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Lister shook his head as if coming out of a daze, and his face assumed a polite mask. “The children are nothing to me—merely the offspring of a former friend.”
“Good.” The king clapped his hands together. “Then they can be returned immediately to their mother, eh, Lister?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Lister muttered, and then turned to Hasselthorpe. “When do you propose to submit this bill to parliament?”
The duke, Hasselthorpe, and Blanchard leaned together in a political discussion, while Kimberly merely looked relieved.
The king waved for more wine and when it was poured, tilted his glass slightly to Alistair and said, “To maternal love.”
closed her eyes and inhaled, trying to calm herself. She’d already agreed that the best plan was for Alistair to talk to Lister by himself. She couldn’t change her mind now. She needed to wait and let Alistair try to persuade the duke. The problem was it was so difficult to simply wait.
She opened her eyes and looked about the room, seeking something to distract herself with. There were several groupings of delicate low chairs, their arms painted white and gilt. Large portraits lined the wall, figures dressed in fashions long past, but the most commanding painting was of the young man that Alistair had stared at. Helen approached and peered up at it.
The painting depicted a young man dressed in casual hunting clothes. He held a tricorne carelessly by his side, and his gaiter-clad legs were crossed at the ankle. He leaned against a large oak tree, a long rifle cradled in the crook of one arm. At his feet, two spotted hunting dogs lay, their heads turned adoringly to the man.
Helen could understand their worshipful gaze. The man was so handsome he was almost pretty, his face smooth and unlined in that first youthful bloom of manhood. His lips were full, sensuously wide, and slightly tilted as if he repressed a smile. His heavy-lidded black eyes seemed to laugh at the viewer as if inviting participation in a naughty joke. His entire form was so full of vigor and life that one almost expected him to leap from the painting itself.
“Fascinating, isn’t he?” a voice said from behind her.
Helen swung around, startled. She hadn’t heard anyone enter the room. In fact, she’d thought she stood by the only door.
But a young lady had entered by a door paneled to fit into the wall, almost hidden. She curtsied. “I’m Beatrice Corning.”
Helen sank into a curtsy. “Helen Fitzwilliam.” Pray the other woman didn’t recognize her name.
Miss Corning had a fresh, open face, slightly freckled. Her light gray eyes were quite fine and rather frank, her hair a lovely wheat color, pulled into a large knot at the crown of her head. Fortunately, she didn’t seem in any hurry to toss Helen out of the house.
“I’ve always found him rather mesmerizing,” she said, nodding to the painting. “He looks so amused at something. So very pleased with himself and the world, don’t you think?”
Helen glanced back at the painting, half-smiling. “He probably fascinates all the ladies.”
“Maybe he did once, but not anymore,” was the reply.
Helen looked at the girl. “Why?”
“That’s Reynaud St. Aubyn, Viscount Hope,” Miss Corning said. “He should’ve been the Earl of Blanchard, but he was killed in the Colonies by Indians in the massacre at Spinner’s Falls. I suppose I should be grateful—my uncle would never have become the Earl of Blanchard otherwise, and I wouldn’t be living in Blanchard House. But I can’t find it in myself to be happy at his death. He looks so alive, doesn’t he?”
Helen turned back to the portrait. Alive. That was the word she’d thought of, too, when she’d seen the lounging young man.
“Pardon me,” Beatrice Corning said apologetically, “but I’ve just realized who you are. You’re connected to the Duke of Lister, aren’t you?”
Helen bit her lip, but she’d never been very good at lying. “I’m his former mistress.”
Miss Corning’s lovely eyebrows rose. “Then would you mind telling me what you’re doing here?”
HIS PLAN WAS a risky gamble. If he played this wrong, he and Helen might lose the children forever. On the other hand, if he did nothing, they were as good as already lost.
Alistair laid his hand gently on the closed dining room door, took a breath, and pushed it firmly open. The Earl of Blanchard had spared no expense in this royal luncheon. Flowers were massed in vases along the sideboard, sumptuous swags of gold and purple fabric draped every surface, and carved sugar swans sailed the middle of the long dining table.
There were as many servants as guests, and a bewigged fellow near the door held out his hand to halt Alistair. “Sir, you can’t—”
“Your Majesty,” Alistair called in a deep voice. He made sure his tone carried to the far end of the table, where King George sat next to a florid little man, presumably the Earl of Blanchard. He strode toward the king, moving fast and with enough assurance that no one gainsaid him. “I beg a word, Your Majesty.”
Alistair reached the king and bent in a low bow, arms outstretched, leg pointed before him.
“And who are you, sir?” the king asked, and for a moment Alistair felt his heart go still. Then he looked up, and the young king’s face lit. “Ah! Sir Alistair Munroe, our fascinating naturalist! Blanchard, bring a seat for Sir Alistair.”
Blanchard frowned but snapped his fingers at a footman, who leapt to obey. A chair was brought and set at the right hand of the king.
