Kate Moore by An Improper Widow Read Free Book Online Page B

recall that the lad had a touch of a Scot accent. The fellow was not one of his father’s men then, but a hireling.
    “You are the subject of the latest
on dit
, Warne,” Margaret told him.
    His hands clenched, and his mount danced uneasily. He checked the animal. “With my search for a bride?” he asked.
    “That, too,” said Margaret, a hint of laughter in her green eyes. Then she sobered. “There is a story going about that a highwayman held up two young ladies of fashion and left them with one of your cards. You know the message it bore. The speculation, of course, is that you have a natural son.”
    Warne straightened, momentarily forgetting his surroundings. It was too like an exploit of his. He had held up his father’s mistress once, relieved her of a necklace his father had given her, and sent the bauble to his mother with his father’s compliments. Who but his father would remember and avenge that act? “Who’s telling this tale?” he asked.
    “Lady Lacy,” said Margaret. “The blonde you startled at the Somerset ball.”
    “Flows as steady as the Thames,” said Lord Wilton. He made a gesture with his hand to indicate a mouth opening and closing.
    “Her daughter and niece met the man, who handed them your card,” Margaret added.
    “What did he take from them?” he asked curtly.
    “Nothing that I’ve heard of.”
    “Who are they?” He had to know.
    “The baron is a miser, I think, keeps to his estate, never comes to town. His lady delights in gossip. I can point her out.” Margaret lifted her chin and surveyed the park. “There, in the black landau.”
    Warne turned to see an odd tableau—the fair but full beauty he remembered from the Somerset ball, frozen in mid-speech, a lovely younger version of the woman tumbling out of the carriage, and a slim woman in a dark brown cape, leaning out after her. The fair-haired girl, her golden curls shining in the afternoon sun, moved as if quite conscious of the pretty picture she made.
    The woman in brown now descended from the carriage, as lightly as had the other, but with more dignity. She glanced at him briefly, as if aware of his scrutiny, and paused, catching his gaze on her. A defiant spark flashed in the dark eyes and was instantly veiled. Warne thought it a trick of habit. He had a moment to note the straight, slim figure in the brown cape. Then with a quick, purposeful stride the woman set off after the girl chasing the bonnet.
    Warne was sure they had no connection with him, had never been part of his life, yet the fellow with the cards, the man who seemed to know Warne’s past, had given them his card. It made no sense, and it certainly was nothing his father would have planned. But they had met his thief and would know whether he was young or old, tall or short, fat or lean, well-bred or an oaf. So Warne must meet them.
    ***
    Kirby leaned upon the cane he had borrowed from Draycot. He felt he had the hang of it now, and tapped along the path quite confidently. He had had another success. He had managed to purchase a fine new beaver on the strength of his father’s card, and he had come to the park to seek his father out and tip the new hat to him. For once Lord Warne was providing for the son he’d fathered and forgotten.
    The only difficult moment in the whole scheme had come when the haberdasher, looking up from the card, had addressed Kirby as “my lord.” He had been obliged to drop one of his packages in order to conceal his surprise. He realized then that he had not been clear-headed about the long list of Warne’s titles. The entry in
Debrett’s
applied to his grandfather, and he had not considered that now that his father had inherited, Dovedale would be his son’s title, if that son were acknowledged.
    It was that realization as much as anything that had drawn him to the park to look upon the
ton.
He had donned a gray wig and beard and now leaned upon a cane, but he wore the curly brimmed beaver he had purchased at a