Page 12 of The Dangerous Lord

“I thought so. And the dress sword hanging on the wall? That was his, too?”

Where was this leading? “No, it was my grandfather’s.”

He peered closely at it. “Ah, yes, Colonel Ansel Taylor. The boys in the regiment often spoke of Ansel the Anvil, who had a spine of iron.”

“In the regiment? What were you doing in a regiment?”

A little twist of a smile touched his lips. “I fought in the Peninsular Wars.”

She regarded him disbelievingly. The very idea was ludicrous. Men with titles and fortune, men who were their fathers’ only heirs, didn’t serve in the military. If they were killed, it would mean an end to the family line and the title. No father would allow it. No heir would suggest it. Everyone knew the military was for younger sons and lower gentry. “That’s what you were doing on the Continent all those years?” she asked, not bothering to hide her skepticism.

“Why? Do you wish to print my war history in your paper, too?”

His wary expression only heightened her suspicions. “Can you give a reason I should not print it?”

“I fear you’d claim I fought for the other side,” he said with acid condescension.

She glowered at him. “I don’t invent information, my lord. I merely report it.”

“Or ‘speculate’ on it.”

“When I’m relatively certain the facts support my speculation, yes.”

“It helps if you have all the facts, and not merely the ones that interest you.” He strode to the fireplace and lifted a piece of James’s artwork, inspecting the crude wood carving of a sheep. Then he put it aside and faced her. “Your grandfather ... did he have friends from his military career, men for whom he would have done anything?”

She searched her memory. “Yes. He used to dine weekly with a fellow soldier.”

“Then you should understand my situation. You see, Miss Greenaway is the sister of a man I fought with at the Battle of Vittoria. He died in my arms at that battle. And as he lay dying, he asked me to look after his sister. I promised I would. So when she was seduced by some bounder who got her with child, then abandoned her, she came to me. Of course I agreed to help. That’s why I put her up in a house in Waltham Street.”

At first she felt utter guilt at her earlier supposition. How could she have been so wrong, so hasty? A poor woman found herself destitute and pregnant and⁠—

She suddenly caught his gaze on her, a gaze that was calculating and wholly dishonest. She glanced up at Grandpapa’s sword, then noticed the Army Gold Medal displayed beneath it. The one with Grandpapa’s name and rank engraved on it.

The scoundrel! He’d pretended to know Grandpapa to reinforce his lies, to make her ashamed to sully his own reputation. She doubted the wretch had even heard of her grandfather, much less fought with men who knew him! Probably the only time Lord St. Clair wielded a sword was in duels over married women he’d bedded.

Ooh, she would show him she was no ninny. She flashed him an insincere smile. “How noble of you to help your friend!” she gushed. “I’m so sorry I mistook you. I’ll add a correction to my column at once.” Hurrying to the desk, she brandished her quill over the paper, then began to write. “How’s this? ‘Lord St. Clair’s purpose in taking the house on Waltham Street was apparently not as it seemed. Having sworn to his dying soldier friend on the battlefield that he’d look after the man’s sister, his lordship was kind enough to provide her with shelter when some bounder got her with child and refused⁠—”

“You can’t write that!” he exploded behind her.

She pretended to reread her words. “I believe you’re right.” She fixed him with a hard look. “I couldn’t possibly write such a blatant lie. I’d be laughed out of town.”

A new admiration flickered in his gaze. “What makes you think it’s a lie?”

“If Miss Greenaway’s brother had been your friend and this had been a favor to him, her gratitude would immediately have compelled her to tell me of your generosity. But it didn’t.” She lined through the words she’d just written, then tossed her article on her desk. “Besides, rich heirs to a title rarely fight in wars. Why should they when there are younger sons to buy commissions? No, I’m sure you were doing on the Continent exactly what you’re doing here ... gulling stupid women.”

For the first time that afternoon, she seemed to have roused his anger. A muscle in his jaw worked convulsively. “I don’t give a bloody damn what you think of me, but I won’t have you putting your speculations about Miss Greenaway into print.”

“Why not? You should thank me for enhancing your reputation among your peers. No doubt they’re all congratulating you on your beautiful mistress.”

“Indeed they are,” he said without a trace of shame. “But it isn’t my reputation that concerns me. It’s Miss Greenaway’s and that of her child. She doesn’t deserve to have you ruin her with your gossip.”

“Don’t be absurd—I haven’t ruined her. I didn’t print her name nor the address of your house. I didn’t even mention the child. I wouldn’t be that cruel to one of my sex. Besides, you should have been concerned about ruining her before you sired her child.”

“I did not—” He broke off with a curse that was decidedly ungentlemanly. “Very well, believe what you wish. But consider whom else you’re harming—like Katherine, a woman you claim is your friend. Your article publicly humiliated her.”

“That was not my intention.” Indeed, she’d debated endlessly over taking such a drastic step. If it had only been Katherine’s timidity standing in the way of her happiness, Felicity might have kept quiet, for a considerate husband could get past that. But this man couldn’t possibly be a considerate husband, not if he kept a mistress.

There was also the person Katherine claimed to love. Lady Hastings had forced Katherine to refuse a man’s suit because he was beneath her. Knowing Lady Hastings, that meant he was a younger son of a knight or a merchant or some such. Katherine hadn’t revealed his name, but she still clearly adored him. Yet she wouldn’t face down her harridan of a mother to accept his suit.