Mick had the missive delivered to Kipwick first thing that morning.

Now as his valet brushed shaving lather over his thick beard, he studied his reflection in the mirror. When he’d discovered the bones in Ettie Trewlove’s garden, he’d also uncovered his own past. She’d given him the tattered remains of the blanket in which he’d been wrapped, and she’d told him the tale of the gent, in the fancy carriage, who’d brought Mick to her door. The man had never given his name, and it was possible the blanket had been nicked, but the first time Mick had caught sight of Hedley, he’d known the truth: his father was a bloody duke.

He’d seen himself in the tall, slender man with the black hair and the vivid blue eyes. He’d seen himself in the pronounced dimpled chin. The same chin that the Earl of Kipwick sported.

He’d been fifteen at the time, hauling the dustbin out of the iron trench near the servants’ entrance where it was kept. The duke—­striding toward the stables, no doubt about to enjoy his morning ride—­hadn’t even bothered to give the laborers who disposed of his rubbish a passing glance. Not a tip of his hat nor a “Good day to you.”

They were beneath him, not even worthy of being noticed.

He’d damned well notice Mick today or tomorrow or the day after. Whenever it was that he decided the reputation of his legitimate son was worth saving. He had no guarantee the man would heed his summons for a meeting today, but eventually he would come.

As the valet carefully scraped the razor over his jaw, Mick felt the cool air touch upon skin that he’d not seen in years. As soon as he’d begun to sprout facial hair, he’d set about hiding beneath dark whiskers what he considered a mark of his heritage. The duke hadn’t wanted him when he was born. He’d determined he’d gain nothing by approaching the man directly, since the scapegrace didn’t believe his own flesh and blood deserved to breathe London’s air and all but one of his missives for a meeting had gone unanswered.

Mick was fairly certain he wouldn’t want him now, but his plans would remove the duke’s wishes on the matter. He would be publicly acknowledged before the week was out. Then he would call upon Aslyn as a gentleman would and convince her that what had been done had been necessary if they were to have any future together.

As the dent in his square chin was revealed, he shifted his gaze to the bed, visible behind his reflection. It was still scented with gardenias mingled with the musky fragrance of sex. After he’d followed the marching Aslyn until she’d located a hansom—­dear God, even when her fury was directed at him, she was magnificent—­he’d returned here, stretched out on the bed and relived every moment he’d been in her company, from that first night in Cremorne to her standing in the hallway clad in his silk dressing gown. It had clung to her curves and thighs as though worshipping the flesh it had the honor of touching. He tormented himself by recalling every smile, every laugh, every tease, every look of want, every kiss. She’d claimed to hold affection for him, then she’d walked out on him.

Having experienced the wrath of her guardians not wanting to allow him entry into their residence, having seen their disgust at the thought of a bastard crossing their threshold, did she not understand that he would do anything, everything necessary to have his existence acknowledged?

She was angry now, hurt, but she would see that he was paving a future for them. That the price paid now would be worth the rewards. That it would all be worth it.

“As I understand it, he’s your bastard.”

“I have no bastard.”

Kipwick stood before his father’s desk as he had a thousand times in his life, fearful of disappointing him. “He seems to be under the illusion you do.”

The duke tapped his forefinger on the desk, all the while his gaze never leaving Kipwick. “Why approach you to arrange this meeting?”

He’d so hoped to avoid his father learning the truth, but there was no hope for it now. “I’ve gotten myself into a bit of a bother.”

His father arched one dark brow over startling blue eyes—­a shade that so matched Mick Trewlove’s Kipwick realized in retrospect. Perhaps one of his father’s brothers had sired the man. Or he had nothing at all to do with anyone in the family. It wasn’t as though blue eyes were uncommon. He swallowed hard, clasped his hands behind his back until they ached. “I’ve been gambling of late. Ran into a spate of bad luck.”

“How bad?” It would be easier if his father would raise his voice, but he kept his tone flat.

“I lost all the properties and the funds you’d allotted for their upkeep.”

His father’s eyes slid closed.

He took a step nearer, even though his sire couldn’t see him. “He will see me ruined. If word gets out that I have lost all this, who will lend us money when it is needed? Who will find me trustworthy? Who will allow his daughter to marry me?”

The duke’s eyes sprung open. “You are betrothed to Aslyn.”

“He has turned her against me.”

“How the devil did he come to be in her company so he could influence her at all?”

“It’s a rather lengthy story.”

“Then I suggest you immediately get started on the telling of it.”

He had investments to analyze, a new business venture in need of partners and recently constructed buildings to walk through to ensure they met his standards. Yet he seemed incapable of focusing on what needed to be done, and instead continually stared at the contents of the box that had been waiting on his desk when he arrived: a pearl necklace, a comb, a parasol.

No note but the message was clear. She was done with him. As though she hadn’t made that obvious last night. She’d been in a bit of temper, but he’d thought once she’d had time to truly consider it, to sleep on it, she’d come around and understand how very important the duke’s acknowledgment of him was, how it would open doors to him, to them. Apparently, sleeping on it had made her only more determined to be rid of him.

Fine. He’d been tossed aside by a noblewoman before. With Hedley’s acknowledgment and influence, he would be invited into dukes’ ballrooms and earls’ dining rooms. He could court every lord’s daughter who caught his fancy. He didn’t need Aslyn. The whole world was about to open up for him, and he could do with it as he willed.

The quiet rap on his door snapped him back to the present. “Enter.”

His secretary opened the door, stepped inside and closed it behind him. “The Duke of Hedley and the Earl of Kipwick are here to see you.”

Rising, he tugged on his waistcoat, retrieved the golden watch from his waistcoat pocket and glanced at the time. They were prompt. He’d give them that. “Send them in.”

Looking concerned, or perhaps a bit discombobulated, Tittlefitz blinked, nodded, blinked again, all the while studying Mick as though striving to decipher a puzzle. “Yes, sir.”

He went out, held the door open and invited the two gents into the room. Then he quietly closed the door with a hushed snick, leaving the gents and an awkward silence filling space.

It had been years since Mick had seen Hedley and never from such a short distance. The resemblance was uncanny. Little wonder Tittlefitz had seemed uncomfortable. The man wasn’t an idiot. He was no doubt figuring things out.

Mick took a great deal of satisfaction in the blood draining from Hedley’s face and the way Kipwick stared at him. Now that his beard was gone, he knew both men would see the truth regarding Mick’s parentage. Hedley recovered quickly enough, his expression showing no reaction when confronted by the reality that his bastard didn’t reside in Ettie Trewlove’s garden.

“Gentlemen.” Mick didn’t bother to soften the hard edge of his voice.

“I understand you have some deeds we wish to reclaim and some markers that are causing my son some annoyance. I’m here to pay them off.”

Not exactly the homecoming Mick had expected or wanted. “They’re not for sale.”

“Then our business here is done.” The duke turned—­

“I am willing to trade.” Mick hated the desperation he heard in his voice, hoped the duke and his son were unaware of it.

Hedley faced him. “The terms?”

He’d considered them all morning, as he’d walked over land he’d purchased, wended his way among the buildings that were nearly complete, stood on the rooftop and looked toward the sky where he knew come nightfall fireworks would light it up with color. “Give me leave to call on Lady Aslyn, and I’ll hand them over.”

“No.” The single word echoed through the room like the retort of a rifle.

The rage slithered through him. “Because I’m your bastard, you think me not worthy of her?” He hated the doubts that plagued him, that whispered perhaps the man was correct.

The duke’s face remained a mask of no emotion as he shook his head. “You are not my bastard.”

Scoffing harshly, his anger intensifying, Mick came around his desk, advancing until he was mere inches away from the duke. He would deny him both Aslyn and the truth of his paternity? “We share the same hair, eyes and damned dimple in our chin. Do you need me to have a mirror brought in here so you can see us standing side by side? Looking at you is like looking at my own reflection. And I have this.” He pulled the frayed crest from his pocket. “It is all that remains of the blanket in which I was wrapped when you handed me over to a baby farmer.”

He did blanch then, averted his gaze for half a heartbeat before meeting Mick’s stare with hard-­edged resolve. “To have you in our lives will see my wife destroyed.”

“To not grant me what I want will see your heir destroyed.”

“He can survive the loss of a few properties.”

“Loudon Green provides the most income of all your holdings. Without it your estates cannot be maintained.”

“You’ve done your research, I see.” He almost thought he heard a measure of respect in the duke’s voice. “But we will find a way to manage.”

The man’s calm resolve was fueling Mick’s anger and resentment. He understood only too well the merits of giving away nothing, often used the tactic himself. Apparently he’d inherited more from his sire than physical attributes. He possessed his cunning and calm resolve. “I shall see you and your son ruined. No one will lend you money. I have that much influence over bankers. What you have will dwindle away. Rumors regarding your solvency will be spread about. You will lose respect, influence, position. Your heir will be left with nothing of worth to inherit.”

“I’ve no doubt. You seem quite intent on your purpose.”

“Then give me leave to call on Aslyn, to at least give her a choice as to whether she will accept or rebuff me.”

“Mr. Trewlove,” the duke began quietly, “as long as my wife lives, I will not—­I cannot—­give you what you desire. You will never be welcomed into our home or into our lives. But consider this—­if you are correct in your assessment regarding your paternity, the man you are seeking to destroy here is your brother.”

He began marching toward the door. It took Kipwick a second to realize the meeting was at an end. He rushed after his father.

“At least tell me about my mother,” Mick demanded.

Coming to a halt, the duke glanced back over his shoulder. “She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, the gentlest, kindest woman I’ve ever known. I fell in love with her on the spot. I’m ashamed to admit it, but I miss her terribly.”

“Was she as anxious to be rid of me as you were? Or did she beg to be allowed to keep me? Did you tear me from her arms or did she willingly hand me over?”

“Nothing is to be gained, Mr. Trewlove, by going into the past.”

Then he turned on his heel and walked out.

Mick Trewlove was his son. When he strode into that office, the realization had nearly dropped him to his knees. It had taken every ounce of strength and resolve within him to give nothing away, to show no recognition, no acknowledgment of the truth. Even now he fought desperately to maintain a cool facade. If he lost it, he feared he’d never regain it. For Bella’s sake, he ignored the crushing sensation in his chest and stared out the window as the coach rattled along.

“I can only guess at his age. I put him a few years older than I. Were you married to my mother when he was born?”

“Pardon?” He swung his gaze over to the son who had brought them to this moment with his recklessness. He’d never gotten over the guilt he’d felt at taking the babe to the Widow Trewlove, and so he’d indulged Kip when he should have taken a much firmer hand with him.

“Were you unfaithful to my mother?” Kip asked, disgust evident in his voice. How could he blame him? It seemed he was destined to betray his sons.

“I will not discuss this with you any more than I’ll discuss it with him. The past is the past. We must move beyond it.”

“Where is the harm in allowing him to call on Aslyn? She fancies him.”

“He is not for her.”

“But he will see me destroyed.”

“We have the weight of my title and the influence of our name. We will not fall easily.”

“But why risk falling at all?”

“I’ll not be extorted. Nor will I allow Aslyn to be used in so crass a manner, for another man’s purposes.”

He turned his attention back to the window, more determined than ever to protect Bella from the truth.

“Is that your doll?”

Aslyn looked up from where she sat on the grass in a secluded corner of the gardens, holding the rag doll Charles Beckwith had given her when he’d brought news to the house of her parents’ death. “Mind your own affairs.”

Kip sat beside her. “I always thought it the most hideous thing in your possession. Gave me nightmares.”

“Brings me comfort.” When she was in sore need of some. She’d spent the morning bouncing from raging anger to profound sadness. She’d thought she’d found something special with Mick. Someone who understood her. Someone who loved her for herself, not gain.

“I haven’t done that much of late, have I?”

“No.”

“I mucked things up.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I can always count on you to be forthright.” He sighed. “We’re not going to make a go of it, you and I, are we?”

“No.”

“Even without Trewlove in the picture?”

Plucking at some stray threads on the doll’s dress, she shook her head.

“We met with him, Father and I.”

Of course they had. It was what Mick Trewlove had planned. A confrontation, a flexing of his muscles, an opportunity to gain what he desired most.

“You are correct. He is Father’s bastard, even though Father claimed he wasn’t, as though Trewlove would believe that rubbish. He’s the spitting image of the old man. Shaved his beard, by the way.”

She didn’t care, and yet she wondered how different he might look. “Is the duke not going to acknowledge him, then?”

“Odd thing that. I, too, assumed Father acknowledging him was what he wanted.”

“He told me it was what he wanted or he’d see you ruined.”

“It’s not what he asked for. He wanted permission to call on you.”

Clutching the doll, she swung around and stared at him. “I beg your pardon?”

Kip shrugged. “He wants to call on you. Father said no.”

“Jolly good for him, as I have no desire for Mick Trewlove to call on me.” It was too late. A tug on another string.

Reaching over, he covered her hand with his, stopping her from pulling any more threads free. “Do you love him so very much?”

“Not anymore.”

“You can stop loving him that easily?”

She shook her head. “None of it was real, Kip. The times we were together, the things he said . . . it was all a deception, a ploy. It meant nothing. I meant nothing.”

“I can’t quite believe that. He must have fallen for you a little.”

Releasing a long slow breath, she pressed her head against his shoulder. “If he did, it wasn’t enough.”

He let out a long-­suffering sigh. “Then he shall see me ruined.”

“Your father is a powerful and influential man. I think Mick Trewlove will discover he has met his match.”

“Don’t be so sure. If there is anyone in this household who is his match, I suspect it is you.”