Chapter Eleven

THE CITY OF GLASGOW WAS A BOISTEROUS, crowded place of exceptional beauty and horrendous despair. The cool waters of the River Clyde ran like a pulsing blue vein through its heart, linking it to the Firth of Clyde and ultimately the Atlantic Ocean. This made Glasgow perfectly situated to accommodate the needs of its rapidly expanding industry. Nearly one hundred textile mills dotted its grass-and-stone landscape, and the ironworks and coal mines of the surrounding area fed the boilermakers, shipyards, and marine-engineering shops lining the River Clyde. The flourishing manufacturing led to a nearly insatiable demand for cheap labor. Highland Scots swarmed to the city in the hopes of finding work, only to find that they had to compete with equally desperate Irish, Italian, and Jewish immigrants. Extravagant fortunes were made by a privileged few, who celebrated by erecting magnificent homes and public buildings which were then filled with the finest antiques, furnishings, and art. As for the men, women, and children who sweated and suffered gruelingly long hours in the factories, they dragged themselves home at night to the stinking foulness of the slums, where they waged an ongoing battle against hunger, disease, alcoholism, and violence. Yet even with this squalid underbelly, Glasgow was, without doubt, one of the most glorious cities in Europe.

It was the perfect place for the renowned French painter Georges Boulonnais to be introduced to Scotland.

Genevieve stared in fascination at the woman in the mirror, wondering if she had really changed as much as her reflection suggested. The gown she had chosen with the assistance of Eunice and Doreen was a simple affair of icy gray silk, trimmed with almost transparent layers of cream lace that rippled around the low neckline and fell in softly gathered pleats about the hem. It was not quite the latest fashion, nor was it as lavishly adorned as the other gowns that the woman in the shop had initially presented to her. Eunice and Doreen had swooned and sighed over the elaborate confections of dusty pink, smoky mauve, and leafy green silk, all fancifully beaded and embellished with garish ribbons and bows, ballooning over monumental hooped cages that looked as if they would have knocked over everyone and everything within a five-foot radius.

Years earlier, Genevieve would have delighted in wearing such an outlandish fashion, and would have eagerly anticipated the admiration and attention she would have drawn as she sailed confidently into a room. But that frivolous, spoiled girl did not exist anymore. The woman who stood before the looking glass was an unmarried mother of six who had struggled for years just to keep her young charges fed and dressed and off the streets. The idea of paying an outlandish sum for a ridiculous dress that could be worn only rarely, and never in the same company twice, now struck her as virtually immoral.

Despite its relative simplicity, Genevieve did think her new gown was pretty, and far nicer than anything she had owned for years. The bodice was narrowly molded to her body, creating a slim triangle from her breasts to her waist, at which point her skirts blossomed into a pearly silk bell that was supported by a modest crinoline.

The hotel had sent up a maid at her request to help her dress, as managing the complexities of her corset and crinoline and the endless row of tiny buttons and hooks at the back of the gown would have been impossible on her own. The girl was a pleasant, chatty lass by the name of Alice, who kindly offered to do Genevieve’s hair. At first Genevieve protested, thinking she would merely pin it back the way she normally did and hope that it would last reasonably well through the course of the evening. But Alice had pleaded with her, telling her that she didn’t often have the opportunity to work with hair as lovely and thick as Genevieve’s was, and that she would be enormously grateful if Genevieve would permit her to practice a new style she had seen in a Parisian fashion publication that a friend had sent to her all the way from France. With her request presented so, it would have been almost unkind to refuse her, and so Genevieve relented and permitted the maid to try to tame the massive weight of her hair.

By the time Alice was finished, Genevieve’s coral-and-gold hair had been spun into a soft bouquet of curls, which were loosely gathered and pinned low against the back of her neck. Alice had threaded a delicate cluster of tiny pink and ivory blossoms above one ear, which had the dramatic effect of adding a soft splash of color to the gray and cream of her gown. At first Genevieve feared the flowers might be a little too showy, but Alice insisted that they were most appropriate for a woman of her beauty and stature, and that as other women were certain to attend the opening wearing flouncy ostrich feathers and ribbons and even jewels in their hair, no one would think her out of place.

Darkness was creeping across the city on silent feet. Genevieve lit the oil lamps in her room and continued to study herself, unaccustomed to contemplating her appearance for any length of time. Her hair did look quite pretty, she had to admit, and while her gown was plain by the standards of the day, she thought it was entirely acceptable. It was her face, however, that interested her most. There were unfamiliar lines sketched lightly across her forehead, and a fan of smaller wrinkles edged the area around her eyes. When had she developed those? she wondered. She reminded herself that she was no longer a dewy-skinned girl of eighteen, but a twenty-six-year-old woman with countless worried, sleepless nights behind her. There were also, she hastened to add, many moments of joy, as she knew no greater pleasure than the laughter her children could bring bubbling to the surface with the smallest smile or funny gesture. She supposed it was inevitable that her face would start to reflect the evidence of her life. It was disconcerting, however, to notice how much she had changed since the last time she had really studied herself. It had been years since she had sat for any length of time before a mirror, when she was newly betrothed to Charles, and had considered herself exceptionally blessed to have won the attention of such a dashing and sophisticated gentleman as the earl of Linton.

Time had passed with dizzying speed.

There was a knock upon her door. She rose, made a final nervous adjustment to a wayward strand of hair, and went to open it.

Haydon stood in the corridor, elegantly attired in a black evening coat, immaculate white shirt, neatly tied cravat, and fitted oyster-colored trousers. He did not speak, but stared at her in silence, his gaze taking in every inch of her, from the shimmering coils of her hair to the soft flounce of lace trailing against the dark pattern of carpet beneath her. She felt his eyes rest ever so fleetingly upon the milky swell of bosom rising from her gown, then trail down the tight constriction of her bodice, over the flare of her crinolined hips and up again. Her flesh was heated merely by having his eyes graze over it, making her achingly aware that he had taken her breasts in his mouth and suckled the tips, had crushed her body against his until she could scarcely breathe, had dipped his tongue into the most intimate parts of her body and filled her with himself, thrusting into the depths of her and holding her fast until she had no inkling of time or responsibility or regret.

She turned suddenly, feeling uncomfortably hot and breathless, although the room was cool and her gown was not overly tight.

“Good evening,” Haydon said, regaining the composure he had momentarily lost on first seeing Genevieve. He had always known she was beautiful, regardless of whether she was dressed in one of her faded gowns or lying naked against a rumpled swirl of cool sheets. Even so, nothing had prepared him for the loveliness radiating from her in that moment. Her gown was exquisite in its simplicity, for it made no attempt to compete with her beauty, but merely enhanced it. He entered the room and casually tossed his top hat and cloak onto a chair, resisting the urge to take her in his arms and kiss her.

She is not yours, he reminded himself stiffly. Regardless of the liberties you have so shamelessly taken with her.

“You look absolutely lovely tonight, Mrs. Blake,” he said, adopting a lighthearted demeanor. “I have no doubt that every man in the gallery will be staring at you in awe. I can see I shall have my hands full trying to keep them at a respectable distance.”

His manner was joking, but his eyes told Genevieve that he really did find her appearance pleasing. Perhaps the lines she had seen on her face were not quite as deep and distracting as she had imagined.

“I must confess, it has been so long since I have attended an affair of any social merit, I had quite forgotten all the attention that must go into dressing for it.” She made a self-conscious adjustment to her gown, which suddenly seemed entirely too low cut. “Fortunately the hotel was able to provide me with a maid who was able to assist me with my gown and my hair.”

Haydon imagined plunging his hands into the soft swirl of daintily arranged curls, plucking the pins loose and dragging his fingers through the fiery-gold silk until it spilled across the snowy mounds of her breasts. As for that gown, he felt reasonably certain he could have it unhooked and slipping down the curves of her delectable body within mere moments.

Disconcerted by his thoughts, he looked away. “There is just one more thing needed to make your ensemble complete.” He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a small crimson box. “Here.”

Genevieve stared at him in surprise. His expression was masked. Hesitantly, she took the box and ran her fingers over its velvety surface, enjoying the rare delight of mystery and anticipation. After a moment, she slowly opened it.

Resting upon a satin cushion lay a gleaming gold band with a small ruby stone embedded in its center.

“It is not nearly as grand as what you deserve,” Haydon said, his voice slightly taut, “but I’m afraid it was the best I could do on such short notice, with rather limited funds. I did think it was about time that Mrs. Maxwell Blake had a wedding ring.”

Genevieve stared in silence at the glowing circle.

At the time of her betrothal, Charles had given her a heavy, ornate ring with a trio of enormous diamonds in its center. It had been a family heirloom, he explained to her gravely at the time, and had graced the hands of three Linton countesses before her. He had then rambled on about who they were and what their accomplishments were, which mostly included stoically bearing children and being glorified hostesses. At the end of this pompous dissertation, he had informed Genevieve that she could take pride in the fact that he had chosen her above countless other potential candidates to wear this ring, and that he was certain she would do the piece justice by making him proud and never giving him cause for embarrassment. Of course, he had angrily demanded it back when their betrothal was broken, as had been his right.

She had never worn any jewelry since.

“It’s lovely,” she said softly.

“Here.” Haydon removed the ring from the box and took her hand in his. Her skin felt silky and cool against his palm, and as he leaned closer he was suddenly aware of the delicate scent of orange blossoms. He slipped the ring over the third finger of her left hand. “I’m afraid it’s a little big,” he apologized. “We shall have to have it sized when we get home.”

The word “home” fell easily from his mouth. He knew the moment he said it that it was wrong, but he did not correct himself, for fear of drawing them into a discussion in which they had to face the impossibility of their situation. He was well aware that he could not go on pretending to be Maxwell Blake forever. He had a life to reclaim, however empty and indulgent and meaningless it was. Moreover, he was an escaped murderer and his very presence posed a constant danger to Genevieve and her family. He closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of her again, pushing those thoughts aside. Tonight they had an art exhibition to attend, in which the cream of Glasgow’s art world would cast its eyes upon the work of the artist Georges Boulonnais and determine whether or not they thought it had merit.

“Come, Genevieve,” he said, gathering her evening cloak in his hands and draping it over her slim, bare shoulders. “There is a carriage outside waiting to take you to your premier exhibition.” He retrieved his own hat and coat and opened the door before gallantly offering her his arm.

There would be time enough to face the stark reality of their lives in the morning.

 

MR. BLAKE! OVER HERE!” ALFRED LYTTON FLUTTERED a skeletal hand in the air as he fought to negotiate his way through the crush of people surrounding him.

“Mr. Lytton,” said Haydon when the bespectacled art dealer finally managed to emerge through two bodies, “it seems your gallery has attracted something of an audience. My dear, you know Mr. Lytton, do you not?” he continued, turning to Genevieve. “I believe you mentioned that your father had bought some paintings from him years ago.”

“Yes, of course,” said Genevieve, overwhelmed by the crowd of people staring at her paintings. The canvases had all been set in heavily carved gold frames, which gave them a far greater look of import than they had borne while strewn about her cellar. She had no idea if the people currently gaping at them loved them, hated them or were merely indifferent. “How are you, Mr. Lytton?”

“It’s a madhouse!” Mr. Lytton burst out excitedly, gazing about. “An absolute madhouse! My associates had invitations delivered to our regular clientele, but because it was such short notice, we also decided to print a small advertisement in The Herald, thinking that we might lure a few more interested parties. Well, Mr. Stanley Chisholm, the esteemed art critic, happened to see the advertisement, and he decided to come by the gallery yesterday while we were still making preparations. It is no exaggeration to say that he was quite taken with the work. Quite taken indeed. So much so that he wrote an article for today’s Herald, hailing Monsieur Boulonnais’s work as exquisite and saying that anyone with an interest in seeing paintings of rare sensitivity must not miss this exhibition. He also happened to mention that the reclusive artist just might be making an appearance here this evening, which seems to have had the effect of rousing people’s curiosity.” He bobbed his head about nervously. “Do you know if Boulonnais is here?”

Haydon pretended to search the room, which was filled with elegantly attired women and men who were laughing and sipping champagne. “My wife and I have only just arrived, so I cannot be certain. If I see him, I shall let you know immediately.”

“I do hope he decided to make the trip. At last count we had already sold thirteen of the twenty paintings—and the evening has scarcely begun! The Duke of Argyll purchased five of them before we had even shipped them here from Inveraray, but I told him they had to be included in the exhibition. He did not mind, of course. The exposure will only have the effect of increasing their value.”

Genevieve’s eyes widened incredulously. “You have sold thirteen paintings?”

“And I don’t mind telling you, after we saw how glowing Mr. Chisholm’s article in The Herald was, we adjusted the prices accordingly,” Mr. Lytton admitted surreptitiously. “Your husband’s commission on the sales will be even greater than we expected, Mrs. Blake, and of course his friend, Boulonnais, will profit very handsomely as well. I trust he will be so pleased that he will continue to permit our gallery to represent him in Scotland.”

Haydon smiled. “I have no doubt that when he finds out how well the work was received, he will be interested in maintaining your representation.”

“Excellent. Do forgive me, but Lord Hyslop is signaling to me that he wishes to purchase that painting of the girl with the rose. A magnificent piece, really. So beautiful, and yet there is something terribly melancholy about it. I should have asked more for it.” He sighed with regret. “Excuse me.” He straightened his spectacles and made his way across the room.

“Thirteen paintings,” Genevieve repeated, stunned.

Haydon retrieved two glasses from a silver tray that was sailing by on the arm of a harried waiter. “Would you care for some champagne?”

Genevieve gripped the stem of the glass so tightly Haydon feared it might snap.

“Let’s have a toast,” he suggested. “To the mysteriously reclusive Georges Boulonnais. May he continue to paint and enchant the art world for many, many years.” He raised his glass, took a sip, then frowned. “What’s wrong, Genevieve? Don’t you like champagne?”

She shook her head, distracted by all the people laughing and milling around her. “I don’t remember. I haven’t had any since the night my betrothal to Charles was announced. That was years ago.”

“I believe you will find it tastes much better when one has something truly wonderful to celebrate. Not that your betrothal to Charles wasn’t cause for a drink,” he added dryly.

She gave him a mildly exasperated look before cautiously sipping her champagne. A flurry of cold bubbles danced upon her tongue and tickled her nose. She took another sip, and then another. The crowded room was warm and she was suddenly extremely thirsty. Another swallow and her glass was empty.

“More?” asked Haydon.

She nodded. “Please.”

He dutifully retrieved another glass for her. “Perhaps you should drink this one a little slower,” he advised. “Champagne does have a tendency to go down easily, and then all at once make one feel rather lightheaded.”

“I’ll be fine,” Genevieve assured him, taking another sip. “You needn’t worry about me.” She turned away so she could watch a group of people who were having an animated discussion in front of her painting of Simon and Jamie.

The champagne and the heat of the gallery had brought a rosy flush to her cheeks, which gave a lovely contrast to the creamy softness of her throat and breasts. She was easily the most beautiful woman in the room, Haydon realized. What made her even more attractive was the fact that she had no inkling of the effect she was having on nearly every man who laid eyes upon her. He saw their initial pleasure, which transformed into curiosity as they tried to deduce who she was and what her relationship to him might be. He was glad he had had the foresight to give her a wedding band before they set out, or he would have been forced to chase off every fatuous fool who came near. Genevieve was well past the girlish bloom that must have made her completely enchanting when she was first presented to society some eight years earlier. But in that girl’s place was a woman of incredible strength and fortitude, who had not only survived hardship and despair, but had constantly given of herself in every way she could so that others could survive as well. It was this combination of beauty, determination, and selflessness that set her apart from every other woman around her.

“Can you imagine that all these people have come here to see my work?” Genevieve was completely awed by the thought of it. “And that they are actually buying it?”

“They would have to be blind not to see the beauty of your paintings, Genevieve. There is a poignant intimacy to your work that touches people. I recognized it the moment I saw your paintings, and I knew others would see it too.”

She considered this a moment as she watched a gray-haired gentleman stare with pleasure at her painting of a weathered fishing boat gliding across the leaden surface of a loch.

“If my work does have merit, then it shouldn’t matter that the artist is a woman. The work should stand on its own.”

“You’re right,” Haydon agreed. “I hope one day that prejudice changes, but until it does, you must maintain your identity as Georges Boulonnais. As long as you can keep painting under his guise, you might be able to support yourself and your family. I realize it is unjust, Genevieve, but I hope that your financial success will be enough to counter the frustration of not having your talent recognized under your own name.”

Of course it was enough, Genevieve realized, overwhelmed as she contemplated the magnitude of what Haydon had done. Haydon had orchestrated nothing less than her family’s survival. He had not done it by giving her money and demanding something in return, the way Charles might have done, or for that matter any other man she had ever known. Instead of giving her charity, Haydon had found a way for her to stand on her own. She would be able to earn a living for herself and her family by doing something that she loved, which was expressing herself through her paintings.

It was by far the greatest gift that anyone could ever have given to her—the gift of self-sufficiency.

She raised her eyes to his, wanting to tell him how grateful she was. He regarded her steadily. He was unbearably handsome in his evening clothes, with his black hair curling against the fine fabric of his evening coat and his jaw cut firm and strong in the soft blaze of light afforded by countless oil lamps and candles. He seemed so refined and at ease amidst all the fashionable beauty and wealth floating about them, it was obvious to Genevieve that this was his world. And yet there was something about him that set him apart from every other man in the gallery. There was a menacing quality to him, a faint hint of danger that suggested he was not as civilized as his attire and manner suggested. It was this that was attracting the attention of many of the women in the room, who were stealing glances in his direction, trying to determine just what his relationship was to Genevieve. She felt a stab of jealousy.

Haydon frowned, wondering at the change that had suddenly come over her.

“Good God, Redmond,” called an astonished voice from somewhere within the crowded room, “is that really you?”

Genevieve’s breath froze in her chest.

Haydon stiffened slightly, then forced himself to affect an air of utter calm. Inhaling deeply, he slowly turned to greet the fiery-haired young man hurrying toward them.

“Hello, Rodney,” he said, smiling. “Fancy meeting you here. Permit me to present you to Mrs. Maxwell Blake. Mrs. Blake, this is an old friend of mine, Mr. Rodney Caldwell.”

Genevieve fought to restrain her panic. Her champagne glass gripped tightly in one hand, she graciously raised the other to the handsome man, whom she judged to be about thirty. “How do you do, Mr. Caldwell?”

“A tremendous pleasure, Mrs. Blake.” He pressed a brief kiss to the back of her hand. “I can see the marquess still has an affinity for keeping company with the most beautiful woman in the room.” His manner was friendly and teasing. “Haydon, you sly wretch, just where the devil have you been? We heard about some nasty business concerning a murder trial. They said you had been hanged, but clearly those stories were shamelessly exaggerated.” He laughed.

Haydon sipped his champagne, looking faintly amused. “So it would seem.”

“Well, I’m glad that mess is all straightened out. Just an unpleasant misunderstanding, was it?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Thank God for that. Everyone up in Inverness had given you up for dead—except for me, of course. I knew whatever scrape you’d gotten yourself into, you would somehow manage to squeak out of it. I can tell you, they’ll be positively tickled when I tell them that I saw you gadding about Glasgow, drinking champagne in the company of a beautiful woman at an art exhibit.”

“Really, Mr. Caldwell, you flatter me too much,” protested Genevieve, forcing herself to smile. “Lord Redmond, would you mind escorting me back to my husband? If he sees me standing here talking to two such handsome men, I’ve no doubt that he will become insufferably jealous. You will excuse us, won’t you, Mr. Caldwell?” she asked sweetly.

“Of course, Mrs. Blake.” He tilted forward in a small bow. “It was a pleasure to meet you. How long are you planning to stay in Glasgow, Haydon?” he asked, turning to Haydon. “I’m here for the week. Perhaps we could dine together one evening, and you can tell me all about how you managed to escape the hangman’s noose.” His tone was jovial.

“Unfortunately, I’m leaving tomorrow.”

“That’s a pity. Are you heading for home?”

“Not directly. I expect to return within a few weeks,” Haydon said evasively.

“Business matters, I suppose?”

“Yes.”

Rodney sighed. “I regret to say it’s the bane of us ne’er-do-wells, Mrs. Blake. We are forced to actually work occasionally so that we can go on playing in the style to which we have grown accustomed. Well then, Haydon, I suppose I shall have to wait until we are both back at home before you can regale me with your sordid tales about how you escaped your execution. I can tell you, I’m most anxious to hear all about it.”

“I shall look forward to that.” Haydon offered his arm to Genevieve. She obediently laid her fingers lightly upon the fabric of his sleeve. “And now, if you will excuse us, I must deliver Mrs. Blake safely back to her husband. Good night, Rodney.” He smiled and turned away.

“We have to leave,” he said tautly as he steered Genevieve through the crowd. “Now.”

Genevieve maintained a frozen visage as Haydon retrieved their cloaks. She saw Mr. Lytton hurrying toward another prospective buyer, who was involved in an animated discussion with his wife over the merits of one of her paintings. She was vaguely aware that she had probably sold another one. People were still drinking and laughing and talking loudly. Nothing had changed in the room.

She shivered as Haydon laid her cloak over her shoulders.

Neither spoke during the carriage ride back to the hotel. Once they were safely ensconced in the privacy of Genevieve’s chamber, Haydon bolted the door and leaned heavily against it, trying to think.

“Is this Mr. Caldwell a good friend of yours?”

He shook his head. He had no good friends.

“That would explain why he didn’t have a clear grasp on what had happened to you,” Genevieve mused.

“I suppose he was recalling whatever gossip was being churned about at social events up near Inverness,” Haydon reflected. “Apparently they do not yet know of my escape. Either that, or Rodney has been away from the crowd for a bit, and is not quite on top of things.”

“But now that he has seen you, he is sure to tell others.”

Haydon didn’t answer.

Despair began to wrap around Genevieve. For a brief moment, as they walked into the gallery together as Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell Blake, she had felt strangely happy—as if she were actually living the charade that they had so carefully constructed. No one in Inveraray had recognized Haydon as the marquess of Redmond. Her handsome, charming, apparently devoted husband bore little resemblance to the filthy, brutal drunk who had lain burning with fever upon the foulness of the jail floor. Constable Drummond had mentioned to her that the marquess had an estate in the Highlands north of Inverness. That had seemed so far away, she had not imagined that anyone Haydon knew might accidentally see him in Inveraray or Glasgow. Now that someone had, this deliciously unexpected tidbit of news would quickly fly from mouth to mouth. Eventually someone who knew that the marquess of Redmond had escaped would hear of it and they would feel compelled to share this morsel with the authorities. Haydon would instantly be linked to Mrs. Maxwell Blake, for Rodney Caldwell was not likely to spare any detail of their meeting.

Constable Drummond would be smashing down her door with an army of police officers, ready to drag Haydon away and crush his neck at the end of a rope.

She turned and looked out the frozen black pane of the window. Her hands gripped the cold wooden ledge as she studied the snow-dusted street below. A man alighted from a carriage in front of the hotel and turned to assist his young wife. It was clear the two had not been married overly long, for she giggled as he presented his hand to her, which caused him to bow gallantly before her, making her laugh even harder. Now they would go into the dining room and share a lovely meal together, Genevieve thought, accompanied by a bottle of wine. They would linger over some beautifully presented dessert, piled high with imported berries and freshly whipped cream. Then the husband might indulge in a cigar while his wife drank coffee from a tiny china cup rimmed with gold. And after all this mannered civility, they would retire to their room and he would take her into his arms and kiss her and touch her and plunge himself deep inside her, until there was nothing beyond the fire and passion burning between them. At last they would sleep, each secure in the knowledge that the other would be there when they awoke, ready to help them with their buttons as they dressed, and sit across from them over breakfast.

It was an exquisite state of familiarity and comfort, which she would never know.

“Tomorrow I will escort you back to Inveraray,” Haydon was saying, restlessly pacing the room. “I have to be sure that you return safely. Caldwell is here for the week and then he is returning to Inverness, so there is no reason to think that anyone in Inveraray will learn of my identity. Once you are home, I will leave immediately. You will tell people that I have gone to France to see Boulonnais, to let him know how his exhibition went and bring him his share of his earnings. Since I was just responsible for his glorious introduction to the Scottish art world, no one should find my desire to tell him about it in person implausible. From there, you can say I am going to England to take care of a few business matters. Give the impression that I will be gone at least several weeks. After a month or two has passed, you can tell people that I have been killed—either by illness or accident, it doesn’t matter.”

“No.”

He raised a dark brow in surprise. “What do you mean, no?”

She turned from the dark windowpane to face him. “You cannot accompany me to Inveraray, Haydon. It is too dangerous. Wherever it is you intend on going, you must leave now. You cannot be delayed because you feel I must be escorted home.”

In truth, he could not bear the thought of abandoning her so suddenly. He had not prepared himself for this. The thought of Genevieve being torn from him without preamble was too painful. The return to Inveraray would take two days. That was two more days of being with her. It wasn’t nearly enough, he realized hopelessly. Even so, it was better than being forced to leave her now.

That was, quite simply, unthinkable.

“I will be fine taking the coach on my own,” she assured him, trying to get him to see reason. “I can tell people that you were detained here because of business matters, and that you then intend to go on to France to see your artist friend. You can slip out of this hotel right now and disappear into the night. That is far better than taking the risk of returning home with me.”

“And the moment you arrive without me, you will be under a mantle of suspicion, especially if anyone hears that you were seen at the gallery conversing with the marquess of Redmond, who just happens to look exactly like the man claiming to be your husband.” Haydon threw his hat and cloak onto a chair. “I won’t permit you to be put at further risk, Genevieve. Appearances must be maintained—especially given that people have already found our sudden marriage somewhat odd. It will look far better for you if you return from Glasgow with your husband, and then I leave on business from there. Anything else will be suspect.”

“If anyone there does hear Mr. Caldwell’s tale that I was seen in the company of Lord Redmond, I will just say that I spoke with many people at the opening of Monsieur Boulonnais’s exhibition, and I don’t remember. There is nothing to Mr. Caldwell’s tale to suggest that the marquess was in fact posing as my husband. We made a great show of your having to deliver me back to Mr. Maxwell Blake, so as far as Caldwell is concerned, I am a respectable married woman with a jealous husband lurking somewhere in the shadows.”

She may be right, Haydon thought, raking his hand through his hair. He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he wasn’t about to abandon her in a hotel in Glasgow, never to see her again, not knowing if she had been arrested or abducted or attacked by thieving scum on the long journey home. And he damn well wasn’t going to leave without saying good-bye to the children. Each of them had suffered enough disruption and desertion in their short lives. At the very least he wanted to speak to them and make them understand that he was not abandoning them by choice, as so many others in their lives had, but of necessity.

Making them aware of that distinction was vitally important.

“I’m not leaving you now, Genevieve.”

Anger flared within her. “Don’t you realize that going now gives you your best chance for escape?” she snapped.

“At the cost of destroying the situation we have so carefully constructed around you as Mrs. Maxwell Blake. Were I to suddenly disappear this evening, the authorities would immediately wonder just what the devil ‘business matters’ were so bloody urgent that your husband had to vanish in the middle of the night like a guilty thief. I might get away, Genevieve, but you would be left to explain my abrupt disappearance, and the situation would be dangerously incriminating for you. It wouldn’t take much of a leap of logic to piece together that the missing Maxwell Blake and the elusive marquess of Redmond are the same man. You would be arrested and forced to confess how you have sheltered and protected me these last few weeks.”

“Whatever they do to me will not be as terrible as what they are going to do to you, Haydon. They are going to hang you for a crime you didn’t commit!”

Fury glittered in her velvet-brown eyes, tinged with a wrenching fear. She stood rigid before him, her chin set with purpose, her hands gripping at the cool silken bell of her evening gown. She looked as if she were ready to do battle with him, with him and anyone else who might come crashing through the door behind him to try to take him away. She was like a lioness in that moment, all fire and courage and determination. She was still trying to protect him, he realized, feeling humbled and distinctly unworthy. She had been trying to protect him from the moment she laid eyes upon him, as if he were one of her wayward urchins that could be saved with kindness and care.

He raised his hand and caressed her cheek with the back of his fingers, telling himself that it would be enough, that he would touch her just so, and no more.

“I cannot let you do it, Genevieve.” His voice was rough and steeped in regret. “I cannot permit you to risk destroying your life and the lives of all your children because of a worthless piece of refuse like me.”

“You’re not worthless—”

“You don’t know anything about me,” Haydon insisted, silencing her by laying his finger against her mouth. “And if you did, you would regret everything that you have done to help me. There is a stain upon my soul, Genevieve, and nothing I can ever say or do will ever wash it clean.” He hesitated a long moment before confessing harshly, “I never deserved to be freed that night from the jail.”

She stood trembling before him, imprisoned beneath his touch, though he held her with nothing but the gentleness of his hand upon her cheek and the torment burning in the shadowed blue of his eyes.

“You told me you killed that man in self-defense,” she ventured, trying to understand.

He shook his head. “I’m not talking about the scum who attacked me. I did kill one of them out of necessity, and would do so again in an instant. The life I’m talking about was far more precious and innocent than that of a common murderer.”

His face was carved in anguish. It pained her just to look upon him, for she could feel his suffering as surely as if she had started to bleed from within. Whatever misdeed he had committed, it was torturing him to the depths of his soul. His jaw was clenched with emotion, as if he feared that if he spoke or otherwise permitted it to relax, he might begin to weep. The knowledge that he could feel such anguish over an act of which he imagined himself responsible told her that whatever it was he had done, it must have been a horrible accident.

And the guilt of it was destroying him.

“It’s all right, Haydon,” she whispered, reaching out and wrapping her arms around his enormous shoulders. “It’s all right.”

He didn’t know which surprised him more, the incredible wonder of her granting him forgiveness without even knowing the nature of his sin, or how swiftly his body reacted to hers. She was pressing herself against him, her silky cheek buried against his neck, filling his senses with the sweet floral fragrance of her hair. She held him hard and fast, as if she would absorb his pain and suffer it herself if she could, sharing her compassion and her strength, giving of herself and her seemingly endless ability to nurture and comfort and care. He didn’t deserve her. He understood that. He could not name a single act in his useless, self-absorbed existence that merited even a droplet of her tenderness. And yet suddenly he wanted nothing less than all of her. He wanted to cleave her to him so that they could never be separated, wanted her blood to course through his veins and his through hers, wanted their flesh and their souls to be melded as one.

He groaned and crushed his mouth to hers, knowing as he did so that he would not be able to stop, and not giving a damn. He would see her safely home to Inveraray and then he would leave her, not knowing if he would ever return. Until then there was only the softness of her gathered in his arms, with the keen, black cold shimmering on the streets outside and the apricot light of the oil lamps glowing warm upon her skin.

In that moment, she belonged only to him.

He lifted her into his arms and strode toward the bed, aware of the swish of silk and lace as he lowered her onto the feather mattress. He swept his tongue hungrily through the dark heat of her mouth, tasting the sweet tang of champagne. He tore off his jacket and yanked at the stiff fabric of his cravat, anxious to be rid of the bloody thing. It unraveled quickly from his neck and then his shirt followed it onto the floor, baring him to the waist. Genevieve’s fingers fumbled at the buttons of his trousers, inadvertently brushing against the hardness of his arousal. She abandoned the buttons to caress him through the finely woven wool, but the sensation of her stroking him through a barrier of fabric was too much to be borne. With a groan Haydon pulled himself away so that he could peel off his trousers and stockings. Finally he stood naked before her, all hard planes and sinewy curves, his body etched in the shadows and light afforded by the bronze ripple of the small fire burning in the hearth and the soft wash of the lamps.

Genevieve stared at him, her eyes flickering with carnal desire, aroused and unashamed. She had opened herself to him before, had lain panting and writhing beneath him as he kissed her and licked her and thrust himself into the deepest recesses of her body. Any virgin sensibilities she might once have cherished were long gone, lost to the tempest of the burning splendor they had already known. She wanted Haydon with a desperate passion, wanted him touching her and covering her and filling her with himself. Soon he would leave her and she would be alone again. She had not understood the depths of her loneliness before, for she was always surrounded by her children and Oliver, Doreen and Eunice, caught in an endless blur of meals and lessons and housework and bills. But Haydon had delved beneath the carefully constructed facade of her hard-won independence. He had opened her heart and filled it with something that was brilliant and glorious and utterly agonizing.

He stretched out beside her and covered her mouth with his while his hands hungrily roamed the silk and steel barriers wrapped around her. It had taken Alice well over an hour to carefully pull and tie and hook Genevieve into the intricate enigma of her gown, corset, crinoline, and petticoats, yet Haydon was expertly versed in the art of freeing her from them. One by one the layers gave way and were tossed upon the floor, until finally she wore only her corset and drawers. Her breasts swelled above the tightly molded constriction of her corset, giving her a lush, wanton appearance, and the fine French lace trimming her drawers had ruffled up to her thighs, at which point the soft opening to the delicate undergarment lay teasingly unguarded. There was a dark sensuality to the fact that she remained clothed in her intimate apparel while he was utterly naked. She could see his desire for her in his magnificent erection and in every hard curve of muscle covering his body. As he stared at her with hunger, she sensed her power over him as the object of his lust.

She rose to her knees and pulled at the pins in her hair, releasing her elegantly arranged coiffure into a glossy cascade of coppery waves. Then she leaned over and placed her hands firmly upon his shoulders, pinning him to the bed as she lowered her mouth to his and swept her tongue inside. Haydon growled with pleasure at her unexpected dominance of him. Emboldened by this, she pulled her mouth away to trail kisses upon the rough skin of his cheek and jaw, then down the thick column of his neck to the massive granite of his chest. She nibbled and swirled her tongue in tiny circles as she explored him, taking the dark medallion of his nipple into her mouth and suckling hard, then grazing across the valley of his chest and teasingly flicking her tongue over the other one. His skin was warm and faintly salty, and he smelled clean and distinctly male, a woodsy, spicy scent that enlivened her senses as she pressed her cheek against the ebony hair on his belly and inhaled deeply. He reached for her and tried to pull her up to him, but she pushed his hands away and boldly continued her forbidden exploration.

She stroked the narrow swath of hair that grew beneath his navel, then brushed her fingers against the black curls surrounding his straining manhood, causing him to flinch and shift restlessly upon the bed. The memory of his previous torture of her came flooding back, and the thought that he might endure the same kind of scorching pleasure that he had inflicted upon her enhanced her desire. Her lips pressed gentle, teasing kisses along the iron muscles of his thighs, which tensed like massive tree trunks as she touched them. Her fingers roved the flesh of his inner thighs, then slid lightly over the rounded ballocks between, causing him to draw a sharp intake of breath. And then her mouth was skimming ever so lightly across the taut length of his arousal, her lips flitting over the warm velvet skin like the wings of a butterfly.

Haydon swore.

Genevieve hesitated, wondering if perhaps she had caused him pain. And then she remembered how desperate she had felt the first time his tongue had flicked into her coral wetness, paradoxically afraid that he would continue and terrified that he would stop.

Aroused by her newly discovered mastery over him, she took his erection in her hand and flicked her tongue across the tip, licking at him as if he were some delectable sweet that had to be slowly savored. Haydon froze, unable to so much as release the breath that was trapped within his chest. She flitted her tongue over him again and again, thoroughly excited by her ability to pleasure him with such intensity. And then she opened her mouth and surrounded him with its hot wetness, causing him to groan in torment and grasp at the rumpled blankets beneath them. Up and down she moved along the throbbing shaft, sucking gently, using her lips and her tongue to pleasure him as her hand caressed his ballocks.

He reached for her thighs, found the opening between the delicately woven linen of her drawers, and his fingers slipped inside her aching cleft. Slick dew seeped over them as he caressed the swollen petals, which were full and slippery from the incredible eroticism of being in control of his pleasure. Genevieve moaned and parted her legs wider, opening herself to his swirling exploration as she sucked and stroked him harder. He pressed a finger deep inside and began to move it in tandem with the rhythm she was inflicting upon him.

Finally she could bear it no longer, for the need to be filled by him was overwhelming. She straddled his hips and positioned herself over him, barely grazing his arousal with her hot, slick wetness. Then she laid her hands flat against his chest and planted herself upon him, sheathing him in silken heat. Haydon groaned and drove his tongue deep into her mouth, tasting her as fully as he could. Genevieve broke the kiss so she could loom over him as he thrust into her, stimulated by the sight of him lying naked beneath her, knowing nothing of the world beyond that moment and the exquisite ecstasy she was giving to him, and he to her.

Haydon gazed up at Genevieve, marveling at her beauty and sensuality. Her hair was spilling over the creamy skin of her shoulders and breasts, which had all but escaped the tight confines of her corset. She had the gorgeously rumpled look of a woman in the throes of passion, and as she stared down at him with smoky eyes, he could see that she was desperately aroused. Unwilling to leave her unfulfilled, he began to stroke the sleek nub of pleasure hidden within the satiny folds between her legs. Her breath disintegrated into frantic little gasps as he filled and caressed her, making him thrust faster as he surrendered himself to her.

He wanted to remain joined to her forever, wanted to spill himself into her and then hold her in his arms and fall asleep and know that she would be there when he wakened. He would make a life with her, he vowed feverishly, filled with long, languid days and passion-filled nights. He would drape her in beautiful gowns and cover her in jewels, not because she needed such fripperies to enhance her natural magnificence, but because she had lived far too much of her life putting herself last, dressing in faded gowns with frayed hemlines, whatever jewels she may once have worn sold to pay for the urgent necessities of food and shelter.

She pressed her hands against the slender contour of her corseted waist and he saw the plain gold wedding band he had placed upon her finger earlier that evening. It was not enough, he thought, for she deserved the most lavish jewels he could afford. But at that moment he could afford nothing. He had been robbed of his life as the marquess of Redmond and was now a common fugitive. His failure to her was absolute. There was nothing more for them but this stolen moment, and he could feel it skidding away from him as ardor gripped him in a fierce embrace.

He wanted to stop, wanted to slow the frenzied thrusts into her beautiful body, wanted to pull away and just hold her against his pounding chest while he regained some semblance of control, but the pleasure surging through him was unbearable. Genevieve cried out suddenly and rocked against him, and he drove himself deep inside her, again and again, releasing his essence into her as he called her name, a cry of reverence and despair.

She collapsed against him, her breath gusting in sweet puffs upon his shoulder. Her hair fell in a tangled web of strawberry-gold silk across his chest, and her body still gripped him tight. He wrapped his arms around her and eased her onto the mattress beside him, then tenderly brushed a strand of hair off her face.

“I cannot leave you, Genevieve,” he whispered hoarsely. “Not tonight.”

Tears glazed her eyes. And then they began to fall, little silvery drops of pain that leaked down her cheeks and into her hair.

“You will be caught, Haydon,” she managed, her voice small and ragged. “You will be caught and you will be hanged. And I won’t be able to bear it.”

He pulled her into his arms and stroked her hair, trying to soothe her. “If I am to be caught, then I would rather spend my last few hours holding you than fleeing blindly into the darkness. And if I am not to be caught, then I must make sure that you are delivered home safely, and that I have a chance to say good-bye to the children. I don’t want them to believe I cared so little for them that I could simply disappear without having at least a few words with them.” His voice was rough with anger as he finished, “There have been enough people in their lives who have simply walked away when the time suited them.”

“I would make them understand, Haydon,” she assured him. “I would make certain that they did not feel betrayed.”

He shook his head. “No.”

“Why is it so important to you to see them again?”

Shadows veiled his eyes, shadows of pain and regret. He tried to conceal it from her by shrugging his shoulders, acting as if his desire to speak with the children was nothing more than kindness. But Genevieve was not fooled by his pretense.

“Tell me, Haydon,” she urged softly. “Please.”

He eased his hold on her, turned away and studied the delicate trellis of cracks upon the ceiling, saying nothing. Their bodies cooled and the fire died, eradicating the brilliant heat that had filled the chamber but moments earlier. And just when Genevieve thought that she had clumsily destroyed whatever fragile bond had formed between them, he spoke.

“I had a daughter,” he said in a low, halting voice. “I abandoned her. And she killed herself.”

He expected her to regard him in horror. He thought she would roll away from him, cocoon herself in a blanket, and spring from the bed. Then she would assault him with questions, demanding to know if he was married, and when was this child born, and how could he possibly have been so cruel? It was no more than he deserved, and utterly understandable for a woman who had devoted her life to rescuing and loving children, all but one of whom were not even tied to her by blood or marriage.

Instead she lay still, silently absorbing what he had told her. And then she reached out and laid her hand upon his chest, pulling herself closer as she pillowed her head upon his shoulder.

“Tell me what happened.”

Her voice was gentle and void of condemnation. Her composure bewildered him. Had she not understood what he had said? Or was it that after so many years of looking after troubled children and thieving adults she had learned that life was a painful, messy affair, and that sometimes the choices one faced were invariably cruel and ugly?

She was waiting for him to explain it to her, almost childlike in her trust as she rested her cheek against him. It was this patient calm, so confusing and unexpected, that began to erode the wall he had long built around the subject of Emmaline. She would hate him after she learned the truth, he realized bleakly. She would be horrified by what a cowardly, selfish bastard he was, and she would regret the fact that she had ever tried to help him. You deserve her contempt, he told himself savagely. Maybe having her despise him would make it easier for him to leave. It would not affect the powerful feelings he held toward her, but it was certain to vanquish any fondness or respect she might harbor for him. The idea of enduring her hatred cut him to the core. But after everything she had done for him, he felt he at least owed her the courtesy of the truth.

“I wasn’t supposed to be the marquess of Redmond,” he began, staring at the ceiling. “That dubious honor belonged to my older brother, Edward. He was cosseted and coddled and told that he was going to amount to great things, while I was generally ignored and allowed to get on however I liked. I never gave a damn, because the truth of the matter was, Edward was always cautious and pragmatic, and that was exactly what the future marquess needed to be. So Edward inherited the privilege of managing the family estate and slaving long hours to try to increase his wealth, while I received a relatively handsome monthly allowance with no responsibilities whatsoever.

“I indulged in all the usual things.” His mouth tightened with contempt. “Drink, gambling, women. And one of the women whose bed I shared for a brief time was the countess of Bothwell, who had married at eighteen and was insufferably bored with her husband by the tender age of twenty. Our affair lasted a few weeks, when Cassandra was twenty-four, and I was neither the first nor the last of her lovers. But soon afterward, she was most distressed to discover that she was expecting a child, whom she claimed could only have been mine.”

Genevieve lay very still, her hand still pressed against the hard wall of his chest.

“There was never any question of her leaving her husband for me. Cassandra may have despised Vincent, but she positively adored her social standing as his wife, and the life he afforded her far surpassed anything I could have given her on my monthly allocation. I was twenty-nine at the time, and was unprepared to accept something as intrusive into my life as a wife for whom I cared nothing, and a child whose very creation had been nothing more than a drunken mishap. So we agreed that Cassandra would bed Vincent immediately and then tell him that the child was his, and they would raise it. It seemed the best solution at the time for all concerned.

“Cassandra gave birth to a little girl, whom she named Emmaline. I heard through the gossipmongers that while Vincent had initially hoped for a boy, he was positively enchanted with his daughter. No one was more surprised by how much he adored her than Cassandra, who found motherhood dull and tedious, despite the fact that she never actually took care of the child herself. Vincent hired the most expensive nurses he could find to care for Emmaline.”

“Did you go to see her?”

Haydon shook his head. “My affair with Cassandra was over, and after enduring the misery of her pregnancy and childbirth, Cassandra had no desire to see me. Her prior inability to conceive had given her the notion that she was barren. She was most disappointed to learn that she wasn’t.”

“But didn’t you want to see your daughter?” Genevieve was bewildered by the notion. How could a man like Haydon, who had demonstrated such immense sensitivity and compassion by risking his life for both Jack and Charlotte, not want to see his own child?

He sighed. “The simple fact is that I felt no real tie to my daughter. She was the result of a reckless moment of passion which was over and forgotten in little more than an instant. Cassandra and I broke off our affair, and quite frankly, I was relieved to be free of her. I never saw Cassandra when she was expecting, because she withdrew from all social activities so that no one would see her in her indelicate state. Once Emmaline was born, I was glad to hear that the bairn appeared to be healthy and whole. Beyond that, I believed she would be well cared for by Cassandra and Vincent, and that she would have a happy, privileged life. I felt no claim on her, and had no desire to do anything that might give her cause to question who she was or to upset the life of grandeur and stability to which she had been born. I had drunkenly participated in her conception, but there was no question in my mind that Vincent was her father. By all accounts, he was absolutely devoted to her, and she to him.” He paused a moment before adding grimly, “Unfortunately, that became the problem.”

Genevieve drew her brows together. “Why?”

“Cassandra continued to indulge in affairs after Emmaline was born, but her choice of suitors narrowed somewhat. She was heavier than she had been prior to her pregnancy, and she had grown even more tempestuous and self-absorbed. Vincent had never been a terribly involved husband, so he let her carry on as she wished. His world was now centered on his business holdings and Emmaline. Cassandra began to drink and mourn the loss of her youth, and gradually she became jealous of her daughter’s exceptionally close relationship with Vincent. There were some dreadful fights between her and Vincent. And finally, during one drunken outburst, Cassandra shrieked at her husband that he was not Emmaline’s father, and that I was.”

Genevieve regarded him in horror. “That must have been terrible for him to hear.”

“I imagine it was,” Haydon agreed curtly. “But it didn’t warrant him rejecting Emmaline like some broken piece of furniture that no longer pleased him. From that point on, he refused to have anything to do with her. Oh, he kept her under his roof and paid for her clothes and made sure she had ample nurses and governesses to see to her upbringing. After all, there were appearances to be maintained. He couldn’t very well just toss her out onto the street. But he made it clear that he no longer loved her.” He paused for a moment before bitterly adding, “She was only five years old, for Christ’s sake. How the hell was she supposed to understand?”

Genevieve could sense the anger surging through him, mingled with despair. It was as if he wanted to leap from the bed and do battle with someone, anyone, in the faint hope that he might somehow be able to rectify what had gone so horribly wrong. She laid her hand soothingly against his chest.

After a long silence, he began to speak again, his voice rough against the dark stillness. “For a long while, their secret was confined within the walls of their estate. I had stopped frequenting their parties and social affairs years earlier, so I had no idea that Vincent knew that I was Emmaline’s father. But I started to hear stories that Vincent had grown increasingly engrossed in managing his investments, and that he and Cassandra were leading separate lives. There was never any mention of Emmaline whatsoever. This struck me as peculiar, because before then everyone had talked about how utterly devoted Vincent was to his daughter. I didn’t ponder it overmuch, however. I was far too busy finding ways to run through my allowance before the end of each month, much to my brother’s irritation.

“Then Cassandra suddenly died. There was talk of her having been pregnant and trying to abort the child, but the official explanation was simply an undetermined illness. I attended the funeral. I suppose I felt obligated to pay my respects because Cassandra and I had once been lovers, and while Vincent and I had never been what one might describe as friends, I had certainly been a guest in his home many times. Beyond that, I was curious to see how Emmaline was faring. I imagined that she must have mourned the loss of her mother, and I wanted to assure myself that she was going to be all right.

“The moment I laid eyes upon her, I knew that something was terribly wrong. She was a beautiful, slight little thing of eight, with pale-blonde hair and dark-blue eyes, just like her mother’s. But while Cassandra had once been confident and sparkling with laughter, Emmaline was painfully nervous and quiet and awkward. Of course, her mother had just died, so I scarcely expected her to be brimming with mirth. But when Vincent snarled orders at her, telling her to sit in a corner and stay out of everyone’s way, his monumental resentment of her was obvious to everyone. Worse, it was apparent that she was absolutely terrified of him. And that was when I realized that he knew. He knew, and he was punishing her for it. As if she had had any bloody choice in the matter.”

The thought of how Emmaline must have suffered pained Genevieve. “What did you do?”

He snorted in disgust. “I left the funeral and got blinding drunk for several weeks. I felt completely helpless, and drinking helped me to forget just how inadequate I was. I could hardly charge into Vincent’s home and demand that he turn my daughter, whom I’d never sought out in eight years, over to me. Even if he had agreed, just what the hell did I have to offer her? Everyone would have known that she was my bastard, which would have sentenced her to a life of being an outcast. My income at the time seemed barely enough to sustain my prodigal lifestyle. I knew nothing whatsoever about caring for a child. And so Emmaline was trapped. She was Vincent’s prisoner, for him to neglect or torment as he pleased, and I convinced myself that there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.”

Genevieve said nothing.

Haydon interpreted her silence as condemnation. He knew that had she been in his position, she would have done something to rescue Emmaline.

“During my drunken sojourn, my brother died. Poor Edward, who had never been ill a day in his life that I can remember, spent his usual long day at his desk, then rose and dropped like a stone to the floor. He hadn’t yet found the time to woo a woman and marry, therefore he had no heirs. And so I was suddenly thrust into the role of marquess of Redmond, with all of the trappings and responsibilities that I had so contentedly left in the capable hands of my brother over the years. I can tell you, it was an unpleasant shock to my relatives, who were convinced that I was going to squander everything that my father and Edward had worked so hard to build. I have several cousins who informed me at the time that they believed themselves to be far better candidates for marquess than I.

“Now that I had money and a title, and was considerably more sober, I decided I could not leave Emmaline at the mercy of Vincent any longer. I went to him and offered to take her and raise her myself. But Vincent flatly refused. He said he had no intention of giving up the daughter everyone believed to be his. To do so would be to make a public declaration that he had been cuckolded and was now giving his wife’s bastard to her lover. He told me that he had despised me and Emmaline for years, and that I would now have to live with the knowledge that she belonged to him, to do with as he pleased.

“I argued with him long and hard. I even offered him money in exchange for her. Vincent just laughed. He didn’t care about money. All he cared about was exacting his revenge. He wanted to punish me for bedding his wife and making a child that for five years he had believed to be his own. He wanted to make me suffer with the idea that my daughter had been sentenced to a life of misery beneath his roof and that there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. Finally I realized that I was, indeed, helpless. I had wealth and the status of my new title. But I had no legal claim upon my own daughter. There was no way for me to prove that she was actually mine by blood. Deciding that I was only making things worse for her by provoking Vincent, I left.”

“Did Emmaline know that you had been there?”

“As I stormed out of Vincent’s study, I caught a glimpse of her staring at me through the banister, crouched upon the stairs.” His expression became tormented. “I’ll never forget how small and lost she looked. She seemed so fragile, like a frightened little bird. And I realized that she had heard. She knew that I was her father, but that Vincent owned her. And that I was abandoning her. I wanted to tell her that everything was going to be all right, even though I had little confidence that it would be. But before I could say anything, Vincent came after me, waving his arms like a madman and ordering me out of his home. Emmaline raced up the stairs and disappeared, terrified that Vincent might have seen her. And I felt hopelessly, utterly helpless. I convinced myself that anything I might have said or done at that moment would only cause Emmaline more suffering. So I left.”

He fell silent.

Genevieve continued to lie against him, saying nothing.

“The next day she killed herself,” he finally whispered hoarsely. “She rose at dawn, rowed herself in a little boat to the center of the magnificent pond Vincent had put in years earlier, and leaped in. One of the gardeners who was just arriving for work saw her as she jumped from the boat. He raced across the lawn, dove into the pond and tried to bring her out, but the water was dark and he couldn’t find her.” He swallowed thickly. “It was hours before they finally were able to bring her body up. She was dressed in her nightrail, over which she had put on one of Vincent’s coats. She needed a coat with deep pockets, you see, because she had gone to the trouble of filling them with heavy stones.” His voice was hollow as he finished, “To help drag her down, in case she tried to fight the water as it closed over her.”

His suffering was so tearing, Genevieve could no longer bear it. She sat up and grasped his jaw, forcing him to look at her. “It wasn’t your fault, Haydon,” she told him firmly. “There was nothing you could have done.”

“You don’t believe that, and neither do I.” His tone was harsh. “I shouldn’t have left her there. I should have grabbed her and taken her to my carriage and escaped with her. I should have told Vincent to go to bloody hell, and said he would have to kill me to get her back. I should have wrapped her in my arms and held her close and told her that no one was ever going to hurt her again. I should have done something, anything, except leave her there. But instead I climbed into my carriage and left her all alone, not understanding how fragile and desperate she was. And because of my stupidity and selfishness and goddamn ineptitude, my little girl jumped into a freezing black pond and drowned.” His eyes were filled with raw torment as he finished, “I could have saved her, Genevieve. I could have taken her home and kept her safe. But I made the choice to leave her there, and because of that, she died.”

“You didn’t know,” Genevieve insisted. “And even if you had taken her, Haydon, do you really think Vincent would have merely stood by and let you keep her? He would have either gone after her himself and dragged Emmaline back to his home, or he would have contacted the authorities and had the police forcibly retrieve her, either of which would have been extremely traumatic for a young girl of eight. It was an impossible situation. You had no legal right to her. By leaving her with Vincent, you believed you were doing the only thing you could.”

“You had no legal right to Jamie, or Annabelle or Simon or any of the children,” Haydon retorted. “Yet you managed to save each of them from a life of misery and destitution—because you were willing to fight for them.”

“I did have a legal right to Jamie,” Genevieve argued, “because he was my half brother—”

“You couldn’t prove that.”

“Perhaps not, but everyone accepted it as the truth.”

“You had no right to any of the other children.”

“It was different, Haydon.”

“Tell me how it was goddamn different!” he raged.

“It was different because no one else wanted them.” Her voice was low and gentle, a whisper of reason against his helpless fury. “Don’t you see, Haydon? You couldn’t have Emmaline because Vincent was unwilling to give her up. Maybe if you had had more time, you might have found a way to convince him, or to find some way to blackmail him into giving her to you, or to make him see reason and be more compassionate in his care for her. But there was no time.”

He turned away and stared bleakly at the wall.

“How could you possibly have known how desperate she was?” she continued quietly. “You had never even spoken with her. But if you had known, Haydon, if you had had any inkling of the depths of her distress, I know you would have done everything within your power to take her away from Vincent and keep her safe.”

He closed his eyes, trying to shut out her words of assurance. He didn’t deserve them.

“The first time I saw you, you had been beaten nearly senseless after trying to save Jack from that vicious warder. You were in no condition to fight, yet you tore him off Jack and made him attack you instead. Jack wasn’t your responsibility. He wasn’t even your friend. He was just a filthy little thief whom nobody cared about. But you refused to stand by and watch him be brutalized, even though you knew you would be beaten and possibly even killed in the process.

“Then when Charlotte was sentenced to prison, you went to Governor Thomson and demanded that he release her. You understood that anyone at the prison might have recognized you, if not your face, then perhaps your voice or some small mannerism. Had you been discovered, you would have been imprisoned and hanged. But the threat of being executed wasn’t enough to deter you. You would have died, Haydon, for a girl you had known only a couple of weeks.”

“I care for Charlotte,” he told her in a rough voice.

“I know you do.” She reached out and laid her hand against the hard round of his shoulder. “Enough that you were willing to sacrifice yourself for her, because you felt she wasn’t strong enough to survive the harshness of prison. And I know you cared for Emmaline as well. Had you been given more time, you would have found a way to help her. You feel guilty for abandoning her all those years, but until you saw her at Cassandra’s funeral, you had believed that she was well and happy. And once you realized that she wasn’t, you tried to help her. You didn’t succeed in rescuing her from Vincent that day, Haydon, but had you been able, you would have. You just needed more time.”

He stared at the wall in silence, contemplating her words. Was it possible, he wondered desperately, that there might be a grain of truth to what she was saying? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that he had laid out the blackest recesses of his soul to her, fully expecting her to recoil from him.

Instead, she was lying against him, caressing his shoulder with her slender fingers as she argued passionately on his behalf.

He turned suddenly and pulled her on top of him. He didn’t want to think about any of it anymore. Not Emmaline, or Cassandra, or any of the other spectacular failures of his wasted life. He was a convicted murderer and a fugitive. It was only a matter of days or hours before the authorities realized that he had been in Glasgow that night and began to close in on him. His time with Genevieve was running out, and the realization was so excruciating he didn’t think he could bear it. Cradling her face in his hands, he gazed into her eyes.

“Whatever happens to me, Genevieve, there is something you must know.”

Her eyes widened slightly as she studied him.

He hesitated. Over the years he had used countless sentimental phrases on the women he had bedded. But none of them could begin to convey the feelings he was experiencing toward her. The day after tomorrow he would leave her. After that he might be caught, or spend the rest of his life trying to stay ahead of the law. He did not know if he would ever see her again. Feeling as if his heart were being torn apart, he gently swept a lock of hair back from her temple.

“There is nothing I would not have done for you, had there been more time for us. Do you understand? Nothing.”

She looked at him, feeling as if she were looking into his very heart and soul.

And then she crushed her mouth to his and kissed him deeply, holding him fast as her tears began to fall against the dark roughness of his cheeks.