“Go to bed, child,” came Kingston’s quiet voice as he entered the sickroom. “I’ll look after him now.”
Merritt, who was sitting beside the bed with her head and arms resting on the mattress, glanced up at him blearily. After Dr. Kent’s visit, she’d stayed with Keir for the rest of the day and long into the night.
“What time is it?” she asked huskily.
“Three in the morning.”
She groaned and rubbed her sore, scratchy eyes. “I can’t leave him. He’s at the crisis. His temperature hasn’t gone below one hundred and four degrees.”
“When was the last time you checked?”
“An hour ago, I think.”
Kingston came to the bedside and leaned over Keir’s still form. The light from a single lamp gilded both men’s profiles, making it impossible to ignore their likeness, even with the thick beard covering the lower half of Keir’s face. The long, straight noses, the high-planed cheekbones, the way their hairlines were shaped in a very slight widow’s peak. Even the hand Kingston laid across Keir’s forehead, the fingers long and blunt-tipped . . . that was familiar too.
The duke’s face was inscrutable as he picked up a glass thermometer from the night table, deftly shook down the mercury, and tucked it beneath Keir’s arm. Keir didn’t even stir.
After lifting one of the ice bags, Kingston felt the slosh of water and proceeded to empty it in a basin. He refilled it with fresh ice from a lidded silver pail and settled it back in place.
“Does Aunt Evie know?” Merritt asked, too tired to guard her tongue.
“Know what?” Kingston asked, fishing a pocket watch from his waistcoat.
“That you have a natural-born son.”
The duke’s gaze remained on Keir. After a charged silence, he said evenly, “I have no secrets from my wife.”
“Were you and she married when—” Merritt broke off as Kingston shot her an incredulous glance, his eyes flashing like sunlight striking off silver.
“Good God, Merritt. That you could even ask—”
“Forgive me,” she said hastily. “I was only trying to guess his age.”
“He’s thirty-three. I would never betray Evie.” Kingston took in a long breath and let it out slowly, working to bring his temper under control. “I should hope I’d never be so tedious. Adultery is only running away from one problem to create a new one.” He flipped open the watch and reached down to press two fingers against the side of Keir’s throat. “Why the beard?” he asked irritably. “Can’t he bother to shave?”
“I like it,” Merritt said with a touch of defensiveness.
“Every man should know the difference between ‘enough beard’ and ‘too much beard.’” The duke stared at his watch for a half minute, then closed the lid with a decisive snap. He took his time about replacing it in his pocket. “Approximately a year ago,” he said abruptly, “I received a letter from Cordelia, Lady Ormonde. Long ago, before I met Evie, I had an affair with her.”
“Ormonde,” Merritt repeated, staring at his taut profile. “I’m not familiar with the family.”
“No, you wouldn’t be. To my knowledge, Lord Ormonde hasn’t been invited to Stony Cross Park for decades. Your father can’t abide him.”
“Why?”
“Ormonde is as vile as any man who’s ever lived. I would call him a swine, but one hates to malign a useful animal. Cordelia was quite young when they married. She’d been impressed by all his boasting during the courtship, but after the wedding, she discovered what kind of man she’d married. Despite trying to produce an heir, they were still childless after four years. Naturally, Ormonde blamed Cordelia. For that reason and many others, he made her very unhappy.” In a light, self-loathing tone she’d never heard from him before, he added, “And unhappy wives were my favorite.”
Watching him with concern and fascination, Merritt prompted gently, “What was she like?”
“Charming and accomplished. She played the harp and spoke fluent French. Her family, the Roystons, saw to it that she was educated.” Kingston paused, his gaze turning distant. “Cordelia was eager for affection, which I supplied in return for her favors.”
Troubled by the lingering bitterness in his expression, Merritt pointed out, “It’s common for married people to stray, especially among the upper circles. And they were her vows to break, not yours.”
“Child.” Kingston’s head lifted, and he regarded her with a wry smile. “Let’s not be lawyerly. She couldn’t have done it without a partner.”
He reached down to Keir, gently took the thermometer from beneath his arm, and read it critically. “Hmm.” After shaking down the mercury again, he tucked the thin glass cylinder beneath Keir’s other arm. “Cordelia sent a letter from her deathbed,” he continued, “to inform me she’d conceived a child from the affair all those years ago.”
“That must have been a shock,” Merritt said quietly.
“The world stopped spinning. I had to read the sentence five times over.” Kingston’s gaze turned distant. “Cordelia wrote that her husband had refused to accept my bastard offspring as his firstborn, and had forbidden her to tell me about her condition. He sent her to a lying-in hospital in Scotland to carry the baby to term in secret. After the birth, he would decide what was to be done. But Cordelia feared for the child’s safety, and devised her own plan. She told Ormonde the baby had been stillborn. The head nurse of the maternity ward arranged for the boy to be smuggled out and given into the care of a decent family.”
“Would Lord Ormonde really have harmed an innocent child?”
“He had two compelling motivations. First . . . Cordelia was an heiress. Her family had established a trust that would go to her husband if she died without issue. But if she had a child, all of it would go to him or her. Ormonde would never have allowed any possibility of the child inheriting.”
“Is the trust so large it would make someone want to commit murder?”
“I’m sure Ormonde would be willing to do it for free,” the duke said dryly. “But yes, the portfolio includes commercial and residential properties in London. The annual rents bring in a fortune—and Ormonde desperately needs the income to keep his estate solvent.” He paused briefly before continuing. “The second reason Ormonde wanted him dead is that regardless of who sired him, Cordelia was married to Ormonde at the time of Keir’s birth. And therefore . . .”
“My God,” Merritt whispered. “Keir is his legitimate son.”
Kingston nodded. “Even if Ormonde marries again and produces a son by his new bride, Keir will still inherit his viscouncy. As long as Keir’s alive, there’s no chance Ormonde can pass down his family’s title and estate to his own blood. It will all go to Keir.”
“He won’t want it,” Merritt said. “Oh, he won’t like this at all, Uncle.”
“He doesn’t have to know about that part until later, when he’s ready to hear it.”
“He’ll never be ready to hear it.” Groaning softly, Merritt rubbed her weary face with both hands. “How did Ormonde find out Keir was alive?”
“I’m afraid that was my doing.” Kingston’s mouth flattened into a grim line. “Cordelia named me as the executor of her will, and asked me to protect his rightful inheritance in the event he was still alive. The only way to keep the will in probate while I was searching for Keir was to provide a copy of Cordelia’s letter to Chancery Court. From that moment on, Ormonde and I have each done our damnedest to locate Keir before the other one did.” With a touch of annoyance, he commented, “I would have found Keir months ago, had I been able to hire Ethan Ransom, but he gave me some excuse about fighting an international conspiracy.”
“From what I understand, he saved England,” Merritt pointed out gently.
The duke waved away the comment like a bothersome gnat. “Someone’s always plotting against England.”
“As it turned out, you didn’t have to find Keir. He found you.”
Kingston shook his head with a faint, wondering smile. “He walked into bloody Jenner’s,” he said. “I knew who he was the moment I saw him. He has the look of a Challon, even with that scruffy crumb-catcher covering the lower half of his face.”
“Uncle,” she reproved softly. It was hardly a fair description of a handsome, neatly trimmed beard.
Carefully the duke took the thermometer from beneath Keir’s arm and squinted at the line of mercury, holding it farther away from his face until the numbers were clear. After setting it aside, he glanced down at Merritt. “My dear, if you don’t have some proper rest, you’ll fall ill yourself.”
“Not until the crisis has passed and Keir is out of danger.”
“Oh, he is,” came Kingston’s matter-of-fact reply.
Merritt looked at him sharply. “What?”
“He’s past the worst of it. His temperature has fallen to one hundred and two, and his pulse rate is normal.”
She flew to Keir’s side and felt his forehead, which was cooler and misted with sweat. “Thank God,” she said, and let out a sob of relief.
“Merritt,” he said kindly, “you’re turning into a watering pot.” He pulled a handkerchief from his coat and nudged her chin upward with a gentle forefinger. “Go to bed,” he said, drying her eyes, “or you’ll be of no use to anyone.”
“Yes, but first may I ask . . . was Aunt Evie very upset when you told her about the letter?”
“No. Only concerned for the boy’s sake, and mine as well.”
“Many women in her position would consider him as . . . well, an embarrassment.”
That drew a real smile from him, the first she’d seen from him in a while. “You know Evie. She already thinks of him as someone else to love.”
