Chapter
3

Edward Fairchild swallowed a last sip of wine, patted the linen napkin to his mouth, and laid it over the china plate in front of him. Seated with proper posture on the cushioned chair, he stared out over the expanse of table that stretched the full length of the ornate dining room.

Eighteen feet of table with only one place setting at the end.

Edward’s gaze moved up the gilded walls to the decorative swirls on the plaster ceiling. All this luxury—a twenty-room estate with a full complement of staff—for a sole inhabitant.

He exhaled loudly. Maybe the second glass of wine tonight was making him melancholy. For once, he actually missed the presence of his daughters. Yet whenever Evelyn and Victoria came to visit, Edward couldn’t wait for them to leave to return to his solitude.

He scowled as thoughts of Evelyn and her infantile husband brought to mind the letter he’d received yesterday from his London solicitor. Its contents had only served to reinforce Edward’s belief that Evelyn had made a colossal mistake marrying Orville, solely—he was certain—because Orville was now the heir presumptive to the Fairchild holdings. He’d already proven completely unreliable, racking up large amounts of debt from his gambling habit, as well as from indulging his outlandishly expensive taste in horses and fine brandy. He hadn’t even bothered to wait for Edward’s demise to start undermining the family fortune. What would become of the Fairchild legacy under Orville’s incompetent leadership?

Edward pulled the letter from his pocket and reread Mr. Grayson’s unsettling message.

Lord Stainsby,

I’m writing to apprise you of a recent visit paid to me at our London office by your son-in-law and heir, supposedly at your behest. Forgive my mistrust, sir, but I did not believe his claim for a moment. My suspicions were confirmed when Mr. Fairchild asked me for a financial reckoning of all the Fairchild holdings, with particular interest in Stainsby Hall and the surrounding property. When I declined to comply with his request, stating that unless I had your express authority to divulge such information I could not do so, young Fairchild then asked whether the Stainsby lands could be sold off in the event that the future earl needed an infusion of cash. I managed to put him off with a slew of legal jargon; however, I thought you should be aware of his intentions toward your family property. Given his propensity for gambling, I should imagine you would find this information troubling to say the least.

Troubling? Edward snorted. An understatement if ever there was one. The idea that everything he’d sacrificed in order to keep the Fairchild earldom intact could be squandered away by Evelyn’s sniveling husband had Edward fisting his hands in helpless frustration.

A footman approached the table. “Will there be anything else, my lord? Dessert perhaps?”

“Not tonight.”

“Very good, sir.” The man jumped into action to remove the covered food dishes.

The candles in the center of the table flickered with his movements.

Still ruminating over Orville’s nefarious intentions, Edward folded the letter and returned it to his pocket. If only cousin Hugh hadn’t fallen victim to a hunting accident, they wouldn’t be in this mess. Hugh Fairchild had been a perfectly acceptable heir, whereas Hugh’s spoiled son was anything but.

Edward absently rubbed the finger that had once borne his wedding band. After ten years being a widower, the indent had long since faded, as had the desire to ever repeat his wedded folly. But recently, he found his certitude wavering, and his decision to remain single weighed on his conscience. If he’d done the dutiful thing and found another wife to give him a son, this whole situation might have been avoided. True, his marriage to Penelope had been a disaster, but did a bad experience give him the right to shirk his obligation to ensure the family title went to a responsible heir?

Even now, at the age of forty-two, the possibility still existed that Edward could marry and conceive a son. But there was no guarantee of begetting a male child. What if he married another woman who turned out to be as vain and selfish as Penelope? One who gave him only more daughters to worry about?

A shiver went through him. No, he’d be wiser to spend his energy on managing the present heir, on trying to groom Orville for his future duties. If Edward impressed upon him the significance of the family history, the importance of the earldom, and the necessity to keep the Stainsby property in the family, surely he could make Orville understand the magnitude of the responsibility he would carry.

Perhaps the time had come for Edward to move back to his London house and keep a closer eye on his son-in-law. Renew acquaintances with some old friends and business associates who could help mentor Orville. The weather had turned nice at last after a long, dreary winter. The hustle and bustle of London might be just the thing to change Edward’s bleak outlook—at least until he grew bored of the endless social engagements.

Yes, he’d make the arrangements tomorrow.

Slightly cheered by his decision, Edward pushed his chair back, nodding to another footman who hovered nearby. “I’ll have brandy in my study now.”

“Very good, my lord.” The young man bowed and hurried to uncap the decanter as soon as Edward stepped away from the table.

With a purposeful stride, Edward exited into the main hallway. Halfway to his study, he became aware of footsteps behind him—footsteps that were decidedly feminine, and not the staid footfall of his butler, Dobson, who usually lurked about the halls.

“Excuse me, my lord.”

Edward pushed back a wave of annoyance and turned to see one of his senior housemaids come to a halt, her breathing ragged as though she’d been running a race.

“What is it, Miss Hatterley?” Edward tugged the sleeve of his dinner jacket in place.

“I’m sorry to bother your lordship.” The normally composed woman appeared flustered. “As you know, Mrs. Price is very ill.”

“So I understand.” Impatience crawled over his skin. The blasted woman was always under the weather. If she could not perform her duties, he would have to consider someone else for the head housekeeper position.

“Mrs. Price has requested to speak with you, my lord. In her bedchamber, since she’s too weak to make it downstairs.” Miss Hatterley clasped her thin hands together.

Edward frowned. “This is highly unusual. Did she indicate the reason?”

“No, sir. But from all accounts, she’s not expected to last much longer. Maybe she wishes to make arrangements . . .”

Edward raised a brow. “It’s that serious then?”

“It is, my lord.”

Guilt pinched like an uncomfortable cravat. He hadn’t realized the woman’s illness was so severe. Edward huffed out a sigh. His staff might accuse him of being a hard taskmaster, but to deny his housekeeper’s dying request—well, even he couldn’t be that unfeeling. His brandy would have to wait. “Fine. Lead the way.”

After climbing to the third story, where he hadn’t set foot since childhood, Edward followed Miss Hatterley down the corridor.

She knocked once on the last door and opened it, nodding for Edward to enter.

The stench of the room enveloped him the moment he crossed the threshold. He paused until his senses adjusted to the onslaught, aware of the soft click of the door behind him. His nerves jumped as though a guard had just locked him in a jail cell.

With dread roiling in his stomach, he approached the bed. The barely recognizable form of his housekeeper stared back at him.

“Thank you for coming, my lord,” she whispered.

Edward shifted, an unwelcome sensation of guilt seeping through his system. How had he failed to notice this woman’s dire condition? “I’m sorry to hear of your indisposition, Mrs. Price. What can I do for you?”

The pale eyes, sunken in a gaunt face, shone with what looked like fear. Emaciated hands clutched the faded quilt. “You may wish to sit down for this, my lord. I expect what I have to say will come as quite a shock.”

Nolan seethed with frustration as he made his way to his mother’s bedchamber at last. His earlier attempt to see the doctor had been thwarted by an emergency with a lame horse that needed new shoes. And then, once he and Bert had taken care of the animal, Mr. Dobson had asked for his assistance moving some furniture. Now he’d sacrificed his dinner to finally get to speak with the doctor, a fact his stomach seemed determined to scold him for. At least he knew Dr. Hutton hadn’t left, since his horse was still safely stowed in the barn.

Halfway down the long corridor that led to his mother’s room, he spied the man seated on a chair, medical bag in hand. He rose as he spotted Nolan.

“Mr. Price. I’m glad you’re here.” The doctor’s face was grim.

“How is she?”

The flame in the wall sconce flickered, casting eerie shadows over the floor.

Dr. Hutton shook his head. “I wish I had better news. It appears your mother has developed pneumonia.”

Alarm shot through Nolan’s system. Pneumonia was decidedly worse than bronchitis. “What can you do for her?”

“I’m afraid there’s not much anyone can do . . . except pray.” He patted Nolan’s arm, his words weighted with sadness.

Pray? This was the man’s best medical advice? “We must get her to the infirmary. I’ll ask his lordship for use of—”

“It won’t do any good, son. Her lungs and heart are too weak to withstand the journey.” Sympathy swamped the older man’s features. “I’m sorry to say it’s only a matter of time. You may wish to call a clergyman, if your mother is so inclined. It might bring her comfort in her final hours.”

An invading coldness seeped through Nolan’s chest, spreading outward until his whole body seemed encased in ice. His mother was dying? How could this be possible?

“I’ll be in the parlor if you need me.” The doctor shot a glance down the hall. “You may wish to wait before you go in. Your mother has a visitor.”

As soon as Dr. Hutton disappeared, Nolan sagged against the stone wall. Tears burned his eyes, blurring his vision. His mother couldn’t die. He wouldn’t allow it. He gulped in a few breaths, determination giving him purpose. They’d seek another opinion, a specialist perhaps. He’d do whatever it took, whatever it cost, to save his mother’s life.

As he approached the room, a loud male voice breached the heavy wooden door. What on earth was Lord Stainsby doing up here? Had he doubted Nolan’s claim about his mother’s health and come to see for himself?

Harsh anger laced the earl’s words, and though Nolan couldn’t make out what he was saying, the man was obviously berating her. Pressure built in Nolan’s chest. How dare he yell at an incapacitated woman? Without knocking, Nolan pushed open the door and strode inside. “What is going on here?”

Lord Stainsby whipped around, his features pinched, eyes hard. He held himself as rigid as the statues in his garden, yet outrage quivered in the air around him. In his hand, he clenched the Bible that belonged to Nolan’s mother.

“Surely you’re not reprimanding my mother. Can you not see how ill she is?”

“It’s all right, Nolan.” His mother’s eyes appeared huge in her gaunt face, darting from the earl and back to him.

“No, it is not. I won’t allow him to bully you.” Nolan glared at the man, for once not intimidated by his position, not even caring if he got sacked.

The earl’s nostrils flared. “You have no idea what you’ve interrupted.”

“I don’t care. Leave us now. My mother needs peace and quiet.”

A muscle in the earl’s jaw flexed. He leveled a long look at Nolan and then turned to address his mother. “Very well. But we will talk again.” He set the book on the nightstand and marched from the room.

Nolan waited until the door closed, and then crossed to the bed. With extreme willpower, he pushed down the toxic swirl of emotions rioting through him. His mother needed calmness and strength, and that’s what he would give her.

She lay against the pillows, deathly still, all the energy drained from her.

“Mum, I want to take you to the infirmary in Derby. They’ll have better medicines there. Ones that can cure—”

She shook her head. “There’s nothing to be done. I’ve suspected for a while now that my health had gotten worse, but I didn’t want to burden you.” She gave a weak smile and lifted her hand.

He caught it between both of his and squeezed as though he could infuse her with his own vitality.

“All I’ve ever wanted is your happiness,” she whispered through blue-tinged lips. “Promise me you’ll go on with your plans. Buy your farm and marry Hannah. Live a good life.”

His throat seized, rendering him mute. How could she just give up like this? Why wouldn’t she fight to stay alive?

She gripped his fingers. “I need to tell you why his lordship was here.”

“I don’t care why. He had no business yelling like that—”

“Nolan.” The authority in her voice silenced him.

Icy chills invaded his heart. He knew without a doubt he did not want to hear what was to come.

She waited until his gaze met hers. “Nolan, Lord Stainsby is your father.”