“His wife died in the birthing bed. Rathbone took the child to Paris when she was but a year or two old, and she perished there a month later.”
“She? Christopher Rathbone had a daughter?” Numerous thoughts bombarded Damian’s mind. When it came to Scarlett, he was a man prone to fantasy, but his current conjecture stretched his imagination to the limit. “You’re certain?”
“Your mother took great pity on the man. Had events taken a different turn, I imagine you might have been betrothed to the chit while she was still in the cradle.” The marquis placed his glass on the side table and adjusted the cuffs on his coat. “This happened over twenty years ago. I cannot imagine why it should concern Lady Steele.”
Damian fell silent.
A warning rang in his head like the clang of a death knell.
Might a human life have been traded as coldly and as dispassionately as a ship’s cargo? Might a childless couple be tempted by an offer to raise a sweet babe? God, if his mother’s cross still hung around his neck, he would take hold of it and pray his suspicions were wrong. Pray that another man had not discarded Scarlett so callously.
“Lady Steele enjoys Lady Rathbone’s company,” Damian said, wondering if the matron had planned it that way. “Though having heard rumours about Christopher Rathbone, I am inclined to believe not all is as it seems.”
The marquis arched a brow. “Like most women, Lady
Rathbone is a chameleon. She may present a sincere and amiable countenance, a beauty of heart and mind that speaks of benevolence, but beneath it all, her skin is an ugly mottled green.”
Damian sighed. He wished his father would be more succinct. “You mean she should not be trusted.”
“Lady Rathbone would sell her soul if she thought it might benefit her family. She is the sort who would smile and hand her companion a drink whilst driving a blade between the ribs.”
Chapter Eighteen
“I cannot tell you how relieved we were to receive word from you.” Lady Rathbone waited for the liveried footman to pull out her chair before taking a seat and continuing. “We were told you left Vauxhall in somewhat of a hurry.”
Scarlett glanced at the multitude of dishes gracing the mahogany table—meat, game, jellies and custards—a feast fit for twenty people, not a guest of one. Aware of Lord Rathbone’s heated gaze upon her, she brushed her skirts and sat demurely in the seat.
Scarlett smiled. “Mr Wycliff is a rather impulsive gentleman.” Impulsive and dangerously appealing. The mere mention of his name sent her heart pounding. “When it comes to entertainment, boredom sets in rather quickly.”
How strange that she feared Wycliff would tire of her more than she feared those threatening her life.
“I understand your need to make a statement to the world, my dear.” Lady Rathbone nodded when the footman came to fill her glass with claret. “But if you persist in keeping company with the likes of Mr Wycliff, no serious gentleman will entertain you. The man is a pariah. An outcast to his own kin.”
The comment caught Scarlett off guard.
Never had the matron spoken so openly about her disdain for the illegitimate son of the Marquis of Blackbeck. Perhaps Wycliff was right? Perhaps the matron did intend for Scarlett to marry her grandson.
“As a widow of some notoriety, one who openly keeps company with scoundrels, am I not considered a pariah, too?”
“Circumstance has led you to behave as you do,” Lord Rathbone interrupted. He seemed most ardent in his opinion. And while the gentleman’s handsome countenance made him appealing, her heart did not ache for his touch. “Given another option, my lady, I am positive your choice of companion would be different.”
Even if Scarlett had been born of nobility, she would still love Damian Wycliff.
The sudden thought stole her breath.
And while she wanted to bask in the warmth her love evoked, she couldn’t help but feel apprehensive about the future.
“No, my lord, I do believe I would be friends with Mr Wycliff, regardless.”
Lord Rathbone’s hand trembled, and he spilt his soup. He glanced at his grandmother as if dreading her reaction. How odd. Scarlett presumed the matron pandered to the lord. That’s the impression she gave.
Lady Rathbone’s discreet shake of the head roused a frustrated sigh from her grandson.
The lord shook off his irritation quickly. “Might I say you look splendid this evening, Lady Steele?”
Scarlett dabbed her mouth with her napkin. “Thank you, my lord. As you know, scarlet is a particular favourite of mine.”
She had deliberately worn red. Something told her she needed the strength of her shield-maidens tonight. Both people seated at the table hid behind shields, too. The question was whose defensive wall would crumble first?