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Maurelle. She could ease the demons raging inside him, make him forget the agonizing pain in his hand.
And he could bring her the excitement she craved, satisfy her in ways no other man ever could.
Why hadn't he thought of this before? It was just what they both needed—a profitable cargo and each other.
Not
wasting a minute, he crept back to his phaeton, slapped the reins, and rode off.
He was careful to keep a mile span between his carriage and Chadwick's. He knew where he was headed—to Ascot, where, if his exceptional memory served him correctly, Pearson Manor was situated. He didn't recall the precise location, but he'd attended a ball or two there when the dowager's husband was still alive. If need be, he'd stop at some local pub where the ale was cheap, and the patrons poor enough, greedy enough, to sell him a bit of harmless information, such as directions—for the right price, of course—after which they'd forget his visit and him. Either way, he'd find the dowager's home.
The easier method, of course, would be to keep Chadwick in sight, let him lead the way.
But Chadwick's instincts were too good.
And it wouldn't do for him to know he was being followed.
An honk smile lifted his lips, interesting. The pursuer being pursued. More than interesting. Ingenious.
The elderly, white-haired Dowager Duchess of Pearson listened attentively as Royce presented his facts. Her thin hands folded in her lap, her pale blue eyes unreadable, she set, straight-backed, in the library chair, waiting until the entire story had been told.
Then, she sighed, her already-lined face creasing further with uncertainty.
“I've protected Glynnis for eighteen years now,” she murmured, her tone weary with age and pain. “There's a part of me that would like to keep on doing so. I'd like to send you away, to tell you to advise Lord Ryder that he's lost any right to speak with the mother of his child, much less the child herself. But Glynnis is a grown woman, and a mother. In addition, my own circumstances have changed drastically in the last few months. So I'll let her decide for herself what she wants to do.”
Tactfully, Royce refrained from prying, although he did wonder what circumstances the dowager was referring to. “You'll let me speak with her?”
“Yes. I will.” Her posture stiffened and her pale eyes narrowed on Royce’s face. “But let me warn you, Lord Chadwick. Glynnis's feelings for your client have long since changed from love to resentment, maybe even to hatred. I wouldn't expect a warm reception,”
Royce had to admire the woman's loyalty. Moreover, he had to agree with her assessment of Ryder's actions. He'd been a selfish, arrogant fool. The difference was that now he knew it. Age had granted him its unique wisdom, opening corridors of his mind that had, at one time, been shut. And one thing that wisdom had afforded him was the realization that blood ties did matter, and that human emotions transcended the bounds of class or monetary status.
In short, he was sorry. Deeply sorry. And while it was much too late to make amends with Glynnis, perhaps it wasn't too late to form a bond, however tenuous, with his daughter.
“I appreciate your honesty, Your Grace,” Royce said respectfully. “I have no illusions, nor false hope. I want only a chance to speak with Miss Martin, to explain to her where things stand.”
“So be it.” The dowager summoned her butler, who came directly to the library
“Yes, madam?”
“Please ask Glynnis to join me.”
“Of course.” The butler withdrew, looking not the least bit surprised by the request.
“Glynnis has been my companion since she came to live here,” Lady Pearson explained to Royce. “She reads to me, walks with me in the garden and, as of late, keeps me company when I'm confined to my quarters—which is more often than not. It's rare that she's not by my side.”
Royce leaned forward on the settee, studied the emotion on the dowager's face. “You care a great deal for Miss Martin.”
“She's like a daughter to me,” was the shaky reply. “If this were a year ago I would have refused to let you see her. But now ... I'm in failing health, Lord Royce. According to my physician, I haven't much time. I also have limited funds to bequeath to Glynnis. My poor late husband made some bad investments before he died and what little he left me went to running the estate. So, if there's a future for Glynnis—a good future—somewhere else, I won't stand in the way of her pursuing it. If it's what she wants.”
A knock interrupted them.
“Come in.”
“You sent for me, Your Grace?” Glynnis caught sight of Royce, and halted, looking hesitantly at her employer. “I'm sorry. I didn't know you had company.”
“Come in, Glynnis.” The dowager beckoned to her. “I'd like you to meet Lord Royce Chadwick. The matter that brings him to Pearson Manor concerns you.”
A startled blink. “Very well.” Glynnis Martin entered the library, approaching the settee with a shy yet curious demeanor. “My lord.” She dropped a curtsy.
