Page 28 of The Lyon Rampant

“I can’t say I’m surprised. Many of those actresses, opera dancers, and singers are splendid to look at, as well as watch and listen to.”

Darvill rolled his eyes, and Belinda wished Roland were not in the room with them. Darvill’s confession was something he would have preferred to share with her alone—she was certain of it.

“Roland—hadn’t you better go out and ensure we have a conveyance to take us home?”

“Seconded.” Darvill turned to stare at Roland, who flushed, then marched out of the house.

As soon as he was gone, Belinda wondered if she’d done the right thing. Piers Darvill was so very tall and broad-shouldered, and from the way he’d handled the horses the other day, she knew him to be strong. And he was extremely angry with her. He could break her in half like a wisp of straw—but he wasn’t the sort to use violent means. Was he likely to hold a grudge? She hoped not.

If she didn’t stop imagining the worst, she’d end up having a fit of the vapors, which was the last thing she wanted to do in front of this man.

“Pray, go on with your story, sir.”

“I don’t wish to offend your sensibilities.”

“You’ll find I’m not easily shocked. If I’m in the wrong, then please, don’t spare me the details.”

“I consorted with several ladies. But to one, and one only, I gave my heart. Her name is Charlotte Lavoisier, though she changes it to a stage name sometimes. Having met her, you can see she must have been a beauty. I assume she still is, even though she’s seven years older, and has borne a child. That child is mine. Charlotte ran away when she discovered she was enceinte, and I’ve never had a clear explanation from her as to the reason why. Sometimes, I wonder if there was another man involved, who forced her to go away—the owner of one of these traveling troupes of players, perhaps. She was always very popular, and never without work. Whatever her reasons, I was to have no part in the bringing up of the boy, no involvement whatsoever—not even the opportunity to meet him.”

Belinda twisted her fingers together. It was beginning to look like she’d made the most terrible mistake.

“I’m sorry that you didn’t get to see your son, sir. He’s a very handsome boy.”

She bit her lip. This wasn’t making things any better.

“I offered the lady my hand as well as my heart, but it seemed all she wanted was my money. She contacted a lawyer at Lincoln’s Inn, who then inquired after me, and a sum was agreed for Oliver’s upkeep. I’ve been paying it quarterly ever since. I’ve left letters with the lawyer, and I’ve waited in the rain, the sleet, and freezing winter nights to see if Charlotte herself will come to fetch the money, but thus far, she’s evaded me. I can’t spend every waking hour watching a lawyer’s office—too many people depend upon me for their livelihoods. I also have important work to do in the fight against Napoleon—but that also is another story. There’s only so much one man can do.”

It was almost as if he was apologizing for not having done enough. Belinda nodded mutely.

“You probably know the rest of the tale, Miss Bellamy. My use of Tom’s dubious contacts and Chetwynd’s investigative skills led me to this address when both the woman and the child were in residence. I hoped that, by seeing her in person, I could persuade Charlotte to marry me and let me legitimize the boy.”

Darvill broke eye contact as if he couldn’t bear to look at her. Lines of pain edged his mouth, and she understood that everything he’d said was true. She’d never felt more wretched in her life.

It felt wrong—when she’d wrung such a confession out of him—to not be offering words of comfort. Or actions. But was it him that needed comforting, or her? They were standing so close together that a single step would have brought her within the circle of his arms, and she wondered, with a leap of her heart, what it would feel like to be there.

She pushed the tempting, terrifying thought away. “I suppose, Mr. Darvill, that the lady has given you some proof that the boy is yours. I don’t mean to impugn her honesty, but it’s always possible that he’s not your offspring. You have taken what she says on trust—perhaps because you wanted it to be true rather than believed it to be so.”

He rested his hands on her shoulders and gazed deep into her eyes.

“If I were not so tempted to dislike you at this moment, Miss Bellamy, I might be complimenting you on your cleverness, your insight, and compassion. You’re truly more complicated a being than I expected, but you’re also a dangerous woman who doesn’t know when to let go. I hope from now on, you’ll stay out of trouble, cease courting scandal, and keep as far away from me as possible.”

His words cut like a knife. As she stepped back, pressing her hands over her stomach, tears pricked at the corners of her eyes again.

“I’m so sorry that I’ve made you dislike me. I thought I was doing a good deed, but apparently, I’ve made things worse. I know you won’t thank me for this, but I think that before you judge me, you should make sure that Miss Charlotte Lavoisier has been telling you the truth. It won’t do any harm, I suppose, for me to tell you that the boy did not look like you, nor did he have your coloring—and he seems rather young to be your son if you’re saying that the lady fell pregnant six or seven years ago. I’ve had plenty of experience with small children, and I wouldn’t have put him at much more than four years of age, very likely less.”

His fingers grasped her shoulders, and he pulled her toward him. “You don’t know when to stop, do you, Miss Bellamy? I know what the boy looks like.” He released her and patted his breast pocket. “I was sent a portrait—it is with me always.”

“Then I’m truly, completely, and utterly devastated at what I have inadvertently done to you. I’ve been deceitful, selfish, and silly, and my attempt to do good has gone cruelly awry. I’ll do whatever I can to put things right.”

It was as much as Belinda could do not to fling her arms around his neck and beg him for forgiveness. But the idea that he would immediately push her away was too painful to contemplate, and she knew that was exactly what he would do.

Darvill’s head tipped back. “That won’t be necessary, Miss Bellamy. I suggest you go and join Chetwynd and allow yourself to be taken straight back to George Street. Forgive me if I choose not to share a carriage with you.”

So that was it. She had to turn her back and walk away from him, knowing how much pain she’d inflicted. It was too much to bear, but she could think of nothing else she could say or do. She could only hope never to cross paths with Piers Darvill again.