When a footman opened the library door and Joseph stepped inside, it was to find his mother and father alone there. His mother was seated beside the fireplace. His father was pacing, his hands clasped behind his back, though he stopped when he saw his son, a frown causing a deep crease between his brows. “Well?” he said after they had all regarded one another silently for a few seconds. “What do you have to say for yourself?” Joseph stood where he was, just inside the door. “Lizzie is my daughter,” he said. “She is almost twelve years old though she looks younger. She was born blind. I have housed and supported her all her life. I have been part of her life from the beginning. I love her.” “She seems like a very sweet child, Joseph,” his mother said. “But how very sad that she is—” The duke quelled her with a look. “I did not ask, Joseph,” he said, “for a history. Of course you have taken responsibility for the support of your bastard child. I would expect no less of a gentleman and a son of mine. What I do need to have explained is the presence of the child in this neighborhood and her appearance at Alvesley this afternoon where she was bound to be seen by your mother and your sister and your betrothed.” As if Lizzie were somehow contaminated. But of course she was in the minds of polite society. “I am hoping to place her at Miss Martin’s school,” he explained. “Her mother died at the end of last year. Lauren invited Miss Martin and Miss Thompson to bring the girls to the picnic this afternoon.” “And you did not think to inform them,” his father asked, his face ruddy with anger, a pulse beating visibly at one temple, “that it would be the depths of vulgarity to bring the blind child with them? Do not attempt an answer. I do not wish to hear it. And do not attempt an explanation of your appalling outburst after Wilma and Miss Hunt had reprimanded that schoolteacher. There can be no explanation.” “Webster,” Joseph’s mother said, “do calm yourself. You will make yourself ill again.” “Then you will know, Sadie, at whose door to lay the blame,” he said. Joseph pursed his lips. “What I do demand,” his father said, turning his attention back to his son, “is that neither your mother nor Wilma nor Miss Hunt ever hear another word of your private affairs after today. You will apologize to your mother in my hearing. You will apologize to Wilma and to Lady Redfield and Lauren and the Duchess of Bewcastle, whose home you have sullied quite atrociously. And you will make your peace with Miss Hunt and assure her that she will never hear the like from you again.” “Mama,” Joseph said, turning his attention to her. She held her hands clasped together at her bosom. “I have caused you distress today, both at the picnic and now. I am deeply sorry.” “Oh, Joseph,” she said, “you must have been more frantic than any of us when that poor child was missing. Did she take any harm?” “Sadie—” the duke said, frowning ferociously. “Shock and exhaustion, Mama,” Joseph said. “No physical injuries, though. Miss Martin is sitting with her. I expect she is asleep by now.” “Poor child,” she said again. Joseph looked back at his father. “I will go and find Portia,” he said. “She is with your sister and Sutton in the flower garden,” his father told him. It was he his father had been censuring, Joseph reminded himself as he left the library—his behavior in allowing Lizzie to be brought to Lindsey Hall and to Alvesley Park today, where she would necessarily be in company with his family and betrothed. And his behavior in allowing himself to be goaded into admitting publicly that Lizzie was his daughter. It was not Lizzie herself he had been censuring. But dash it all, it felt very much as if that had been the case. …your bastard child… …the blind child… And he almost felt that he ought to be ashamed. He had broken the unwritten but clearly understood rules of society. His private affairs, his father had called his secrets, as if every man was expected to have them. But he would not be ashamed. If he admitted he had done wrong, then he was denying Lizzie’s right to be with the other children and with him. Life was not easy—today’s profound thought! He found Portia, as his father had told him, sitting in the flower garden with Wilma and Sutton. Wilma looked at him as if she wished she could convert her eyes into daggers. “You have insulted us all quite intolerably, Joseph,” she said. “To have made such an admission when so many people were listening! I have never been more mortified in my life. I hope you are ashamed.” He wished he could tell her to stuff it, as Neville had done earlier, but she had the moral high ground. Even for Lizzie’s sake, his admission had been rash and inappropriate. Except that the words had been more freeing than any others he had ever uttered, he realized suddenly. “And what do you have to say to Miss Hunt?” Wilma asked him. “You will be very fortunate indeed if she will listen.” “I think, Wilma,” he said, “that what I have to say and what she says in reply ought to be private between the two of us.” She looked as if she was going to argue. She drew breath. But Sutton cleared his throat and took her by the elbow, and she turned without another word and stalked back in the direction of the house with him. Portia, still in the primrose yellow muslin dress she had worn to the picnic, looked as fresh and as lovely as she had at the beginning of the afternoon. She also looked calm and poised. He stood looking down at her, feeling his dilemma. He had wronged her. He had humiliated her in front of a large gathering of his family and friends. But how could he apologize to her w ithout somehow denying Lizzie anew? She spoke first. “You told Lady Sutton and me to hold our tongues,” she said. Good Lord! Had he? “I do beg your pardon,” he said. “It was when Lizzie was missing, was it? I was frantic with worry. Not that that was any excuse for such discourtesy. Do please forgive me. And, if you will, for—” “I do not wish to hear that name again, Lord Attingsborough,” she said with quiet dignity. “I will expect you to have her removed from here and from Lindsey Hall by tomorrow at the latest and then I will choose to forget the whole unfortunate incident. I do not care where you send her or the others like her or the…women who produced them. I do not need or wish to know.” “There are no other children,” he said. “Or mistresses. Has this afternoon’s revelation led you to believe that I am promiscuous? I assure you I am not.” “Ladies are not fools, Lord Attingsborough,” she said, “however naive you may think us. We are perfectly well aware of men’s animal passions and are quite content that they slake them as often as they please, provided it is not with us and provided we know nothing about it. All we ask—all I ask—is that the proprieties be observed.” Good Lord! He felt chilled. Yet surely the truth would make her feel somewhat better, make her less convinced that she was about to marry an animal in the thin guise of a gentleman. “Portia,” he said, gazing down at her, “I believe very firmly in monogamous relationships. After Lizzie was born, I remained with her mother until her death last year. That is why I have not married before now. After our marriage I will be faithful to you for as long as we both live.” She looked back at him, and it struck him suddenly that her eyes were very different from Claudia’s. If there was anything behind them, any depth of character, any emotion, there was certainly no evidence of it. “You will do as you please, Lord Attingsborough,” she said, “as all men are entitled to do. I ask only that you exercise discretion. And I ask for your promise that that blind girl will be gone from here today and from Lindsey Hall tomorrow.” That blind girl. He strolled a few feet away from her and stood looking at a bed of hyacinths growing against a wooden trellis, his back to her. It was a reasonable request, he supposed. To her—probably to everyone at Alvesley and Lindsey Hall—it must seem that keeping Lizzie close was in extremely poor taste. Except that Lizzie was a person. She was an innocent child. And she was his. “No,” he said, “I cannot make that promise, I’m afraid, Portia.” Her silence was more accusing than words would have been. “I have observed the proprieties for all these years,” he said. “My daughter had a mother and a comfortable home in London, and I could see her whenever I wished, which was every day when I was in town. I told no one about her except Neville, and never took her where we would be seen together. I accepted that that was the way it must be. I never had real cause to question society’s dictates until Sonia died and Lizzie was left alone.” “I do not wish to hear this,” Portia said. “It is quite improper.” “She is not quite twelve,” he said. “She is far too young for any independence even if she were not blind.” He turned to look at her. “And I love her,” he said. “I cannot banish her to the periphery of my life, Portia. I will not. But my worst mistake, I realize now, was not telling you about her sooner. You had a right to know.” She said nothing for a while. She sat as still as any statue, delicate and lovely beyond belief. “I do not believe I can marry you, Lord Attingsborough,” she said then. “I had no wish to know of any such child and am only amazed that you think now you ought to have informed me about that dreadful creature, who cannot even see. I will not hear any more about her, and I will not tolerate knowing that she remains here or even at Lindsey Hall. If you cannot promise to remove her, and if you cannot promise that I will never hear of her again, I must withdraw my acceptance of your offer.” Strangely, perhaps, he was not relieved. Another broken engagement—even if it would be obvious to the ton that she was blameless in both—would surely render her almost unmarriageable. And she was no young girl. She must be in her middle twenties already. And in the eyes of society, her demands would appear quite reasonable. But—that dreadful creature… Lizzie! “I am sorry to hear it,” he said. “I beg you to reconsider. I am the same man you have known for several years. I fathered Lizzie long before I knew you.” She got to her feet. “You do not understand, Lord Attingsborough, do you?” she said. “I will not hear her name. I will go now and write to Papa. He will not be pleased.” “Portia—” he said. “I believe,” she said, “you no longer have any right to use that name, my lord.” “Our engagement is off, then?” he asked her. “I cannot imagine anything that would make me reconsider,” she told him, and turned to walk back to the house. He stood where he was, watching her go. It was only when she had disappeared from sight that he felt the beginnings of elation. He was free! 20