“I certainly require more proof than the odd happenstance of Roddington’s mother once being employed by the Aldertons,” Carter declared. “If that’s even true.”
“That is easy enough to verify,” Roddington countered. “As for the rest, as far as I know, my mother never publicly stated who had fathered her child. She only revealed the truth to me as she lay dying.”
Dorothea set her fingers against her temple. “There must be some record, some kind of documents?”
“There were letters,” Roddington said.
“Letters can be forged.” Carter replied.
Roddington lifted both eyebrows. “How like your father, you are, Atwood. When I presented myself to him, those were his exact words.”
“You’ve spoken with the duke?”
“Yes. Twice, actually.” The major lowered his head and stared at his boots. “The first time I was fifteen. I started for London the day after I buried my mother. It took me a few weeks to arrive and several days before I managed to waylay the duke on the street outside of his club.
“There I was, a green, naive lad, grieving the loss of the only person who had ever loved me, facing the man who had ruined her life, ruined both of our lives. Yet try as I might, I couldn’t hate him.”
“What happened?” Dorothea asked.
“He gave me his card and told me to call at his house later that day. And so I arrived, filled with false hope and armed with the letters he had written to my mother.
“The duke listened intently to every word I spoke. Then he had a footman toss me out on the street. But before I left, he threatened to have me arrested and thrown into prison if I ever dared to breathe a word of these filthy lies.”
The suppressed anger and resentment simmering deep inside Roddington was visible now. The major’s eyes had gone dark and fierce. His hands were fisted tightly as if he would strike out if given the chance.
“Where are the letters?” Carter asked, watching the stiff set of Roddington’s posture, trying to ascertain if he was telling the truth.
“He took them. I have no doubt they were tossed in the fire before my backside hit the street outside his fancy London mansion.” Though he tried to keep his tone emotionless, the pain in Roddington’s voice was raw.
“You said you have spoken with the duke twice,” Dorothea prompted.
“I saw him again this morning. It was rather simple gaining access to the house now that I am known to the household staff.”
The major stared pointedly at Dorothea and Carter realized what he meant. Roddington was frequently escorting her to society events. The duke’s household would not think anything amiss if the major came to call. This was troubling. Carter wondered how deep the wounds of rejection went, how bitter the resentment tasted. Enough to do harm? To the duke?
Carter quickly surmised the urgent note from the duke he received this morning must be about the situation with Roddington. “What have you done?” Carter asked, his nerves suddenly on edge.
“Worried?” the major whispered in a combative tone.
Carter reflexively closed his fist, longing to have it connect with Roddington’s face. He’d have liked nothing more than to see the major’s eyes widen, his head snap back, and his arms flail as he tried to keep his balance and stay on his feet.
Yet something held his temper in check, kept his fists at his sides. “If you are here, running to my wife with your sorrowful tales, then the duke must have thrown you out. Again.”
“Oh, no.” Roddington’s voice iced over. “I left of my own accord. The decision of how we proceed is now in the hands of the duke.”
“What do you want?” Carter asked crisply, inwardly flinching at the sudden flash of light in the major’s eyes. That did not bode well.
“I want the duke to stand before me and admit what he did, acknowledge that he acted in a heartless, dishonorable manner, and then I want him to beg my forgiveness, on behalf of my mother, for his cruelty and neglect.”
A startled female gasp echoed through the silence. Carter turned and saw Dorothea clutching the fabric of her skirt as she tried to stop her hands from shaking. “The duke is a proud man,” Dorothea ventured. “Even if your claim were proven, I am uncertain he would be agreeable to such a request.”
Roddington drew his brows together quickly. “Then he will have to suffer the consequences of the scandal that will ensue.”
Carter remained impassive, but the barb struck home. Roddington had done his research, he knew where to strike to inflict the greatest pain. The duke’s pride in their family name and legacy was legendary. If there was one thing above all others the duke wanted to avoid, it was a taint to that noble lineage.
“You have far underestimated the duke’s influence,” Carter proclaimed. “He is a man respected and admired by society, by the Prince Regent himself. No one will take your side against him, no one will believe such lies.”
“I am not a lad of fifteen anymore, to be so easily intimidated by the high and mighty Duke of Hansborough,” Roddington sneered. “But more importantly, this is not a lie. And I have the document to prove it.”
Roddy jammed his hat down on his head and urged his horse to a faster pace. The breeze hit him full-on, whipping at his face, but he ignored the sharp bite and crouched lower. The faster he rode, the faster he would reach Town and the faster this would all be over. Or would it?
He scowled. Should he have gone to Dorothea? The doubt of his actions twisted inside him, further confusing his thoughts. The confrontation with the duke this morning had gotten him nowhere but frustrated. Stalking down the halls of that palatial mansion, Roddy had wanted to smash his fist into something, knowing that pounding on something, or someone, was likely the only way he would gain any relief.
Instead, he had sent a message to Dorothea and been informed by the butler that she had gone to visit her sister. Uncertain what else to do, he had followed her to her sister’s home. Given the distant relationship she seemed to have with her husband, he did not know that Atwood would be with her.
Roddy’s scowl deepened. Why could he not simply walk away and forget the matter, let it go once and for all? The duke was never going to acknowledge his paternity. And really, what else did he want from the man? Money? No! To form a relationship, some sort of bond? Hardly.
Yet ever since he had been tossed so unceremoniously from that mansion when he was a lad, he had been obsessed with seeking vindication, and he knew in his heart he could never truly be content until he received the justice he felt he deserved. Not so much for himself, but for his mother.
He turned his horse sharply at the bend in the road, the muscles in his legs trembling with anger and hurt at the memory of his mother’s sad, dispirited face. She was a frail, gentle woman who had been dealt a cruel blow in life, and as soon as he was old enough to understand, Roddy had sought to protect his mother from the censure they had lived under.
He had been a well-behaved boy, a model pupil, never complaining, never causing her a moment’s anguish. Yet still she had suffered, for bearing a child out of wedlock, for proving herself unworthy in the eyes of those who sought to judge her circumstances.
Roddy could feel the sorrow rising in him, pushing next to the regret. When he arrived in London, his initial plan had been simple. He reasoned if he could gain Atwood’s friendship, if he could prove himself to be a worthy man, then the marquess might support his claim, would aid him in making the duke take responsibility. Likewise, he had ingratiated himself with Dorothea, thus strengthening his ties to the family.
Like any intelligent military officer, Roddy had never underestimated the enemy. He had not underestimated the duke, who was as cold and hard and autocratic as Roddy believed, as chillingly cruel as he remembered from their one brief encounter so long ago.
What he had underestimated were his own feelings. The emotions he would feel toward Atwood, his half- brother, a strange mix of admiration and jealousy, a basic desire to be liked but, more importantly, believed. For Dorothea, he felt the genuine affection of friendship and the protective instincts of an older brother.
He wondered what their next move would be, then laughed out loud, knowing he had no idea what direction his own actions would take. He did not have in his possession a document proving the duke’s paternity, because one did not exist. He had lied to Atwood and Dorothea to gain some time, to give more credence to the question he hoped he planted in their minds.
The letters detailing the relationship between his mother and the duke had been taken from him, though he
