Page 65 of The Lyon Rampant

Were it not for the tremor Belinda felt in Piers’s body, she would have thought him unmoved by the performance.

Charlotte glanced at him in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“The locket you sent me, with Oliver’s portrait, showed an infant with dark hair.”

“Our Oliver—yours and mine—had hair so dark it was almost black. Harry Sutton has the brightest of blond hair, as do I, so it wasn’t surprising that the new baby should have the same blond hair. I hoped it might darken with age, but it never did. I was so afraid you’d find us eventually, that I dyed it. And you did find us—and when Miss Bellamy appeared on our doorstep, Oliver’s hair hadn’t been darkened for a while. Harry was away on one of his enterprises and I’d been too busy to dye it.”

Charlotte hung her head. “Then, of course, you stopped the payments, Piers. Not long after that, Harry came running back, having discovered through one of his London cronies that the banns were being read for your wedding. That put the fear of God into him—hence the ultimatum he forced me to send.”

Belinda squeezed Piers’s hand and leaned forward. “How on earth did Mrs. Dove-Lyon become involved in all of this?”

“Harry delivered the ultimatum himself, never expecting anyone at the Lyon’s Den might have him followed—I mean, who would suspect such a thing? But I now know Mrs. Dove-Lyon had a stake in your relationship because she’s a matchmaker. If you were one of her projects, we’d be a fly in the ointment. There’d been a street urchin loitering around our new lodgings for a few days, but then he vanished, and not long afterward, Mrs. Dove-Lyon showed up. A formidable woman, that one.”

Piers nodded, and Belinda couldn’t help but agree. No one would ever discover all there was to learn about the proprietor of the Lyon’s Den.

“She got my history out of me, and to cut a long story short, she showed me the error of my ways and told me how to make it up to everyone. I’m to kick Harry Sutton out of my life and give up the stage, because that makes it too easy for him to find me. Instead, I’m to work behind closed doors at the Lyon’s Den, where Harry can never enter.”

“But what about your son?” Surely, the ingenious Mrs. Dove-Lyon would have made plans for Oliver, too?

“I hope, if you can find it in your hearts, that you’ll take him at the Forty Court Foundling Hospital, that your sister runs, Miss Bellamy. I know he’s not a foundling, but neither of his parents is any good. Without the income from my acting and Piers’s money, I won’t be able to give him much of a life—and it might be best to keep him away from his father until he’s grown big enough to deal with him. I don’t want Oliver being caught up in one of Harry’s schemes.”

Charlotte tucked her handkerchief away and raised her head as if to signal that the performance was at an end.

“You needn’t make your minds up now. But I think Oliver would like the orphanage far more than running from place to place like a wanted criminal—terrified of a father who beats him, and unavoidably neglected by a mother who has to work to put a crust on the table.”

Belinda tugged at Piers’s sleeve. These decisions touched him more nearly than they did her, but it sounded an excellent idea.

“My betrothed considers the latter an acceptable solution. My future brother-in-law, the Earl of Aylsham, may take more convincing.”

Charlotte inclined her head. “Understood. I want him to be happy, and close enough to visit when I can.”

Belinda bit her lip. “Indeed—we’ll want to make sure the boy takes to it. I tried hard to persuade that street urchin you saw, Miss Lavoisier, to consider the Foundling Hospital so he could get an education, but he much preferred running wild on the streets. I don’t know what’s to become of him now his mama’s passed away.”

Piers clasped her hand. “Don’t worry, my love—we’ll find somewhere for him. A couple who can be both firm and fair, and teach him reading and arithmetic so he can make something of himself is what’s needed. There must be someone like that in London, looking to adopt and improve an orphan.”

The blaze of light through the east window faded, leaving the church dull and dark. Belinda felt the breath of a chill on the back of her neck.

Piers released her and straightened. “It’s getting late, and we need refreshment. I think this interview is at an end—you’ve left us with a lot to think about, Charlotte.”

“What about the parish clerk?” Belinda reminded him. “Mrs. Dove-Lyon specifically said—”

“No need.” Charlotte picked up the leather volume and handed it to Piers. “Look at the entries for December. The deaths, I mean. We were living in this parish when . . . it happened.”

Piers strode to the church door and pushed it open, then stood under the porch, examining the tome.

“What is it?” Belinda whispered to Charlotte, while Piers ran his finger down the entries.

“That’s the parish register. It’s better if he tells you the rest,” Charlotte replied. “Return it to the vestry when you’re done—the clerk can collect it from there.”

Belinda nodded, then went to stand beside Piers. He lifted his head and she saw his jaw was tight and he was focusing on nothing. She waited, not touching him, allowing him his thoughts, his moment of peace. When he finally spoke, it was as if he’d returned from a long journey.

“The entry notes the death of an infant, named Oliver Darvill, at the age of one year and nine months, in December 1807. Mother is Charlotte Lavoisier, of this parish. The father is cited as being one Piers Darvill, of London.”

He snapped the book shut and turned to Belinda. “Wait here while I put this somewhere safe.”

She waited, twisting her hands together as he made his way slowly toward the vestry, then returned, blank-faced as a sleepwalker. Seizing his hand, she led him into the sunlit churchyard, and back to the spot where they had first encountered Charlotte.

“You believe it then, that Oliver—the first Oliver—was yours?”