Part 23 (1/2)

”h.e.l.lo, Alexander,” Rhys said to the boy. ”I'm your uncle Rhys.”

He extended his hand to the child.

”We've been practicing this. Go on, son,” Sarah said. ”Shake your uncle's hand like a big boy.”

The toddler waddled over and put his small hand in Rhys' large one. Then he pumped it three times. The expression on Rhys's face was one of complete fascination.

Olivia's chest ached. That look proved he'd be a good father. He genuinely seemed to like children.

He just didn't want hers.

”That's excellent, lovie,” Sarah said with a little clap. ”Now you can go hide again. Father's probably done counting by now and he'll be looking for you.”

Rhys stood as his nephew turned and scuttled back behind the settee.

”Lord Blakesby is here too?” he asked.

”I wouldn't very well venture to Scotland with a toddler at my skirts and one on the way without my husband, would I?” she said, patting her swelling belly. ”Blakesby has a keen eye for architecture, and Father wanted him to take a look over the place to see if Braebrooke Cairn could do with some updating. When could it not, I ask you? But when the marquis decrees, the world must obey, so here we are. Oh, Rhys.” She stood and hugged him again. ”I'm so glad to see you.”

”That had better be your long lost brother,” came a masculine voice from behind them. A handsome sandy-haired man with a prodigious mustache strode into the room and extended a tentative hand to Rhys. ”Jonathan Blakesby. You must be the infamous black sheep.”

”Guilty as charged, my lord. I'll try not to taint your family while I'm here.” Rhys shook his hand gravely. Both men were trying to make light of the fact that Rhys was not received by his family, but nonetheless, a ripple of unease circled the room. Rhys turned to Olivia. ”My wife, Lady Olivia.”

She stood and dropped a curtsey. ”Lord Blakesby.”

”Charmed.” Lord Blakesby flashed a genuine smile and made a correct bow over her hand. ”Blakesby will do.”

Silence reigned for a few heartbeats, and Olivia felt a frisson of the tension between her husband and Lord Blakesby. Rhys had told her he was in disgrace, that his mere presence with them would render his family equally unacceptable in the eyes of Polite Society. If little Alex was connected with the uncle who was rumored to have been a traitor, it could dim his prospects considerably. Even the sister who loved him best wasn't immune to the pressure for the sake of her son's future. No wonder Rhys hadn't wanted children of his own.

Rhys's dishonor hadn't seemed real until this moment when she saw with her own eyes the not-so-subtle shunning he suffered.

”We didn't realize any of Rhys's family would be here,” she said, crossing over to stand beside him. She slipped her hand into his and he squeezed it gratefully. Olivia decided perhaps she'd been fortunate not to grow up in a fas.h.i.+onable aristocratic family if even Rhys's own siblings were obliged to treat him as if he bore the pox. ”Perhaps we should return to Barrowdell.”

”Nonsense,” Sarah said. ”This is Rhys's home as surely as it's mine. Besides, who will know that we've even seen each other, much less lived under the same roof? I certainly don't feel the need to tell Father, if you don't.” Then she fished her hiding son from behind the settee and scooped him up into her arms.

”It's time for your nap, your lords.h.i.+p,” she said to the wiggling boy. ”Would you care to join me, Olivia, while I bed this little fellow down? Surely after that, Mr. Ferguson will have your rooms ready.”

”Room,” she heard Rhys grumble as she followed Sarah out. ”Not rooms. Blast it all, doesn't anyone remember we're on our honeymoon?”

Chapter 28.

After the women left, Blakesby had stood Rhys to a drink. Good Scottish whisky was a welcome change after Mr. Symon's demonically high-proof absinthe, but the conversation with his brother-in-law left a good deal to be desired. Unlike his jocular discussion with Horatio Symon over shared liquor, there were long bouts of silence, punctuated by awkward attempts on Blakesby's part to ferret out the truth of what happened to end Rhys's military career.

Finally, Rhys had said bluntly, ”Whatever you've heard about my time in France, I didn't do it. However, I've undoubtedly done worse since.” He upended his jigger on the serving tray. ”Don't worry. Olivia and I will be on our way tomorrow.”

Blakesby had protested and insisted they stay. Braebrooke Cairn was a rambling big estate. There was plenty of room for two families to be in residence, but Rhys knew the baron was merely being polite.

He supposed he couldn't blame Blakesby. If their roles had been reversed, he'd try to s.h.i.+eld his family from a.s.sociation with scandal too. Maybe if Blakesby had been a duke or a marquis, someone a bit higher up on the aristocratic social scale, he'd have been willing to backhand convention and embrace his wife's wayward kin.

But Blakesby was only a baron, a lord on the bottom rung of t.i.tled n.o.bility. If he hoped to expand his family's influence and wealth for the next generation, he needed to present a spotless face to the beau monde world in this one.

A face that wouldn't bear connection with a possible traitor. It didn't matter to Polite Society that Rhys was innocent. The mere whiff of scandal was enough. Blakesby didn't come right out and say it, but the man fairly tied himself into pretzel-like knots trying not to.

After that, Rhys had stomped out to the stable, hoping to ride off his frustration, but the only horses in the stalls were st.u.r.dy little Highland ponies. They were hardy, hill-bred stock and were supposed to be unmatched for surefootedness on rough terrain. But he was used to riding Duncan, his big Thoroughbred gelding, a generously sized horse even by the large breed's standard. Rhys suspected he'd feel as if his feet were about to drag the ground on one of the ponies.

He wished his father-in-law had thought to send along a groom to act as an outrider for the coach. He could have brought Duncan along. He hoped Mr. Thatcher was taking good care of him back at Barrowdell, but it didn't do Rhys much good here at Braebrooke Cairn. A reckless gallop across an open meadow or a h.e.l.l-for-leather dash along a wooded path was what he needed to blow out the cobwebs and clear his head. Unfortunately, it wasn't to be had.

Finally, he took down a saddle from one of the hooks and began to clean it with the special blend of saddle soap Mr. Ferguson mixed up himself and kept in a stone crock in the stable. Rhys had tried to wheedle the secret recipe from the steward once, but Ferguson would only say, ”Each man must make his own way of cleaning up the soiled patches in his life.”

”And haven't I done a cracking job at that?” he muttered as he worked the creamy mixture into the leather.

”Cracking job at what?” came Mr. Ferguson's voice from behind him.

”Never mind,” Rhys said. ”It's not important.”

”Aye, I can see how unimportant whatever it is to ye from the way ye're wearin' out that pommel.” Mr. Ferguson handed him a clean cloth when the one he was using became too damp. ”We've a canny stable lad as sees to the saddles, ye know.”

”I know.” Rhys clamped his tongue between his teeth in concentration and continued to rub the leather.

”An' ye dinna mind me sayin' so, ye've a long face for a bridegroom,” Mr. Ferguson observed.

Rhys stopped rubbing and looked at the old man. ”Maybe it's because I realize I've done my bride a disservice by marrying her.”

”I dinna think the la.s.s would agree with ye.”

She would if she knew the whole truth. If Olivia ever learned he'd descended on Barrowdell with the express intent of ruining her, she'd despise him for it as much as he despised himself. True, he'd been motivated by the hope of clearing his name and reclaiming his place in his family, but now he realized his conscience wouldn't allow him to purchase his reinstatement at that cost. It wasn't worth it. He never should have made that deal with the devil incarnate, Fortescue Alc.o.c.k. He re-attacked the leather with vehemence.

”Ye'll wear a hole in it like that,” Mr. Ferguson said. ”Easy strokes, in a small circle like I taught ye when he were a wee lad.”

Rhys grumbled, but he followed the steward's advice. The circular motion seemed to uncoil his frustration and he breathed in a relaxed lungful, taking in the aromatic smells of lanolin and beeswax, leather and dusty horse.

”I dinna think ye're troubled about yer la.s.s exactly,” the old man said. ”I think this has sommat to do with that difrugalty ye met with when ye were over the water a while back.”

”I've been dishonored, Ferguson.”

”Did ye do something to warrant being shamed?”

Rhys had second-guessed himself plenty of times. He replayed the events leading up to the illfated battle, scrutinized all the decisions he made in the thick of the action, his vision obscured by the smoke of French cannons drifting over the field. But even he had to concede he couldn't have done any differently, given the information he'd had at the time.

Except maybe for Lieutenant Duffy. He still castigated himself for spending his last round on his dying horse instead of ending the suffering of the gut-shot lieutenant.

”No, I didn't do anything wrong.”

”Then no man can truly shame ye, unless ye allow it,” Ferguson said. ”If yer conscience dinna condemn ye, what right has anyone else to name ye dishonored?”

”That's fine for the Highlands, Ferguson, but in London, the rules are a bit different.”