Chapter Twenty-Five

He walked all night, without a destination, without an idea of what he should do. Could he do anything? He was just a lad of sixteen, trying to get through this strange life he had been given.

Two months ago, he’d been on top of the world, attending his father’s school, well-liked by the other students, known for his exploits both in the classroom and out. Some of his reputation was not good, but he’d thought that was fine. It wasn’t all that bad.

Then he’d been kicked out for swiving one of the servants and the funny thing was, the swiving had been disappointing. Not what he’d expected. He’d bragged about his exploits, but in all honesty, the maid in the linen closet had been his first. He’d been a bumbling fool, and she’d laughed at him while showing him what to do.

It hadn’t been at all what the older boys had described. Truth be told, it had all been a bit embarrassing.

And certainly not worth being kicked out of Eton.

If his father had known, he would have been severely disappointed.

His father.

Not Arthur. The man he’d thought of as his father all his life.

But Armbruster. Oliver.

At some point the tears came, running down his cheeks so fast that as soon as he swiped them away, more came to take their place. He walked and cried like a damn baby, and he mourned the life he thought he’d had.

It had all turned out to be a lie.

His mother had lied to him. To his father—Arthur. To Oliver. To everyone.

And somehow Needham had discovered her lie, and he was using it against her.

Just know that everything I do, I do for you.

Philip stopped walking. At some point it had started raining, a fine mist that sat on his shoulders but didn’t penetrate his clothes.

The lies came together, the story took on meaning and form.

He put himself in his mother’s shoes seventeen years ago. Newly wed. Pregnant with another man’s baby. Had she and Oliver done it before or after she’d wed his father?

Philip refused to believe that it was after. She would never have done that to Arthur because, despite everything, Philip knew that his mother had loved Arthur.

But she had also loved Oliver. Or had she?

He shook his head, droplets of rainwater falling from the tips of his hair into his eyes. He didn’t know. He just didn’t know that part of the story.

But the rest he could imagine. He could deduce.

How was she supposed to tell Arthur that the son she bore was not his? There would be scandal. She would be abandoned, probably divorced, and Philip would have been a bastard.

But by keeping the secret, no one was the wiser except for his mother. Arthur had his coveted son. Philip had a father who adored him, and the title was secure.

A title that Philip didn’t deserve, but now had to keep.

Because revealing his mother’s secret would be disastrous.

And Needham knew this. And Needham was using this information to his advantage.

Why?

Philip didn’t know the answer to that. All he knew was that his mother was being blackmailed, and Needham was pitting Philip against his mother.

The eye that Needham had punched had stopped throbbing hours ago, but it was difficult to see out of it. His friends would think he was a hero for getting into a scuffle. No one would know that his soon-to-be stepfather had hit him.

Philip’s stomach roiled at the thought of his mother married to that evil man.

And he was evil.

Philip didn’t believe that Needham knew nothing of the killings done by his assistants, but he knew enough to know that Needham would not be implicated in the murders. He would walk free. Free to marry his mother and plunge her into a life of misery. And Needham would force Philip to stay away.

That was not acceptable. Philip couldn’t let that happen. Needham was a prominent surgeon. A physician to the royal family. He was well-respected and, like the snake that he was, he would slither out of this scandal.

No.

Philip couldn’t allow it. But he didn’t know what to do to stop it.

…

“Excuse me, my lord, there is a situation that needs to be addressed.”

Oliver looked up from the coat sleeve that he was adjusting. Richard was searching through his closet for the shoes Oliver wanted to wear.

In an hour he had a meeting with a representative from the American shipping company in which he was thinking of investing. He believed that this investment would be profitable, and he was anxious to begin.

After the meeting he had an appointment with his secretary to plan his trip abroad. There was no reason to remain in London, especially after he signed the paperwork with the American. And he certainly could not stay and watch Ellen marry Needham.

It was time to admit defeat and move on.

For a very short moment he contemplated courting Lady Sylvia, but in his heart he knew that a marriage to her would be disastrous. He could not give her what she wanted, and that would not be fair to her.

His butler cleared his throat, and Oliver realized he had been wool-gathering. “A situation, you say? What type of situation?’

“You’d best come see for yourself, my lord.”

Oliver made a point to hire a competent staff who did not overly rely on him to run his home. If his butler said something needed his attention, then something needed his attention.

Richard emerged with Oliver’s shoes in hand, and Oliver stepped into them.

“Very well. Lead on.”

Oliver knew he was playing a role, pretending that Ellen’s marriage was not affecting him while inside his heart was broken.

The butler led him to the front room that Oliver rarely used, since he rarely accepted callers, stopped at the window that overlooked the street, parted the curtains, and stepped back.

“We think he’s been there since the wee hours of the morning.”

Oliver peered through the crack in the curtains to see someone sitting on his front stoop, hunched over, obviously very wet and miserable. He remembered a heavy rain coming through in the dead of the night and awakening him for a bit.

“What the devil?” He peered closer. Who would camp on his doorstep? The clothing indicated that this was not a tramp or a vagrant, but someone of means.

Oliver strode to the front door, opened it, and stepped out. The air was cool, and the person on his steps was shivering. Having meticulously chosen his clothes for his meeting, Oliver did not sit down on the wet steps. Rather, he descended until he was one step below the person.

It was most definitely a he, with short, light brown hair. His arms were crossed on his knees, his head pressed against his folded arms.

“Philip?”

The boy raised his head slowly, and Oliver winced at the shiner that had injured his eye.

“A rough night? Fisticuffs with another mate?”

Philip’s face was red-splotched and he was soaking wet, his body trembling in the cool air.

Oliver’s first reaction was irritation that the boy had landed on his doorstep in this condition. He had an important meeting in less than an hour and the paperwork to go over beforehand. Not to mention that he’d convinced himself he was finished with both Ellen and Philip.

But the boy looked miserable, and he was obviously cold, and Oliver couldn’t turn him away. He wasn’t that much of a bloody ass.

“Come inside,” he said.

“Have Richard run a hot bath,” Oliver said to the hovering butler. “And find some clothes that will fit him. Tell Cook to put on an extra pot of coffee.”

Philip stood in the entryway, dripping rainwater on the marble floors. His housekeeper was going to have a fit, but there was nothing to be done about it now.

“Were you out all night?” he asked Philip.

Philip nodded, his head still hanging, as a drop of water dripped off the tip of his nose.

“Good God, son. You have got to straighten your life out if you want to make something of yourself.”

Philip flinched at Oliver’s harsh tone but did not raise his head to defend himself.

“Other than your eye, is the rest of you intact?”

“Yes,” he whispered.

“You’re not hurt anywhere else?”

“No.”

Oliver contemplated him for a moment longer. Why show up on my doorstep?

“The bath is ready, my lord.”

Oliver nodded to his valet.

“Go with Richard,” he said to Philip. “He’ll get you cleaned up and Cook will give you a warm breakfast and hot coffee to warm your innards. I have an important meeting that I must prepare for. We’ll talk after.”

He sensed that sending the boy back to his mother was not prudent at the moment. There was a reason Philip was here, and Oliver would get to the bottom of it just as soon as he concluded this business.

Philip trailed after Richard, his head still low. Oliver shuddered at the tongue-lashing he was going to receive from his housekeeper at the mess Philip made in his wake. Even his shoes squished when he walked.