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“You don’t say. Well, this one seems rather civilized. Henry Thompson is his name. Very well-to-do and well traveled. Do you know him?”
“No.” She might as well have asked him if he knew a pirate or a highwayman. He felt a little panicked at the thought of an American and Justine, a brash heathen with fingers where his fork and knife ought to have been. Granted, William had never actually met an American, save an American poet in Paris. But that one was quite old and hard of hearing.
The sound of a carriage on the drive caused them both to glance at the open window; Lady Aleksander stood. William’s moment was slipping away. “Lady Aleksander...my intentions are good and heartfelt, aye?”
“Oh, I’ve absolutely no doubt of it. Thank you for your advice and concern, my lord. It is important that you gave it, even in spite of the scandal swirling about you. I imagine those circumstances must not be easy for you.”
The floor suddenly felt as if it was falling out from under him. “I beg your pardon?”
She smiled as she walked past him on her way to the door. “Word spreads soquicklyin London. I think Prince Michel has come. If you will excuse me?”
He had a sudden and very unpleasant thought of Justine hearing the rumors about him. How had those rumors escaped Scotland? If Justine believed them, she would put him out on his arse. He didn’t want that. He couldn’tbearthat.
He was a fool. He should have been prepared for this. He’d known that the rumors would eventually reach London, but he hadn’t thought it would happen sosoon. Before he’d had a chance to...
To what?
He sat heavily on the settee.
To nothing. He was in an impossible situation. He was thirty-three years old, unmarried, a man who had spent the early years of his life hobnobbing around European royalty and playing rather loose with his morals. At the time, it had been preferable to being at Hamilton Palace. But in the past few years he’d mostly spent his time cleaning up the debris his father left in his wake, trying to keep the old man from running all of the family wealth into the ground.
He loved his impetuous father, his excitable mother, his practical sister. And it was his greatest desire to be useful to the Hamilton name and heritage. But it was bloody well difficult when his father made a mess of things and then someone accusedhimof a reprehensible act.
Hand to God, he’d only meant to help.
Several months ago, when William happened to be in London, a local landowner, Mr. Simpson, had gone to his father and accused William of impregnating his daughter when he’d been home for a few weeks over Christmas. When William returned home and heard the news, he swore to his father that absolutely did not happen—William was not particularly careful with his own virtue, but he would never compromise a woman’s.
“But do you know her?” his father had asked, suspicious.
Yes, William knew her. And he swore again on his grandfather’s grave he’d never touched her. “I mind myself, Father. I understand the consequences to me and our family if I were to be involved in something like that, and Imind myself.”
“Then why on earth would he say it?” his father had asked, appearing genuinely confused.
William had tried to explain. He had helped Miss Althea Simpson with money and a horse, but nothing else.
“Ahorse?” his father had asked, scratching his head.
William had started at the beginning. He knew Althea, but only well enough to greet her, really. They were around the same age and had attended some of the same country house parties as young adults. But one day, when in the village of Hamilton, he’d run across her on the central green, clutching the back of a bench, bent over, a hand pressed to her belly. She was ill, he told his father, and looked as if she would wretch at any moment. He helped her to a seat and got her some water from the well.
“What was the matter with her?” his father asked.
“She was carrying a child. A child out of wedlock, which her father was threatening to kill her for. She confessed to me that she meant to meet her lover, the father of the child, and elope.”
The duke had pondered this. “Might have been the most sensible thing to do in that situation, aye?”
“I thought so,” William agreed.
He’d paid for a room at the inn for the night so she’d have someplace to sleep. He’d given her some money once he discovered she had only a few pounds to her name, and then had hired a horse to take her to the meeting place at dawn the next morning.
And then, William had left her, because he really was a gentleman in spite of what was often said about him, and Althea had assured him she would be quite all right. But she wasn’t quite all right—sometime after William left, her father found his daughter and forced her home and, apparently, had kept her locked away since.
After hearing William’s explanation, the duke had sighed wearily. “That’s a bit of a botch, aye?”
“It’s the truth.”
“Aye, but it doesna matter if that’s truth, does it, now? When you’re a wealthy, titled man, the world will find a way to extort you, will it no’?”
To this day William didn’t know if his father believed him or not. He had wanted to confront Mr. Simpson, but his father had refused, insisting William would make a bad situation worse. He told William he’d paid the man, and he’d gone off, the extortion done, and if William was to involve himself now, it would only raise more questions. So William had left for the continent.
