A Secret Affair

suffered—ostracism. And I knew that the meager handouts of money I occasionally made to them solved nothing substantial. I knew that I dared not befriend them openly or assumptions would have been made and matters would have been worse for them. If that were possible. I knew the man who caused it all and felt not a qualm of guilt as one by one they were cast from his employment and forgotten about while others took their place and as like as not suffered their fate.”

Hannah hugged her legs more tightly.

Oh, dear God. His father? She opened her mouth to ask, but the question was unaskable.

“Elliott—the Duke of Moreland—would tell you that I was that man,” he said.

“Did he actually accuse you?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“And you did not deny it?” she asked.

“No.”

Oh, dear, getting information from him was sometimes like trying to squeeze blood from a stone.

“Why not?” she asked.

He looked very directly at her. “He had been my friend,” he said. “He was my cousin, almost my brother. Our mothers were sisters. He ought not to have needed to ask. I would never have asked it of him. I would have known the answer to be no. We had been pretty wild together when we were younger, but we never ever took any woman against her will.”

“But you did not deny it when he did ask,” she said.

“He did not ask,” he said. “He told me. He had found out somehow about those wronged women and their children. And so he confronted me. Accusations are not always or even usually polite questions, Duchess.”

“You foolish man,” she said. “And so this is what your quarrel is all about?”

“Among other things,” he said.

She chose not to ask.

“And it all might have been cleared up,” she said, “with a simple denial, which your pride would not allow you to make.”

“A denial ought not to have been necessary,” he said. “Moreland was, and is, a pompous ass.”

“And you are a stubborn mule,” she said. “You described yourselves thus on another occasion, and I see that you were quite right.”

He got to his feet, took the cozy off the teapot, and refilled both their cups. He sat down again, remembered that she took milk and sugar, and got up to add them to her cup. It was full to the brim again. Fuller than last time. He offered her a biscuit, but she shook her head.

“You said you started with women at Ainsley,” she reminded him.

“I saw a boy in a butcher shop here in London,” he said. “I stopped on the pavement outside and took a closer look because he reminded me remarkably of Jon. He had the same sort of facial features and physique, and I guessed that his parents too had been told when he was born that he would not live much beyond the age of twelve. I would have moved on, but even in the minute or so I stood there I could see two things—that he was eager to please and that he did not please at all. Even in that minute he was cuffed twice, once by a customer and once by the butcher for displeasing the customer. I went in and paid the butcher the price of an apprentice—he had taken the boy from an orphanage for next to nothing, I would imagine. I took the boy—Francis—down to Ainsley when I went a few days later. I put him to work in the kitchen and farmyard and he became the adored pet of all the women living there, especially the cook. He died a little more than a year later at the age of thirteen or so—he did not know his exact age. I believe it was a happy year for him.”

He stopped speaking in order to drink his tea. He directed his gaze into his cup as he did so. Hannah busied herself with her own cup in order to give him a few moments to collect himself. She knew she had not imagined the brightening of his eyes and the unsteadiness of his voice.

He had grieved for that butcher’s boy. Francis. The boy who had reminded him of his brother.

“It was meeting him that made me realize,” he said, “that if I wanted the Ainsley project to pay its own way and not be a constant drain on my finite resources, I was going to have to get the farm working at full capacity again. It had been sadly neglected for years. And in order to get it working and earning, I needed workers, many of them men to do the heavy work. And if I was going to hire men anyway, I might as well hire men who were unemployable elsewhere. You would be amazed, Duchess, to discover how many men fit that category—those with physical or mental disabilities, retired or discharged soldiers who have lost limbs or eyes or minds in war and are useless to anyone but themselves in peace, vagabonds, even thieves who steal only because they cannot find employment but do find that they need to eat. I could fill twenty Ainsleys any time I chose.”

No, she would not be amazed.

“Some men,” he said, “are capable of doing more than laboring in the fields, and want more. Some are given training as blacksmiths and carpenters and bricklayers, even bookkeepers and secretaries. And then they are found work elsewhere so that there is room at Ainsley for more. And some of the men and women marry and go off to a new life together.”

“And you have told no one about this?” she said. “No one but me?”

He shook his head and then grinned.

“Yes, actually,” he said. “I told the king.”

“The king?”

“It was before he was king actually,” he said. “He was still the Prince of Wales. Prinny. We were sitting together in that bizarre palace of his in Brighton late one night after everyone else had gone to bed. How it all came about I cannot recall. But we were both deep in our cups and one thing led to another and I told him about Ainsley. I do believe—no, I know—that he hugged me almost hard enough and close enough to break bones and smother me against his enormous bulk. He almost drowned me in sentimental tears. He declared me to be saint and martyr—why martyr, he did not explain—and a host of other extravagantly complimentary things. And he promised to aid me and reward me and bring me to the attention of the whole kingdom and other shudderingly awful things. Fortunately, he forgot all about the whole thing and probably me too as soon as he was sober.”

“I know him quite well,” she said. “The duke was his friend even though the prince—now the king— constantly exasperated him. One cannot help liking the man, ridiculous as he often makes himself. More than anything else in life, he wants to be loved. If the old king and queen had only loved him from the start, he might be a different person today. A far more secure one.”

“And a thinner one?” he said. “He would have had less need for food?”

She looked at him and smiled. And then laughed.

He smiled too and waggled his eyebrows.

It was a strange moment.

She had spent eleven years acquiring wisdom and discipline, ten of those years at the hands of a man who had known all about those two attributes from a long life of experience. Wisdom and discipline. Always guarding one’s real, precious self in a cocoon of tranquillity within a thousand masks.

Life itself had become a secret affair. No one knew of the life she lived behind the appearance. The appearance was everything to the people surrounding her. It was all they knew. The reality within was everything to her.

But suddenly that cocoon was threatened. She had selected a man purely for the sensual delights he could offer, and she had … Oh, what was the word for what he had become to her instead? She had not fallen in love with him. But—

Well, she was somehow deeply involved with him. As his lover, yes. But lovers could be cast off, forgotten, exchanged. They could be kept at a safe distance from the heart. They were for pleasure, for fun.

He was more than her lover.

She had told herself from the start that this year she would devote to pleasure instead of the search for love and permanent happiness. She had told herself that she would cast him off, forget him after this Season was over.