He remembered very clearly how he had once viewed her.
How his son no doubt viewed her now. Common.
For a mad, jarring moment, he wondered: was his affair merely the inevitable result of forced proximity?
Was this, indeed, how men like him became fools for women like her?
One Night Only.
Soon, it would be all they’d have left.
The thought of that tensed his muscles again, and his face went grim. He knew at once that proximity had nothing to do with the inevitability.
“So I wondered . . . why on earth are you living in a boardinghouse haunted by a woman like that?” Arthur sounded a little amused. But mostly deadly serious.
James slowly lifted his head.
“Women . . . like . . . what?” he said softly.
His son’s eyes flared widely in surprise. He’d heard that tone often enough to know he needed to tread carefully.
“It’s just that I was surprised to discover that”—he lowered his voice—“it was thought she’d fled the country, or drowned herself, due to the scandal, and now suddenly all is well and she’s putting on a show?”
“The whole mess involving Kilhone and Revell, you mean.”
“Of course.”
“To my earlier question. Could you kindly elucidate how she differs from other women of your acquaintance?”
He was simultaneously coldly incensed and genuinely curious about what Arthur would say.
But his son was both clearly reluctant to elucidate and baffled by James’s tone.
“You’ve known me your entire life, Arthur. Tell me, what opinion do you have of my patience?”
“Well, they’ve wiles, don’t they?” His son had lowered his voice again. “Women like her. And their morals are . . .”
Something in his father’s expression killed the end of his sentence.
“Are you laboring under the misapprehension that the ladies of the ton, young or old, do not possess wiles? You’re married, for God’s sake. How do you suppose you got that way? I hope you’re not thinking it was entirely your idea.”
“She . . .” He paused and furrowed his brow to think about it. “Do you think . . . my wife was . . . She wouldn’t dream of . . . having wiles.” He trailed off, amidst a dawning comprehension.
Valkirk snorted. “Thank God for women and their wiles, or men would never get anything done.”
“Hmm. Well, Miss Wylde had two lovers, whom she set against each other, and one shot the other, and he barely survived. I shouldn’t like to see that happen to you.”
And this was what happened to gossip. And why, even when it vanished from the newspaper, it grew on, misshapen, like a cancer, and spread among society. At the center was something approximating truth, but the farther it traveled, the more contours grew ragged and wrong and increasingly evil.
“Lies,” James said coldly.
Which brought his son up short. “It was in the London Times,” he pointed out cautiously. “Kilhone was shot. Two men were involved.”
“Yes. That much was true. They printed lies. It was gossip, and the rest was lies.”
Since his father was so seldom wrong, and arguing with him had always proved a fool’s errand, his son fell quiet.
But he was clearly still confused.
For God’s sake. He’d managed to keep his son out of gaming hells and away from lightskirts who excelled at getting young aristocrats, particularly drunk ones, to part with their money. He was educated and erudite. He was a kind person, and perhaps a trifle too lazy and too innocent.
But what had tested him? Did he need to be tested?
He’d wanted him to be innocent of the worst of the world. Who would wish upon his own child the things he’d seen? God willing, there would be no more wars in England in his lifetime. He’d thought doing some actual work might help shape Arthur’s character into something sturdier and more distinct. It was why he’d given him the farm—raising sheep and selling quality wool seemed like just the sort of thing a clever man could transform into a useful, profitable enterprise.
And yet here they were.
“Three things, Arthur. Do you really think one small woman can cause an outbreak of duels? Secondly, do you really think I’d be so reckless with my life or anyone else’s? And thirdly, do you really think anyone is going to best me in a duel?”
“It’s just . . . at a certain age . . . men take notions to . . .”
He wasn’t brave enough to continue that sentence in light of the duke’s expression.
“I’m forty-three years old. I may yet live another year.”
A tense silence ensued.
And then James understood his son, was, in fact, genuinely worried.
He’d lived with a father whose job could have killed him anytime. He thought of Mariana watching her father blown off a jetty, lost forever, and the pure joy she took in the memory of the mere sight of green fields, and all the boys lost in the war, and— His astonishing good fortune swept over him, and suddenly all frustration with his son gave way to patience. And gratitude.
He took pains to gentle his tone.
“You’ve naught to worry about. Miss Wylde is a guest in a boardinghouse. I am a guest in this boardinghouse in an entirely different wing. I have no intention of dying anywhere apart from my bed, at an advanced age. I am focusing on completing my memoirs in a place where I thought no one would be able to find me to interrupt me. Clearly this is one of those rare occasions where I am wrong.”
His son took this in. “Truthfully, it does sound like something you would do.”
“The tea is good, Arthur. Sit. Drink it.”
His son sank down onto a settee and obeyed. He poured, sugared, and sipped, then lifted his eyebrows appreciatively.
He had another look around the room again, and the faintly pleased, faintly puzzled look settled in.
The duke sat on the settee opposite him.
“How are your memoirs going, Father?”
“Oh, apace.”
“What part have you reached?”
“I’m just about to write the chapter about the time my son arrived to warn me about the wiles of women.”
His son grinned. “I told a few friends you were writing your memoirs. They’re eager to read them. Did you know, every boy I knew at Eton was given a copy of Honor as soon as they could read? ‘Cor, he’s your da?’ I was so proud. You made the world seem like a safer, nobler place for everyone. I traded stories about you for favors.”
The duke took this in. Why, suddenly, this swoop of crushing sadness, and where did it come from?
It was as if something, in this moment, was being irrevocably decided for him.
How could he ever tear down or tarnish the image of himself so cherished by his son?
“I’ve friends who confided in me that they grew up asking, ‘What would Valkirk do?’ every time they encountered a particularly sticky wicket.”
“For God’s sake, Arthur. I’m hardly Moses on the mountain. I wrote Honor during the boring parts of war. They could also read Marcus Aurelius, just for starters, if they’d need of some wisdom.”
“True. You’ve not got a patch on Marcus Aurelius.”
The duke laughed. Thank God Arthur had a sense of humor.
“Still, it’s a comfort to me knowing that when I have children they will grow up with you as such an influence. And that boys who grow up without fathers have someone like you to look to for guidance. So thank you, Father.”