The Romany Heiress (6 page)

Still, she could not step back from seizing the moment.
“You are a man of honor and great passion.” She whispered, lifting her eyes to his, unprepared for the blue fire
that blazed within them.

“Yes, so you told me once. But that fortune has not
come to pass. You promised me a great passion but I
have yet to find it.” The dangerous glint in his eyes confirmed he knew the proverbial battlefield was shifting
from logic to something else.

Who was flirting with whom now? She would have to
remind him she was doing the flirting here. Irina traced
a line down his chest with a light finger. She tipped her head backward, letting her train of curls fall down her
back while she looked up at him. “Haven’t you?”

Desire kindled plainly in his eyes at her suggestion.
She whetted her lips in invitation. To make sure there
was no room for misunderstanding, she stepped into
him, feeling the lightest brush of his lips on hers, catching the scent of wine on his breath, reminiscent of his
elaborate dinner. She fell into the kiss, letting Giles’s
arms take her weight-only they didn’t.

A man coughed, and then she was falling in an ignominious heap to the floor.

“Excuse me, Giles.” A smooth voice said from the
doorway unbothered by what he’d interrupted.

Irina noted it took Giles a moment to gather himself. It
was small satisfaction though when her ankle throbbed
from landing on it. The blackguard had dropped her.

“Tristan, what can I do for you?”

The dark viscount lounged dangerously in the doorway, a laugh hovering about his mouth. “I think the better question is what I can do for you. Is everything
alright? I have the room next door. I thought I heard a
heated argument” He raised a challenging eyebrow,
daring any one to contradict his assumptions.

Irina felt her skin heat. Who knew what else he
guessed at? She was thankful at least for the dim light
which hid the worst of her flush. What awful luck that
Giles’s dear friend was next door. She didn’t miss the
implications of that. The viscount had made it subtly
clear that he would not tolerate his friend being taken
advantage of.

In her mortification, Irina wanted to shout her virtue
out loud. She had dared a kiss, nothing more.

“Ahem, Catherine?” Giles looked down at her and offered her a hand up. “Shall we get you settled? I am sure
you’re tired from your delayed journey. I’ll have your
trunk sent to the east wing. There’s a room for you there”
He toed the part of the trunk peeping out from under his
bed. “It seems the footmen brought it to the wrong room”

The use of her birthname startled her but she saw the
rationale for it. Tristan might recall her from the long
ago night on the Denbigh’s porch. She was not ready to
voice her claims to Giles’s friends. Silently, she thanked
Giles for the kindness.

A footman arrived, grumpy from being awakened in
the middle of the night and took her trunk. She had no
choice but to follow it to her room, wherever the west
wing was. But she left feeling victorious. She’d won
round one. Giles had accepted the wager. He would read
the diary.

Giles stood rigidly, watching Irina/Catherine disappear down the hall. He waited. Tristan would have
something to say. He wouldn’t have so flagrantly violated protocol by bursting into his chambers if there
hadn’t been cause.

“That is not Lady FoxHaughton,” Tristan offered by
way of observation, as Irina faded down the hallway.

“No. It is not,” Giles said stiffly.

“When you said there would be fireworks tonight, I
thought you’d meant pyrotechnics. I didn’t think it would
be your seducing the gypsy queen from the vardo”

“Don’t be crass, Tristan.” Giles raked his hands
through his hair.

“You’ve always been a cut above such behavior, is
all.” Tristan shrugged.

Giles turned towards the window and sighed. There
was no shaking Tristan when he was on to something.
For whatever reason, Tristan smelled blood now. He
wouldn’t get his friend out of his room until Tristan had
heard the whole story. “She claims to be the only legitimate child from my parents’ marriage.” Giles gestured
towards the documents spread on the table.

“I see. Exactly, what does that make you?”

“The poor cottager’s son”

“Of course.” There was no missing the sardonic tone
in Tristan’s voice. “I’ll wake Alain. It’s going to be a
long night, and it’s no fun watching the sun rise alone.”

Giles paced the length of the elegant cherry-paneled
study, his agitation evident in the furrow he’d worn in
the thick-piled Axminster carpet, walking between the
heavy cherry wood desk and the gracious bank of floorto-ceiling windows that looked out over the south lawn.
Leaning on the desk top, he planted his hands and
pressed his weight against them, drawing deep breaths
in the hopes of gathering his shaken composure.

Somewhere in his rational brain, he knew there was
no real need to worry. She was a gypsy. What could she
know of him and his family? Of his parents? Most
likely, her claims were nothing more than a stab in the
dark. She probably pulled this scam the length of the
country. Still, he silently cursed the dysfunctional nature of his parents’ marriage, his mother’s mental instability, and his father’s inability to recognize affection when it was offered to him. All of which combined to
create enough doubt that he had to take the lovely gypsy’s
claims with a certain degree of seriousness.

It was some consolation to know that despite her
claims to the contrary, he would be able to foist her off
with a large sum of money and in a week this farce
would be over. But in the meantime, he felt as if he was
on the brink of being physically ill. He’d been Trojan
horsed.

Irina had come to Spelthorne, all earthy beauty and
lovely seduction. The peaceful image she’d made sitting at his bedroom window was still freshly etched in
his mind’s eye. That moment existed in a suspended reality, an alternate reality, one in which she did not open
her mouth and ruin the illusion. But she had and it became clear to Giles that she had come to his home deliberately to lay her claims.

It didn’t matter that her claims would come to
naught. He was still angry-something he seldom was.
There was little cause to be angry or even to be upset in
his well-ordered world, but Giles recognized the foreign emotion immediately. Warrior lords of old must
have felt this way upon seeing an attacking army advancing on their holds, their homes. The comparison
was apt. The gypsy’s ploy was akin to a declaration of
war. She’d put Spelthorne under siege.

He heard the door open but didn’t turn around. He
gathered another deep breath before he had to face
Alain and Tristan. He was glad for Tristan’s suggestion
that they weather the night together, but it was deuced awkward to try and explain the situation. Glasses clinked
on the side board.

“Brandy or whiskey, Giles?” Alain asked.

“Neither. I don’t want to risk a muddled head,” Giles
said, turning to face Tristan and Alain.

Alain put down the glass he’d been preparing. “Good
idea. I’ll ring for coffee. We’ll need that much at least
to get through the night.”

Giles nodded and motioned to the two men to take
the chairs set in front of the desk. He took up his place
behind the desk, needing the security it offered. The
three of them might be more comfortable in the overstuffed chairs set before the marble fireplace, but Giles
needed the authority that went with sitting in the worn
chair behind the desk from which he conducted so
much of Spelthorne’s business.

Tristan and Alain came and settled themselves.
“Tristan told me the basics on the way down. What exactly does she base her claim on?” Alain began.

Giles spread the documents before them on the desk.

“A birth certificate and a diary?” Alain’s skepticism
was obvious.

“A birth certificate can be easily forged. Public records contain dates, and the parish records in the village
would have the details she claims.” Tristan dismissed
the certificate as inconsequential.

“The diary could be complete fabrication. There’s no
way to know if its fiction or truth. Who would be able to
validate its contents?” Alain suggested.

“Those are the arguments I made with her this evening,” Giles said, gratified that his friends shared
his train of thought.

“Even if she believed the claims were legitimate, what
can she do to push them?” Alain asked, lazily studying
the onyx inkwell on the desk’s corner. “Has she a fortune
to spend on legal fees? Does she have a barrister who will
take on her case? Is there anyone who will believe her?”

“Not that I know of.” Giles grimaced and blew out a
long breath. “Her very inability to pursue this is what
bothers me most. From all aspects, it seems her cause is
futile. It is dangerous to play the imposter, and yet she
does. What does she hope to gain?” He pushed a hand
through his disheveled hair.

“Money?” Tristan offered.

“I already offered her a tidy sum to take her game
somewhere else. She turned it down. She wanted only
the right to stay at Spelthorne until I read the diary.”

“Did you grant the request?” Alain queried.

“Yes. I thought it would be best to keep her where I
could see her until this was settled.”

Tristan leaned forward, elbows on knees, chin on
hands. “Then I think there is only one thing to do and
that is read the diary. We can’t decide a course of action
until we know what is in there.”

A footman scratched the door and entered with the
heavy silver coffee service. He settled it on the low
table by the fireplace, giving the three men a chance to
rise and resettle themselves in the comfortable chairs.
Alain poured steaming cups of coffee while Giles began to read out loud.

February 24, 1787

I am convinced I have conceived at last. I have
called upon my husband, the earl’s physician to
verify my condition. Perhaps the birth of a child,
of a son, will win me some affection and warmth
from Spelthorne. I have long been of the belief
that our marital estrangement has been due to the
lack of children. It has been five years since our
marriage-a long time to wait.

March 13, 1787

I am indeed expecting a child, and I am reminded of that every morning. I have been dreadfully ill, and I have lost weight in the early stages
of this pregnancy. My clothes hang on my frame,
and Spelthorne seems repulsed by my haggard appearance. To my regret, he greeted the news of our
impending parenthood with neutral good form,
saying all the correct things but none of the things
I wished to hear. Since the announcement, he has
taken himself back to London and no doubt the
mistress he keeps there. He has indicated he will
return in time for his heir’s birth in September,
and I am free to send for him before then if there is
need. I am not welcome in London this season and
I find myself alone in the country with few people
for company this time of year.

“Their life doesn’t sound all that different than other
couples I know,” Tristan said while Giles leafed ahead in the diary. “Nor does it sound all that original. This
could be any noblewoman’s diary. Perhaps she found it
at a flea market and made a few alterations.”

Alain perked up from his habitual slouch. “Giles, do
you have any of your mother’s correspondence left?
Letters she wrote? We can match the handwriting.”

“There may be some left in the safe. I have a box of
her things in there” Giles stood up and passed the diary
to Tristan. “It’s your turn to read while I open the safe.
Skip ahead to the parts closer to the birth. The earlier
months look like more of the same, complaints over
pregnancy and loneliness. No matter how cursory the
entries are, the theme is clear. She was eager for my father’s approval, and she was denied it.” Hurt was evident in his voice, and he wished he’d had control
enough to hide it. He didn’t want his friends to see him
so vulnerable. His father had been a hard man, taciturn
and stoic in his ways, despite his handsome looks.
Giles knew himself to have his share of good looks, but
up until tonight he’d always been thankful that people
thought he took after his mother with his golden hair
and blue eyes. Now, he wished he might have looked a
bit more like his father, darker with hazel eyes. It would
have gone some distance in alleviating the seeds of
doubt in his mind.

Tristan took the book hesitantly. “Are you sure? This
is private, perhaps it would be better if you read it.”

Giles shook his head. “No. If there’s any truth to
Irina’s claims, it’s best you know everything from the start” He strode behind the desk and knelt down to begin fiddling with the safe. Tristan’s voice came low and
firm from the fireplace.

August 12, 1787

The baby is a boy, I know it. It kicks lustily and often, which is an uncomfortable consolation for all
I have had to endure alone. The heat of the summer has been miserable. My ankles have swollen to
three times their size, and I’ve become a lumbering ox. I alternately wish for Spelthorne’s presence
and am thankful for his absence. I am not the least
bit desirable in my current state. I am already
planning my wardrobe for the season next year. It
will be delightful to wear fashionable clothing
again and to dance in dainty slippers.