Otto De Morville was hardly his son, but his performance was worthy. Furrowing his brow, he tilted his head as if with great interest. “The abbey, hmm?”

“Oui, my lord. Bairnwood.”

“And you are of the convent.”

Honore glanced sidelong at Elias. Though he did not appear to listen, she guessed he tried over laughter, chatter, thudding goblets, and scraping knives. “Non, my lord. That was pretense.”

His only show of surprise a blink, he said, “Surely you do not say you are a nun.”

“I do not.”

“Then?”

She leaned nearer, not for the first time noted the marked resemblance between father and son. “A servant, my lord.”

The corners of his smile flexed. “As thought, the lady is also pretense.”

“The lady is.”

“And you have no right to wear your hair loose. You are a—”

“I am no harlot, nor have I ever wed. Though you find it difficult to believe a servant could be my age and yet possess virtue, I break no stricture in wearing my hair unbound.”

“But you do in playing a noblewoman when that divine blood does not course you.”

Divine, she mused. Though trying hard not to dislike the man, he made it easy. Gently, she cleared her throat. “That is open to debate, my lord. Though I cannot know for certain, it is possible I am noble at least one side of me.” She moved her gaze to the trencher he had hardly touched as if fearful he shared it with one unworthy of placing her spoon near his. “Mayhap you ought to eat whilst you think on that.”

He dipped into the stew that soaked the carved-out loaf of bread, stirred it, returned his attention to her. “You were born at the convent, your mother sent there to conceal her disgrace.”

“Again, possible, whether she was of noble blood or my sire was—or both.”

He nodded slowly. “Regardless, misbegotten.”

“Or merely unwanted.” She touched her lip. “I was born with a gap that had to be sewn closed. Imagine how frightening it must have been for those present at my birth. Thus, either the belief I could not survive or superstition made a foundling of me.”

“I see,” he said so solemnly she could almost believe he felt for her. He sat straighter. “What I do not see is your purpose. If you are not my son’s lover, what?”

She felt the brush of Elias’s shoulder against hers, then his breath stirring her hair. “As told, all will be explained later, Father.”

“I would hear it now.” Otto De Morville swept his gaze over the hall, said, “Privacy among the masses—oft better than privacy behind a closed door that conceals a listener on the other side.”

Elias turned from the trencher and lady with whom he shared it, angled toward his father to make a wall of his body, and set a forearm on the table. “Over six months gone, a boy was stolen from Bairnwood Abbey—a foundling, one of many for whom Honore cares at the abbey.”

His father made a wall of his own body, and though Honore had space aplenty, she felt as if squeezed between the two. “That is what took you from France?”

“Though I did not know he had been stolen, it was for Hart I went to England.”

“Hart?”

“That is his name.”

“How old?” Otto De Morville asked, and Honore knew from his tone he began to understand.

“Not yet eight.”

“A foundling, you say. For what was he abandoned?”

Honore tensed, but Elias said, “His mother could not keep him.”

For the best, she thought. No reason to further bias Otto De Morville. God willing, Hart would soon be free and Elias’s father could be told of the mark of birth ahead of meeting the boy.

The older man took up his goblet, as he drank looked from Honore to his son, then asked, “The fate of this boy concerns you how?”

“As you must have guessed, he is my son. Your grandson.”

Honore had hoped he would only put forth the possibility Hart was his. Could it be proved the boy was not, now there were two who would be angered by her deception.

“How can you be certain he is yours?”

“He is mine, Father.”

Pray, let it be so, Honore sent heavenward.

Otto lowered his goblet. “So it was not enough to abandon your family to make England your stage. You had to sow children who could lay claim to us.”

Elias drew a deep breath. “Only the one, and I loved his mother.”

“A commoner?”

“That Lettice was.”

His father glowered. “Yours or not, you need not take responsibility for him.”

“I believe the Wulfriths would disagree.” Some of Elias’s anger visible beyond the mask he surely struggled to keep in place, he added, “Indeed, I am certain they would.”

Clearly, his father did not like that, but he pressed, “If his own mother would not take responsibility for him, why should you?”

“Because I can. She could not.”

A growl sounded from the older man. “Then find him and provide for him until he is of an age to make his own way. Whether you return him to the abbey or his mother—”

“She is dead, murdered by the one who stole Hart and fled to France.”

The harsh lines in his sire’s face eased but soon returned. “Then the abbey. Regardless, I would not have you bring him into my home.”

“Be assured, I would not think to subject him to your hatred.”

Feeling as if suffocated by tension on both sides of her, Honore hissed, “You are father and son. Pray, cease!”

She was not surprised Elias eased back, but that his sire did made her look sharply at him. And on his face she glimpsed disquiet.

His throat worked, then he said, “I still know not your purpose.”

“Honore aids in retrieving my son,” Elias said, “for a short time traveling as my wife—”

“Wife?” his father choked.

“Oui, to make it acceptable she accompany me without escort. However, as we neared Saint-Omer where I am better known, I thought it best to name her a distant cousin.”

After a long silence, Otto said, “How close are you to finding the boy?”

“He is upon these lands. But be assured I shall do my best to recover him without Costain’s knowledge. As it will be easier done aided by your men, how many accompanied you?”

“Three.” It was said with grudging acquiescence. “Men-at-arms only, they are quartered in the barracks.” When Elias inclined his head, Otto swung his regard to Honore. “It seems you are owed an apology—though only do you not seek to seduce my son the same as this Lettice.”

Before her indignation could sound across the hall, Elias leaned so far in his shoulder pressed hers. “One more insult, and it may prove impossible not to humiliate our family—and lay ruin to whatever your reason for accepting Lord Costain’s invitation.”

Part consternation, part fear flashed in Otto’s eyes. “Settle yourself, Elias. I but take measure of the situation that I may plan accordingly.” He fit a smile that did not fit. “You have noticed Lady Vera is no longer a girl.”

His words trampled Honore’s heart that had no cause to place itself between father and son. She knew what he implied the same as she knew Elias was attracted to the young woman.

A good thing, she told herself. She had spent little time with the lady and her sister when shown to their chamber, but she liked her. Presenting as genuinely kind, a good young wife she would make Elias and, God willing, bear healthy children.

“Do we discuss this at all,” Elias said, “we will not do so now.”

His father raised his eyebrows. “Certes, we will discuss it, but it can wait.” He looked to Honore. “Apologies. I am a disappointed man who, weary of waiting on grandsons, feels every year that passes without assurance the De Morville name shall pass to another generation. Can I be forgiven?”

Honore inclined her head, glanced at Elias as he turned back to his shared trencher.

Otto sighed. “I know. I am, have ever been, shall ever be a poor father. And husband. But it is too late to change.”

Sensing the soft of the man beneath the hard, Honore said, “I do not believe that. Has not the Lord given you more years than many? You are…what? Three score?”

“Three score three.”

“Nearly twice my age.” She almost laughed at his look of disbelief. “I am aware I appear younger than thirty and two. A good thing, I am told and mostly I agree. Were my face beginning to wizen, I might gain more respect, hmm?”

He frowned. “I may be nearly twice your age, but you are more than twice that of Lady Vera.”

And that mattered much, the young woman possessing seventeen more childbearing years.

Not wanting to think there, regardless if it was Lady Vera whom Elias wed or another, Honore said, “Even if the Lord does not grant you another score of years, surely there is time to better your relationships.”

He appeared to consider it but said, “For what?”

Wishing she had not tried to fix what he would have remain broken, she retrieved her goblet. “Now it is I who must be forgiven. I tread where I ought not.”

Determined to ignore the De Morvilles, she settled back and waited for meal’s end when the troupe would be admitted to entertain late into the night, while outside the walls a sideshow was offered to the perverse.

Soon, Hart, she silently reached out to him. You will be safe. We will weep over our parting. All you have suffered will be in the past. You will have the father you deserve. Soon.