The Girl with the Sweetest Secret (Sin & Sensibility #2) by Betina Krahn (28)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Dressed in Claire’s best walking dress and a cloak borrowed secretly from her mother’s closet, Frankie set out in a cab for Tannehill House. She wanted to confront the viscount and tell him how his nephew rescued her. She wanted to make him see Reynard as the man she had come to know. If that went as hoped, then she would entreat him to tell Reynard the truth of his birth—for better or worse.

In her mind, she rehearsed phrases to express her respect for Reynard and to describe his gallant efforts to rescue her from a tyrant. But when she arrived on the doorstep of the mansion and clacked the knocker, her mouth dried and her hands became clammy.

The majordomo, Bailey, answered the door and she could tell he recognized her immediately. He admitted her to the hall, saying, “I believe Master Reynard is out at the moment, Miss Bumgarten.”

“Well, it isn’t him I came to see,” she said. “I came to see his lordship, the viscount, on a matter of some importance.” When the majordomo scowled in surprise, she hurried on and it just slipped out: “I am Reynard’s intended, and I believe it is time I meet his lordship and we have a talk.”

A whopper of a lie, clearly, but told in a good cause.

“I had no idea, Miss Bumgarten,” Bailey said with a marked warming in his face and mien. “Felicitations on your upcoming nuptials.” He paused a moment, looking over his shoulder at the stairs, seeming unsure. Then he made his decision. “Let me take your cloak and you can wait in the parlor while I see if his lordship is awake.”

* * *

Reynard exited the renowned White’s Club with a folio stuffed with markers he had bought up from sundry gentlemen in clubs around town. He had most of them, he felt sure, and when combined with the ones the duke had possessed, they should give Red some relief. Never mind that he’d had to go to a friend at Coutts Bank and take out a personal loan to pay for them.

He could do nothing, however, about the much larger loans Red had wrangled out of Martins Bank and a couple of private lenders.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw again the pain in Frankie’s face the day before when he called on her. She was cool and distant and there could be only one reason—she now knew the financial straits they faced and was putting up defenses against the humiliation of it. The one thing that he could do to help her and her family might be helping them out of the frying pan and into the fire. If he knew that someday he would inherit the Tannehill title and fortune, he could propose to Frankie and find a way to stabilize their finances.

There were plenty of bankers willing to lend him sizeable sums. They assumed that as the heir of Tannehill he would be good for it when his uncle passed on. But what good would it do to marry her and find he couldn’t inherit and pay them back? His so-called solution would only pile debts upon debts.

With flagging steps, he turned toward Tannehill House.

* * *

Frankie stood in the doorway of the old viscount’s bedchamber looking in dismay at the pale figure in the bed and the two black-clad men attending him. They spoke to each other in quiet tones as they put metal cups connected to tubes in their ears, to the old man’s chest. They were listening, Bailey whispered, for the old man’s heartbeat. Seeing her confusion, he went on to say that the viscount had suffered a stroke some weeks ago, and since then, he had grown steadily worse.

“Can he hear me? May I speak to him?” she whispered.

“When the physicians leave, we shall see,” Bailey said. “He sleeps most all of the time now.”

The physicians nodded to each other, concurring, then packed up their equipment and reported to Bailey, who stepped out into the hall with them.

In his absence, she edged closer to the bed, where the old man’s head lay perfectly still and serene on the pillow. She searched those illness-distorted features and sunken eyes for some similarity to the face she loved, but could see nothing of Reynard there.

“Your lordship?” she said, softly at first. “Your lordship, can you hear me?” His eyelids fluttered faintly but did not open. “I am Frances Bumgarten, a friend of your nephew Reynard. I have come to petition you to . . .” She halted as Bailey reentered the room, followed by a nurse in a striped uniform, white apron, and cap. The woman came to stand beside Frankie, checked on her patient, then took her watchful place in a chair beside the bed.

“My lord,” Bailey declared as he took the nurse’s place beside her. “Master Reynard’s fiancée is here to see you. Can you open your eyes to her?”

Again, the eyelids fluttered, but they quickly ceased moving and stayed closed. Bailey looked to her and shook his head.

“He will be like this, they say, until the end. He hasn’t fully awakened for three days now. We cannot even get him to take sips of water.” He looked sad. “The doctors say he cannot go on like this for much longer.”

He caught her look of distress and gestured to the door, suggesting, “Perhaps we should get you a cup of tea.”

Her hopes for anything meaningful from the old man sank. She nodded and followed Bailey out and down the broad staircase to the parlor.

“Please be seated, Miss Bumgarten. I shall be back shortly with something to brace you up.”

Too anxious to sit, she wandered the room instead, running a hand over the beautiful piano, the exquisite tapestries, and the carved and gilded figures around the fireplace. The windows were tall and draped with French damask that someone had selected with an artist’s eye. The edges of the settees and chair cushions showed no signs of wear. Clearly, the room was little used.

She paused by one of the long windows to stare out into what was once a lovely garden, but now was on the verge of chaos. Someone needed to take it in hand soon or the whole thing would have to be chopped back to twigs and started over.

Bailey arrived with a sizeable tray holding a teapot, cups, and a plate of biscuits. He set the tray on the table between the settees flanking the fireplace and surprised Frankie by sitting down on the settee across from her and pouring. This was a familiarity she would never have expected of the tall, distinguished majordomo.

He creamed and sugared her tea to her taste, handed it to her, and then sat back without pouring himself a cup. He would only presume so much and not a whit further.

“I have worked for his lordship for thirty-five years,” he said, watching her. “I was a mere pup, newly come to service, when I first met him. He seemed older than his years, with a barren wife and a younger brother who had always been the favorite. I saw and heard things I shouldn’t have, but I quickly learned to hold my tongue and see only that which was helpful to my position.”

He offered her a biscuit from the tray and she declined.

“What was he like? I have heard stories that he was difficult.”

“At first he was quiet and particular in how he liked things. He and his wife were mismatched and had little to do with each other. There was only one person he seemed to favor with smiles and confidences.” He glanced away and after a moment, went on.

“He became increasingly stern and exacting, especially with Master Reynard. Too harsh, the staff felt, though we had naught to say about it. Some took it upon themselves to help the boy in small ways. Cook especially was a soft touch—was always slipping him extra food. He was a skinny little thing. Minded his manners. Adored his mother.” He smiled sadly. “Now there was a beauty. Master Reynard favors her strongly. There was once a picture of her in his room. It . . . got broken.”

She sipped, wishing with all her heart she could have seen that picture.

“Did you know Reynard’s father?” she asked a moment later.

“I did, but mostly from a distance. He spent a good bit of time in France.” He moved to the edge of his seat with his hands on his knees, preparing to rise. “If I may say, Miss Bumgarten . . . I am most pleased that Master Reynard has at last found someone who cares about him and wants to share his life. He has had a hard go of it from early days. Viscount Ormond was never suited to be a father, much less to a boy with such a sensitive spirit. I hope when the young master is lord, this old house will hear laughter and music and the sound of children playing again.”

Frankie had a sip of tea in her mouth and a sudden constriction in her throat made it almost impossible to swallow. The thought of Reynard’s beautiful children—borne by some wealthy society girl—was crushing.

Determined footfalls from the hallway caused her to turn her head toward the doorway, freeing her throat enough to swallow.

Reynard appeared in the arched doorway wearing his overcoat, gloves, and top hat. His face was reddened from the cold, and he held a leather folio in one hand. The sight of them sitting together clearly jolted him. She had never seen him speechless before.

“I . . . came to . . .” she began, floundering.

“To visit his lordship,” Bailey said, rising quickly. “Unfortunately, the viscount is unable to appreciate visitors these days, so I took the liberty of serving Miss Bumgarten some tea. It is still hot, Master Reynard. Perhaps you would like a cup yourself.”

As Bailey strode out, Reynard removed his hat, gloves, and coat. Then he clasped his hands to the silver teapot and sighed softly at the warmth it gave. She could almost see his mind racing.

“What are you doing here?” he asked as he poured himself a cup of tea.

“Meddling,” she answered, reddening. “I came to see your uncle on your behalf. To tell him what you have done for me and to ask him to give you the answers you need to get on with your life.”

He set the teapot down with a bang.

“You what?”

Before she could utter a word, there was a cry from somewhere upstairs and they heard servants running.

“What the hell?” Reynard bolted out into the hall and saw Bailey rushing toward the source of that sound: his uncle’s room. Instantly he was down the hall and taking the stairs by twos. He made his way past the servants collecting in the upstairs hallway, and into Ormond Boulton’s sickroom.

Frankie was not far behind him, until she reached the top of the stairs, where she paused, telling herself she should probably leave now and save herself the embarrassment of facing him after she had tried—and failed—to interfere in his future. But she couldn’t make herself turn and flee.

For one single heart-stopping moment, she had seen a light in Reynard’s eyes . . . pleasure at seeing her, hope, desire, yearning. That was all it took to make her realize that not seeing him ever again was more devastating to her than anything the duke could have done.

Bailey emerged from the sickroom and sent a footman running for the physicians. She crept to the door and peered in. Reynard stood at the foot of the bed, gazing down at the old man who had overshadowed so much of his life. She could tell that he was struggling with his emotions. Daring more on his behalf, she went to his side and slipped her hand in his. He said nothing, but closed his hand around hers with a gentle squeeze. It was a wordless request for her to stay with him.

They stood together, keeping watch, deep in thought but joined in concern, until the physicians arrived. Reynard excused himself, saying that he would await their conclusions in the parlor. His possession of her hand meant she went with him downstairs. Only then did he seem to realize he had pulled her along. He released her and stood for a minute looking around him as if baffled by everything he saw and unsure of what to do next. She took his arm and ushered him to a settee, taking a seat beside him.

“It’s over,” she said, and he looked into her gaze with disbelief.

“Or just beginning,” he said, his voice thick. “He told me I would never inherit.”

“He’s gone, Reynard.” She took his hands and collected his gaze in hers. “Come with me to the States. Forget all of this nobility nonsense and come, make a new life in the wide-open territories out West.”

His rueful smile gave her a little hope. “And do what, Frankie?”

“You could be a rancher, a cattle baron. You could learn to punch cattle.”

“I have nothing against cattle—why ever would I punch one?”

It was a thin quip but promising.

“You could run for sheriff.” When he scowled, she explained, “Pretty much the same as here, except for the collecting taxes part. You’d keep the peace.”

“A constable then.”

“Sort of.” She guessed that wasn’t very appealing to a man who loved swords. “But they’d let you wear your gun and lock up lawbreakers.”

“A gaoler. My heart’s ambition.”

“All right, then, how about mining? We have lots of land that needs to be explored. There would be mines to open and lucrative deals to make.”

He studied her for a moment, and then stroked her hands with such tenderness that it nearly broke her heart. She read his answer in that touch.

“Frankie. My dear, sweet Frankie. My life is here. Whatever happens, I have to face it and learn the truth. There is too much I don’t know . . . too much that has been kept from me.”

“I . . .” She bit back the words “love you” and substituted, “am so sorry, Fox.”

“I know you are,” he said, and she could have sworn he was making that same substitution when he added, “I am . . . sorry, too.”

The doctors made quick work of confirming that the old viscount had passed on, and agreed to make arrangements for the viscount to be embalmed and interred in the family mausoleum. Next, Bailey sent a footman next door to request that a telephone call be made to Sir Harold Rowantree, the old viscount’s solicitor. Then he joined Reynard and Frankie in the parlor.

“Before Sir Harold comes,” the majordomo said quietly, “I think you should know that your uncle kept a hidden safe in his office.”

“A secret safe? How do you know about it?” Reynard asked.

“I was privy to its installation many years ago. I know that the old viscount visited it from time to time, and always in the strictest privacy. I was never permitted to see him access its contents.”

“Then we should have a look, by all means,” Reynard said, gesturing for Bailey to lead on. His grip on Frankie’s hand indicated he wanted her with him as he delved into his uncle’s tightly held secrets. She felt her heart begin to pound, moments later, as they stepped into the murky study.

* * *

The old viscount’s private sanctuary was as Reynard remembered it, dark, slightly musty, and filled with the aura of the old man’s stifling and antisocial habits. Bailey drew back the drapes to admit light and then went to an antique tapestry on one wall, rolling it up and tying it with its own presentation cords to reveal a substantial metal safe recessed into the wall.

They searched the old lord’s desk for anything that might indicate how they could open the safe. In a hidden drawer, they found a small leather ledger containing numbers and dates, some of which Bailey was able to identify as purchases made by Ormond. Toward the rear, there were what appeared to be groups of numbers. Bailey knew nothing about those, but Reynard seized on several repeating sequences of three numbers that he suspected might prove to be a combination. He had Frankie read the sequences as he spun the dial and entered them.

One combination caused clicks behind the safe door and when he tried the handle, it gave and the door swung open. Bailey turned up the gas light and then lighted an oil lamp on the desk to give Reynard a better view of what lay inside.

Stacks of folios and ribbon-wrapped documents comprised a majority of the contents. There were several posh leather jewelry boxes, numerous stacks of gold coins, and at the rear was a flat pasteboard box of old papers. They carried all but the coins to Ormond’s desk and Reynard felt his hands trembling as he opened the first folio, looking for something pertaining to his origins.

“Do you want me to help you look?” Frankie asked.

He looked into her sky-blue eyes and told himself he might not have the courage to do this without her. Her presence, here, at this moment, mattered more than anything that safe might hold. The fact that she had come to confront the old viscount on his behalf said everything he needed to know about the state of her heart.

He handed her a folio to examine and she untied the ribbon and scowled as she worked to make out the legal script. She reported it was a certificate of ownership of a company that produced copper wire and heavy cable of the kind used by telegraph services. He showed her certificates of ownership in mines in several countries. Bailey stood by, watching, saying nothing until they had completed their search of the documents detailing many of the viscount’s holdings.

The jewelry boxes held stunning pieces containing diamonds and other gems that made Frankie’s jaw drop. She touched them reverently, then quickly handed them back to him. One piece, a diamond and sapphire ring, stopped Reynard cold. He stared at it, feeling a pull it exerted on his emotions. After several moments, he closed the box and set it aside.

The desk was all but lost under layers of deeds, ownership documents, and engineering drawings. The only thing left was that battered pasteboard box filled with papers. As he opened it, Frankie edged closer to him and put her hand on his back as if offering him support. She must have sensed, as he did, that this might be the most important piece of all.

Some of the papers were letters in what Reynard recognized as the viscount’s hand. Others were correspondence bearing the viscount’s unbroken seal. Farther down they found letters still in velum envelopes and several old photographs, a few of which were in poor condition. One had streaks and gouges across it, as if the glass of a frame had broken against it. The subject was a beautiful woman with light hair and soft gray eyes. She wore a white summer dress and stood by a table that held a stack of books and a globe.

Reynard felt his chest constrict. He knew this woman, this picture. He held it up for Bailey to see.

“Who is this?” he asked. “I feel I know her.”

Bailey approached with a melancholy expression. “You should, your lordship,” he answered. “That is your lady mother. Lillianne of Burbonne.”

Frankie leaned closer to look at the photograph, then looked up at him.

“Good Heavens—you look like her.” She studied him even as he studied the picture. “Exactly like her. The resemblance is amazing.” She pointed to Lillianne’s hand. “And look at the ring she is wearing.”

“It is her ring,” he said, remembering snatches of images and staring again at the picture. He picked up the smallest jewel box, and opened it, holding the ring against the photo. “This picture,” he said, holding it up to Bailey. “I’ve seen it before.”

Bailey took the photo gently from Reynard.

“This photograph was in your room when you were a boy. The frame and glass were broken somehow and the next thing I knew, the picture had disappeared. I never found out what happened to it. His lordship must have . . .”

“He took it from my room,” Reynard concluded for him. He delved more urgently into the letters and documents in the box. “A clipping from the Times —my father’s obituary, naming Ormond, my mother, and me as his surviving family.” He lifted a thick piece of velum with elegant engraving. “An announcement of the marriage of Lady Lillianne de Burbonne to Monsieur Gareth Boulton.” Still another piece of memorabilia: “My birth announcement.” He stared at it for a long moment. “Didn’t say much besides the fact that I was born.”

Near the bottom was a packet of letters, some bearing a London postmark and others apparently never sent. They were addressed to Mademoiselle Lilly Burbonne. He opened one and began to read.

He read silently until he reached the signature. He looked up with his eyes wide. “This is from Uncle Ormond . . . to my mother.”

Bailey nodded, handing her picture back to Reynard.

“In my early days here, I heard whispers that his lordship had courted Lillianne before your father met her. When Gareth traveled to Paris to study, he visited the Burbonnes and became smitten with Lillianne. They fell in love and were wedded in Paris, against her father’s wishes. The next time his lordship saw her, she was his brother’s wife.”

He was so swamped by emotions that he had difficulty putting all the pieces together. “She married my father, the younger brother, for love?”

“Then she came back to London with him and moved into the family home,” Frankie said thoughtfully. “That must have been awful for your uncle: having to see her constantly, having to watch the two of them together.” She looked to Bailey. “But the viscount married after that, did he not?”

Bailey nodded. “An arranged affair. Not a fruitful union. She was a bit sickly and he was not one to coddle what he saw as weakness.”

“I can testify to that,” Reynard said irritably. He sorted through the letters, setting them aside, then came to a larger envelope that contained a number of pages. What arrested him was the familiar script of his uncle’s hand on the front, stating simply: “The Boy.”

He held it in both hands, staring at it, feeling a sudden pressure in his chest that made it difficult to breathe.

Frankie looked over his arm to see what disturbed him so and froze when she, too, glimpsed those words.

“The truth of my birth,” he said, his mouth dry and forehead wet.

“Reynard, are you sure you want to see what is in there?” Frankie asked.

Bailey stepped around the desk to stand beside him. “You are the heir, Master Reynard. It has always been said, and I cannot think anyone would contest it now.”

“Except possibly Sir Harold, the old man’s lawyer,” Reynard said.

“Who has always been passing fond of you, my lord. You know he has.”

Frankie pulled the envelope from his hand and weighed it in her fingers. “What good will it do to open it now? Now that you are already seen as the new viscount?”

“By everyone but me,” he said. “And anyone who hears a scurrilous bit of gossip and decides to pass it along to half of London. There are some who would love to see me exposed as a fraud and brought low.”

She carried the envelope to the oil lamp and removed the painted glass shade and the hot chimney. “You could walk away . . . start a new life . . . become your own man,” she said, holding the envelope above the flame, awaiting his decision. “Or you could just be the Viscount Tannehill everyone expects you to be.” She caught his gaze in hers, and he read there no judgment, no coercion, only support for him and the hard decision he had to make.

Strangely, now that it was in his grasp, he was reluctant to learn the truth. It was a question that had tormented him for years, and tonight it came to an end. What would he do tomorrow? Who would he be tomorrow?

He had to know.

He took the envelope from Frankie, sliced it open with the old boy’s letter opener, and finally saw the truth.

* * *

On top was a page ripped from a French parish register, detailing a marriage between Gareth Boulton and Lillianne Burbonne. “They were really and truly married!” he cried, and the next moment was adamant. “Well, of course they were. She was a lady from a prominent Parisian family and he was the son of an English nobleman. They wouldn’t have disgraced their families by anything less. But this record—the proof of those nuptials was stolen and brought to London.”

Did the viscount steal the record of their marriage in order to throw doubt on his parents’ integrity and his own legitimacy? How else would it come into his possession?

Again, he looked over that fading paper, feeling angrier. “All of the time I wasted, all of the sleepless nights and anguish, the penury and deprivation . . . all because the almighty Ormond Boulton was disappointed in love. Love , of all things.” He turned to Frankie and raised his arms, then lowered them to run his hands through his hair as if he were considering pulling it out by the roots. “My life was all but ruined because of love !”

He paced this way and that, and nearly ran into Sir Harold in the doorway.

“I am so, so sorry about your loss, Reyn—your lordship.” Sir Harold extended his hand to Reynard.

“Did you know?” Reynard ignored the hand and confronted Sir Harold. “That he stole their marriage record and lied to me for years about my birth?”

“Wh-what?” Sir Harold looked to Bailey, then Frankie in shock.

“What did he tell you to do when he died?” Reynard demanded furiously. “Find this record and burn it? Was that his grand plan to see that I never inherited?” He was ready to explode. “I trusted you—all of my life, I trusted you !”