Page 67 of Along Came a Rogue

Ignoring his sarcasm, her eyes narrowed on his face. “You’ve been punched.”

Reflexively, his hand went to his eye, bruised but no longer aching. “I have.”

“Well, I certainly hope you deserved it.”

He grimaced. “I did.”

“And did you return the favor?” she demanded.

“No.”

She humphed with disappointment.

He inclined his head, his patience with her visit growing thin. “In the future, ma’am, I will endeavor to please you by pulping at every opportunity any man who disagrees with me.”

“Impertinent,” she scolded, yet he had the strangest feeling that she approved of his angry sentiment. With a lift of her chin, she pulled at the long sleeves of her old-fashioned dress and swiftly changed topics. “I was pleased to hear you were promoted to major. It was the least Arthur could do for you.”

“Arthur?” Good Lord, the woman was frustrating!

“Wellesley.” She blinked, visibly confused that he didn’t know whom she meant. “Why, Wellington, of course.”

“Of course,” he echoed wryly, as if everyone referred to Wellington by his Christian name.

“And now you work for the War Office.” A flicker of amused pride crossed her face, which stunned the hell out of him.

He answered warily, “Yes.” For now. When Bathurst heard of his plans to marry Emily and decline Spain, he might not be employed there much longer. Wouldn’t that just be the icing on this cake of a day? No wife and no more career.

“A fine life you’ve made for yourself for a stable boy.”

“Thank you.” I think…He didn’t know whether to take her comment as a compliment or an insult. And at that moment, he was too damned frustrated to care which. He blew out an irritated sigh, no longer able to tamp down his impatience. “My lady, why are you—”

“Major Grey.” Her steely eyes pinned him. “I have been told that you inquired around Trovesbury Village as to your parentage.”

He drew up straight. So this was why the dowager deigned to pay him a visit.

But why should it matter to her if he’d written to the constable and to the old parish vicar, asking for any information they might have about a pregnant, unwed woman from nearly thirty years ago? Or that he’d bothered to look through the church’s record books when he’d been in Surrey last winter? A wild-goose chase. And none of her business. He’d been curious, that was all, then dropped the matter and not given it a second thought.

Until now. Now he was surprised. “Why would you care—”

“You must stop this, Nathaniel.” An order? A plea? Or a warning? He couldn’t tell from the odd intensity in her voice, the firm resolve on her wrinkled face. “There is nothing there for you to find.”

His eyes narrowed. He’d had enough today of society ladies telling him what his life should be. “You don’t know that,” he snapped.

“But I do. I had you fully investigated when you first arrived at Henley Park, just as I did all the servants employed there.” Her gray brow rose slightly. “Your father was not a blacksmith. You were left on the doorstep of the parish vicarage when you were only days old, and the vicar gave you to the orphanage. The name of your mother remains unknown, as it always will.”

He forced his face to remain impassive, but he couldn’t help the unseen clenching of his jaw, the tightening in his chest as anger rose inside him. She knew—she knew about his past. And he suspected she knew a great deal more that she wasn’t telling.

“Lady Henley,” he growled, “if you know—”

“The past is dead, Nathaniel. Leave it alone.” She hooked her cane over her arm. “You have made a good life for yourself, better than even I had hoped. There is no point in dredging up harm and heartache now.”

Better than even I had hoped…Confusion surged through him. “Why the hell should you care?”

She didn’t even blink at the biting profanity. Instead, her head raised indignantly, and for a fleeting moment, he had a glimpse of the strong woman she must have been in her youth, the woman who ran Henley Park without any help from her philandering husband and eldest son. The woman who still made even the most imposing gentleman quake in his boots and most likely would have referred to the Prince Regent as Little Georgie if His Royal Highness had somehow entered the conversation. A more formidable opponent he’d rarely met.

But he’d already lost one battle today with a willful woman, and he sure as hell didn’t plan on losing another.

“Because Henley Park is Trovesbury Village,” she announced. “Everyone who lives there either works at the main house or possesses a tenancy. Asking questions will only raise speculation, and I will not tolerate rumors of illegitimacy attached to Henley.”