Page 38

T he tension in Piers’s body was palpable.

It was a huge relief to Belinda that he was no happier to see Charlotte Lavoisier than she was.

It was no coincidence that the woman was here, in the very place she and Piers had been told to go to—Mrs. Dove-Lyon had planned this meeting.

But what could she possibly mean by it? It cost Belinda an enormous effort to straighten her back and appear unconcerned.

Charlotte approached, but Piers made no effort to go toward her, and she stopped a few feet away.

It was clear that she’d been crying, and she pulled out a lacy handkerchief and dabbed at her cheeks.

Belinda narrowed her eyes—she mustn’t let this display soften her heart.

Both she and Piers knew this woman to be a consummate actress—and a liar.

They owed her nothing, but she owed them a great deal.

Piers wasted no time on social niceties. “Why did you tell me you’d borne me a son, Charlotte? It was a bare-faced lie. Whose is the child with whom you tried to fool us?”

Charlotte gazed at Piers for a long while, searching his face, looking him up and down. Of course—she hadn’t seen him in years. How changed he must seem to her! No longer the youth he had once been.

Eventually, Charlotte lowered her eyes and gestured toward the open door of the church. “Forgive me. I’ll explain everything—but not here. Let us at least be private.”

Belinda battled a sense of foreboding as they entered the shadowy interior. However, the familiar smell of beeswax, dust, and old wood eased her fears, and the rainbow mosaic of sunlight flooding through the east window seemed to offer hope rather than adversity.

“We ought to sit down,” Charlotte suggested.

Piers hadn’t spoken again. He must have plenty to say, but one look at his face suggested he was too outraged to know where to start.

Belinda felt his agony, his frustration—for six years, he’d thought himself a father, for six years he’d dug deep and worked hard to keep the boy and his mother in comfort, and for six years, he’d missed out on love.

Charlotte Lavoisier had done him irreparable damage, when all the time, he’d thought he was doing the right thing by her.

Charlotte laid her hand on a thick, leather-bound volume with narrow pages. It seemed to give her strength.

“You will be wondering why Mrs. Dove-Lyon has brought us all together in this place.”

“We most certainly are. I can’t understand why you should be in on the secret when we are not. I shan’t be taking my custom to Mrs. Dove-Lyon ever again.” Piers’s tone was icy.

“I’ve spoken to her. She wanted to know my story, because she wanted to help you, Miss Bellamy, and you, Piers, reach the mutual affection of which she was certain you were capable. She was right, wasn’t she?”

“What has passed between myself and Miss Bellamy is no business of hers, or yours, Charlotte. I owe you nothing.”

Charlotte blinked. “Please, Piers—you don’t understand. If you could let me finish—”

She shot an appealing look at Belinda who, after a moment’s consideration, reached for Piers’s hand and clasped it firmly.

“I suppose we ought to give her a chance to tell her story, oughtn’t we?”

He gazed at her for a long moment, then gave the briefest of nods.

“When I met Piers Darvill, there was already a man in my life. His name was Henry Sutton—Harry, they called him. I realize now that he was a brute, but at the time, I loved him, heart and soul, and put up with everything to win his heart. He claimed to love me, and we lived together as husband and wife, even though we weren’t.

Sometimes, he’d grow tired of me and we fought, and I’d be left by myself, bruised and miserable.

I made up my mind to forget him and take up my old life again, touring the provinces, occasionally treading the boards in London.

But then Harry would track me down, full of remorse for abandoning me.

I’d fall for his stories, his soothing words, his gifts—and take up with him again.

One time, he was away so long, I thought he’d gone for good, and that was when I met Piers.

I’ll spare you the details, Miss Bellamy.

He can tell you himself... if he wants to. ”

Charlotte glanced around at the church, then at the book where her hand still rested, and finally at Piers.

“I never meant to become Piers’s mistress, because in my heart I was still—in everything but name—the wife of Harry Sutton.

Call me a fool if you will—but Love is blind, and leads people into the greatest folly.

Piers was a breath of fresh air compared to Harry—he made me happy, and he made me forget the pain I carried inside.

I never wanted things to go so far, but to my shame, they did, and I became pregnant with Piers’s child. ”

Piers’s fingers dug roughly into Belinda’s. “Why should I believe this, when everything else has been deceit and lies? You never told me anything about Harry Sutton. And we already know that the boy called Oliver—for whom you’ve been fleecing me these past six years—isn’t mine.”

Charlotte dabbed at another tear and the ice in Belinda’s heart melted. If the woman was not exhibiting genuine feeling then she truly was an excellent actress.

“I’ll come to that. As you know, I wouldn’t marry you, or become your mistress, and now you understand why.

Harry Sutton was part of my life, and I both loved and feared him.

Sometimes I hated him, too, but invisible chains held us together, stronger than steel.

It made no difference what he did, or how long we were apart.

He was furious about the baby, of course, and threatened to leave me again unless I told you it was yours and demanded money for its upkeep.

Some of that money kept Harry in drink, I confess, but I fought to save what I could for the upkeep of the child.

We named him Oliver, after my brother, but alas, he did not survive. ”

Charlotte gulped and dabbed at her face. The tears were flowing freely, now, and Belinda felt moisture in her own eyes. Oh, what a performance! But poor Piers, if what the woman said was true.

“I swear to you—I did everything I could. I got the best physicians I could afford, but there was no saving him. Oliver died of dysentery not long after that portrait was painted, the one in the locket I sent you. I felt so hollow, so empty. Then I was blessed with a second pregnancy. Harry’s child. ”

“You should have come to me when Oliver was sick.” Piers’s face had set like marble, but there was a catch in his voice.

Reminded of her loss, of the death of dear little Adam, Belinda clung to him, reveling in his strength. He caught her by the shoulder and held her close, understanding her pain, even as he was struggling to come to terms with his own.

“Continue,” he commanded.

“Harry forced me to say nothing to you about your son. We named our new baby Oliver, too, and I continued collecting your money, assured by Harry that you’d never find out.

We needed it—I couldn’t work for a bit after the birth, and there was no let-up in Harry’s excesses.

He should have kept us—he was fit and strong and could do casual dock work, loading and unloading and suchlike.

But then he’d come up with some grand scheme and disappear for weeks on end.

He never came back any richer, and I don’t know to this day what he did when he went out to the provinces.

Forgive me for carrying on the deception, Piers.

You were so good to me when we were together—you didn’t deserve what I did to you. I’ll regret it until my dying day.”

“But you encountered a problem with your duplicity, didn’t you, Charlotte?”

Were it not for the tremor Belinda felt in Piers’s body, she would have thought him unmoved by the performance.

Charlotte glanced at him in surprise. “What do you mean?”

“The locket you sent me, with Oliver’s portrait, showed an infant with dark hair.”

“Our Oliver—yours and mine—had hair so dark it was almost black. Harry Sutton has the brightest of blond hair, as do I, so it wasn’t surprising that the new baby should have the same blond hair.

I hoped it might darken with age, but it never did.

I was so afraid you’d find us eventually, that I dyed it.

And you did find us—and when Miss Bellamy appeared on our doorstep, Oliver’s hair hadn’t been darkened for a while.

Harry was away on one of his enterprises and I’d been too busy to dye it. ”

Charlotte hung her head. “Then, of course, you stopped the payments, Piers. Not long after that, Harry came running back, having discovered through one of his London cronies that the banns were being read for your wedding. That put the fear of God into him—hence the ultimatum he forced me to send.”

Belinda squeezed Piers’s hand and leaned forward. “How on earth did Mrs. Dove-Lyon become involved in all of this?”

“Harry delivered the ultimatum himself, never expecting anyone at the Lyon’s Den might have him followed—I mean, who would suspect such a thing?

But I now know Mrs. Dove-Lyon had a stake in your relationship because she’s a matchmaker.

If you were one of her projects, we’d be a fly in the ointment.

There’d been a street urchin loitering around our new lodgings for a few days, but then he vanished, and not long afterward, Mrs. Dove-Lyon showed up. A formidable woman, that one.”

Piers nodded, and Belinda couldn’t help but agree. No one would ever discover all there was to learn about the proprietor of the Lyon’s Den.