoided speaking of them.

  * * *

  Today Edmund would not see Amelie. Instead he would use the day to discharge several errands that needed doing. First and foremost was to check on the special licence. It had been seven days since his first visit to the office of the Archbishop of Canterbury, and he presumed they would have received the necessary information from Lincolnshire by now.

  He went to Doctors’ Commons first thing.

  ‘The information has not yet arrived,’ the Archbishop’s clerk said in a snooty tone.

  The clerk knew of Edmund’s father and knew Edmund was the bastard son. No doubt that had played a major factor in the delay.

  ‘What is the delay?’ Edmund demanded.

  ‘I am certain I cannot say,’ the clerk responded. ‘Come back tomorrow. Or the next day.’

  No doubt the man would make no effort to discover why.

  This was ridiculous.

  Edmund left the office and went immediately to Bow Street. He hired a man to travel to Lincolnshire to procure the necessary documents. He ought to have done so in the first place.

  From there he stopped at the Exchange to meet with the stockbroker he and Count von Osten used. The investments Edmund made had the potential of rather quick profit. He aimed to grow his funds enough in order to leave Amelie’s dowry entirely untouched, and he was well on his way to achieving his goal. His guiding principle in investing was to think of what his father would have done and do the opposite. So far that strategy had worked exceedingly well.

  * * *

  After the Exchange he walked back to his hotel. When he entered and turned to the stairway to climb to his room, the hall servant called to him. ‘Lieutenant Summerfield!’

  Edmund had given up explaining that he was no longer Lieutenant Summerfield.

  ‘There is a gentleman to see you,’ the servant said. ‘He awaits you in the parlour.’

  The parlour was off the hall and was a place where one could receive visitors or simply sit comfortably to read or write letters. Who would call upon him except Lord Northdon or Glenville? He did not relish receiving either of them.<
br />
  Edmund thanked the servant, crossed the hall again and opened the parlour door.

  An elderly man sat in a chair facing the door. He did not rise at Edmund’s entrance but raised his brows, ‘Summerfield?’

  ‘Yes,’ Edmund said uncertainly.

  ‘I am Lord Tinmore.’

  Tinmore? His sister Lorene’s husband.

  ‘Has something happened to Lorene?’ Edmund asked. Why else would this man call upon him?

  ‘My wife is in excellent health.’ Tinmore acted as if Edmund’s question had been an impertinence.

  ‘I am glad to hear it,’ Edmund replied, more puzzled than ever.

  Tinmore flushed. ‘I’ll have no sarcasm, young man!’

  How the devil could he have offended Lord Tinmore? He’d never seen the man before this moment.

  Edmund glared. ‘Are you in a position to dictate to me, sir?’

  ‘I most certainly am!’ Tinmore cried.

  This was madness. Edmund attempted to stifle the animosity this man had instantly aroused in him. ‘You have an advantage over me, sir.’ Edmund struggled for a civil tone. ‘You know why you have called upon me, and I haven’t the slightest notion.’

  Tinmore pursed his lips. ‘A clever man might guess.’

  ‘There you have it.’ Edmund lifted his arms. ‘I am not clever.’

  Tinmore pointed to a chair adjacent to the throne-like one upon which he sat. ‘Sit.’

  Edmund had met men like Tinmore in the army. Colonels or generals, typically, consumed by their own importance. Defiance was the only way to earn their respect.

  ‘I’ll stand,’ he said.

  Tinmore flinched as if surprised his order had not been instantly obeyed. ‘Very well, I will get to the point.’

  At last, Edmund thought.

  ‘My wife tells me you have left the army and that you have got a respectable young woman with child, Glenville’s sister.’

  How the devil did he know?

  Tess.

  Tess always told Lorene everything, even when they’d been little girls. Why did Lorene tell Tinmore, though?

  Edmund straightened. ‘You have not yet told me why you have called, sir.’

  ‘Did you think I would not react to this? Leaving the army. Debauching an innocent. What have you to say for yourself?’

  This was the outside of enough. Edmund took a step closer and spoke in his most menacing voice. ‘I fail to see why my actions are any affair of yours.’

  ‘Of course it is my affair!’ Tinmore shot back. ‘I provided you money for your captaincy, not for you to sell out and sully the reputation of the family.’

  Edmund felt the blood drain from his face. ‘You provided the money?’

  ‘It was at my wife’s request.’ Tinmore’s expression turned smug.

  Lorene implied that the money had been from their late father’s estate. Edmund had used these funds for his investments in Brussels, investments that had yielded immediate returns. That money had been the seed from which he would grow his fortune.

  ‘I certainly did not provide the money for you to leave the army,’ Tinmore went on. ‘Now look at you, about to bring scandal to the family—’

  Edmund held up a stilling hand. ‘Your money will be returned. With interest. If you would be so kind, please furnish me with the name of your man of business and I shall see it done.’

  ‘Because of you, Lady Tinmore and I have returned to London—’

  Edmund interrupted him again. ‘Then I will see you receive my bank draft at your town house.’ He bowed. ‘That ends your involvement in my affairs. Good day, sir.’

  Edmund turned and walked to the door.

  ‘Come back here!’ Tinmore called to his retreating back. ‘I am not finished with you.’

  Edmund was finished with him, though.

  * * *

  Edmund did not return to his hotel room. Instead he strode out of the hotel again and made his way swiftly to Curzon Street, asking a man on the street to direct him to Lord Tinmore’s house. He trusted he could walk more swiftly than Tinmore could return either by carriage or on foot.

  Edmund intended to speak with his sister before her husband returned.

  He was admitted to the hall and was left waiting there until the footman announced him. Both Lorene and Genna appeared on the stairs and hurried down to greet him.

  ‘Edmund!’ Genna cried, flinging herself into his arms. ‘I have been pining to see you!’

  Lorene was more reserved. ‘What a lovely surprise. Shall we sit in the drawing room? I’ll order tea.’

  ‘I will not stay long enough for tea,’ he said. ‘I need only a few minutes of your time.’

  ‘We have a lot to ask you!’ Genna said with good humour.

  A lot he had no intention of answering.

  The Tinmore town house was more opulent than Amelie’s family’s house on Grosvenor Street. They crossed a large hall to a drawing room twice the size of the Northdons’. Its furnishings were elegant, but slightly outmodish, remaining in the neo-classical style of a bygone era, all pale colours, Roman themes and intricate plasterwork.

  As soon as they were alone in the room, away from servants, Edmund faced Lorene. ‘Did the money you sent for my captaincy come from your husband?’ He was too angry to mince words.

  She blushed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘That and Tess’s and my dowries, although he got out of paying Tess’s dowry,’ Genna added.

  He could not focus on that statement at the moment.

  ‘Why did you say it came from our father?’ he demanded.

  ‘I did not say so precisely,’ Lorene prevaricated. ‘I said I found some money that belonged to you. I did not say that it came from Lord Tinmore.’

  ‘It is why she married him,’ Genna broke in.

  ‘Genna!’ Lorene cried.

  Genna tossed her a glance. ‘Well, it is. You married him because our father left us no money for dowries. You did it so we would not have to become governesses or ladies’ companions.’

  Edmund swung back to Lorene. ‘Were things so bad?’

  Lorene, more petite and fine-boned than Genna or Tess, glared at her sister. ‘It was the best decision I could make, and I think it is churlish of you to be annoyed about it!’

  Edmund took her by her shoulders and turned her towards him. ‘Why did you not tell me?’ he asked in a softer voice.

  She raised her eyes to him. ‘What could you have done, Edmund? You could not have supported us on a lieutenant’s pay. It barely supported you.’

  If he had not devised ways to make money elsewhere, he’d have been hard-pressed to even keep his horse.

  ‘I will return the money to Lord Tinmore,’ he continued. ‘So this need not be between us any more.’ Nor between Lorene and her husband. Tinmore could not hold it over her head as he’d held it over Edmund’s.

  ‘Can you afford to return it?’ Lorene looked sceptical.

  ‘Yes, I can afford it.’

  ‘Of course he can,’ Genna commented. ‘Miss Glenville’s dowry should be a large one.’

  It was Edmund’s turn to glare at Genna.

  ‘What about that, Edmund?’ Lorene asked in a scolding tone. ‘Tess wrote us about Miss Glenville. I cannot believe you could be so shabby. She was such a pretty girl. Look what you have done to her.’

  Amelie was still pretty. Beautiful, in fact.

  But he was not about to discuss this with Lorene and Genna. ‘We are to marry, yes, but her dowry has nothing to do with my repaying Tinmore.’ He kept his tone even. ‘That is all I wish to say about it.’

  ‘I just hope there is not too much talk,’ Lorene said.

  ‘Yes, how awful for the Summerfields to be the topic of gossip and scandal
,’ Genna said with sarcasm.

  Edmund heard a carriage outside. Luckily it did not stop but reminded him that he intended to leave before Tinmore returned.

  ‘I must go,’ he said.

  ‘When will we see you again?’ Genna asked.

  ‘I do not know,’ he admitted. ‘Soon, perhaps.’

  ‘I hope so.’ Lorene added, ‘We should talk about this marriage, Edmund.’

  Not if he had any choice in the matter. ‘I will see you are kept informed.’

  ‘I’ll walk you out.’ Genna stepped forward and clutched his arm.

  Lorene followed them into the hall, where Edmund collected his hat and gloves. Genna walked out the door with him.

  ‘How do you and Lorene fare here?’ he asked Genna as soon as they were outside.

  ‘Under Tinmore, do you mean?’ She released a breath. ‘He delights in ordering everyone about, that is for certain.’

  ‘Does he mistreat you?’ If so, the man would answer to Edmund.

  ‘Not mistreatment, not really,’ she said. ‘Lorene never complains about doing his bidding, and I hardly ever do as he says. I am certainly not going to marry someone just because he wishes to be rid of me as soon as possible.’

  Genna. Always obstinate.

  He placed a kiss on her forehead. ‘You will tell me if you need me.’

  She waved a dismissive hand. ‘I am able to take care of myself.’

  He smiled at her. ‘Then tell me if Lorene needs me.’

  ‘That I will do.’

  A carriage appeared at the end of the street.

  ‘That is Lord Tinmore’s carriage,’ Genna said. ‘I prefer to go in before he sees me.’

  He squeezed her hand. She hurried into the house, and he walked in the opposite direction of the approaching carriage. He, too, preferred that Tinmore not see him.

  * * *

  Amelie rested on a chair in her bedchamber, her feet on a stool. She’d managed some tea and toast. Nonsensically, on the days she’d spent in Edmund’s company, the morning sickness had been barely noticeable.

  Her maid, Sally, entered the room, carrying some freshly laundered, folded clothing. Sally walked slowly as if every step was an effort.