Page 24 of At His Lady’s Command

Unable to halt his curiosity, Randall moved closer. Shockingly, there were several of him, the most recent when he’d been promoted to captain, for he wore full dress regimentals. Also one of him as a smiling boy atop a pony, another as a lad with a sailboat he’d proudly fashioned. But next to that…

A boulder lodged in his throat. “Mama,” he choked out, one reverent finger reaching to touch the expertly painted canvas. A beautiful dark-haired woman beamed back at him, her green eyes glowing with love, her smile serene and yet mischievous too, as she cradled a swaddled infant in her arms.

“That is my favorite of Joanna.”

Randall froze at the baritone voice behind him. Still familiar after so many years, setting off an avalanche of agonizing memories that threatened to bury him. All the times Mama had cried. The hideous day of her death, and the aftermath when he’d been discarded like old boots. But aggravatingly, other memories, too. Father and son fishing in the river near the cottage. Approving nods when he mastered a new skill. The rare and brief hair ruffles. “I am surprised, Your Grace…” he said rawly, “that you display your dirty secrets so openly.”

“This is my library, I’ll display who I damned well please. Besides. I like having them there. Now, are you going to turn around, or must I continue to converse with your back? Keith is bringing tea.”

Oh, yes. That was the Fairfield he knew. Arrogant and unrepentant to the end.

Slowly, he turned and looked at his father. As when he’d seen the duke at Halstead’s ball, the resemblance startled him. Portia was correct. They did have the same eyes, height, and bearing. And yet…Fairfield looked hesitant. Someone who didn’t know his icy ruthlessness might mistake the expression for regret.

Randall Denham wasn’t so foolish. “You’ll be wondering why I’m here. In truth, I wouldn’t have come, unless…”

“Something dire happened,” said Fairfield, walking around his oversized oak desk and settling into his padded chair. “Why don’t you sit and tell me about it? I presume it is related to the Manchester Square brawl?”

He didn’t bother asking how his father knew. The Duke of Fairfield had so many spies, he practically heard about things before they happened.

“Yes,” he replied, reluctantly sliding into a high-backed chair opposite him. Bloody hell this was difficult, remaining composed when he wanted to hurl the contents of the desk onto the floor. Rage at the man who had caused him such pain.

“Well, go on then. I’m not getting any younger.”

Swirling emotions sparked into fury. “Tell me one thing. Are you even the slightest bit sorry for what you did?”

Fairfield went very still, his piercing gaze shuttering. “A man doesn’t reach the ripe old age of eighty without a few regrets, boy.”

“My birth? Or abandoning me?”

His father glared, clearly affronted. “Never your birth. You were my firstborn, my Joanna’s gift to me. I couldn’t have been more pleased to have a son.”

“And yet you left me behind,” Randall said, gripping the arms of the chair. “A child.”

“Not a child, a grown lad.”

“I was twelve. My mother had just died. Because of you.”

Fairfield drooped, and suddenly he appeared every one of those eighty years. Weary. Haggard. Even frail. “You think I don’t know that? I carry the burden every day. All the money, all the power in England couldn’t save your mother and baby sister from a bad birth. Grief nearly killed me. I couldn’t bear it…or to see her smile on your face.”

Randall’s hands curled into fists, aching to tear something apart, anything to dull the agony clawing at his insides. “If you’d just left her alone...”

“Could you leave Lady Portia alone?”

He hesitated. Could he? “I—”

“Not so b-black and white, is it boy?” said the duke, thumping his fist on the desk, his tone uncharacteristically shaky. “In a perfect world, I would have met your mother first and married her. But life is not always fair or just. Six m-months! I’d been wed only six months when we met at that house party. One wink from that bold little minx and I knew Joanna Denham would be the great love of my life…”

A knock sounded at the door and his father’s lips clamped shut as Keith bustled in with a tea tray and apple tarts. After pouring for each of them, the butler quietly retreated. They both sipped at the tea, seemingly equally grateful for the respite.

“So,” Fairfield said at last, leaning back and tapping his fingertips on his chin, his face once again cool and expressionless. “Something dire happened to bring you here. I’d wager to do with that hellion you guard.”

“Don’t call her that.”

His father blinked. “You misunderstand. I mean it as a compliment. I have a special fondness for hellions with fire in their bellies and a brain in their heads, even if they do create mayhem. Tell me the situation.”

Surprisingly, the words fell unhindered from his lips. Everything from the cancelled Guildford townhouse lease and the thirty suitors, to their curricle escape to Manchester Square. Then the confrontation with Halstead, his threats of Bedlam, and the footmen attack. “So that brought me here.”

“I’ll have that impertinent pup’s hide for such insults. What is your rescue strategy?”