Hero, Come Back (Cynster 9.50)

She swung to face him.

“Let me handle it.” He glared down at her.

She glared back. “Benjy is my responsibility. I want to hear what Thomas has to say.”

“Damn it—I’ll wager Thomas isn’t even out of bed yet!”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “It’s after one o’clock. He must be awake.”

With an effort, Reggie swallowed his retort. Thomas might well be awake, but he still wouldn’t have left his bed. He glanced at the curricle; in truth, he couldn’t leave Anne alone outside. “Very well. But let me do the talking.”

He thought she humphed, but as she lifted her head and swung to the door, he took that as assent.

The man who answered their knock looked doubtful—as well he might—when faced with their request to speak with his lordship. Reggie swept his stammering excuses aside, swept Anne over the threshold, and summarily sent the man for his master, stressing the urgency of their case.

He ushered Anne into the parlor. They were standing on either side of the small hearth when the door opened and Thomas walked in.

One look at his face, one glance at the multihued silk dressing gown swathing his long figure, and it was clear Reggie had been right. Thomas had been in bed.

He wasn’t, however, sleepy; his gaze sharpened as he looked from one to the other, then he closed the door.

“What is it?”

“I assume,” Reggie said, before Anne could open her mouth, “that Hugh told you what Miss Ashford made known to him recently.”

His black brows drawing down, Thomas nodded, his expression impassive, his eyes guarded.

He said nothing; Reggie continued, his tone at its blandest, “I take it you have no…personal interest in the matter?”

Thomas blinked, glanced at Anne, then colored faintly. He looked again at Reggie, and raised his brows.

“I’m assisting Miss Ashford with certain inquiries we unfortunately have to make.”

Thomas considered, then looked at Anne. “Hugh told me you’d discovered another Caverlock—a boy. He said the lad was nine years old. Is that correct?”

Anne nodded. “He turned nine last month. He’s sure of his birthday, and it matches that on the parish records. And before you ask, the name the mother gave appears to be a fabrication, and there was no father listed.”

Thomas shrugged. “The mother’s name would mean nothing to me anyway. If that’s his age, then I can be absolutely certain he’s not my son.”

Anne’s eyes narrowed. “How can you be so sure?”

Reggie rolled his eyes. Thomas frowned at her, but answered, somewhat waspishly, “Because I know which lady I was consorting with at the time, and she did not fall pregnant.”

“How can you know? Maybe she spent some time in the country once your liaison ended?”

Thomas inclined his head. “Indeed, she did, but even then, I can be sure, because I seriously doubt she could have concealed such a state from her husband.”

Anne blinked. “Oh.”

“Indeed.” Thomas waved them to the two armchairs and drew a chair from the small table for himself. “And the boy’s not Hugh’s, either,” he added as they sat.

This time, Anne was more circumspect. “Why do you say that?”

A glimmer of a smile played about Thomas’s lips. “Because, strange though it may seem, Hugh is thoroughly devoted to Imogen. Yes, she’s a stickler and sometimes so stiff-backed you expect her to break rather than bend, but…” He shrugged. “I’d be happy to swear an oath that the boy’s not Hugh’s either.”

Reggie pulled a face. “That leaves…”

“Precisely.” Thom