Page 2 of The Trouble with Tweed

“I’m sorry, you are…?” He tilted his head, his red-blond hair shifting over his forehead, reminding him that he was in need of a cut. Perhaps after his fencing appointment, he would have his valet trim it.

In response to his question, the lady only laughed. “There’s no need for that here, Michael. We don’t need to pretend not to know each other in your own home.”

He racked his brain, trying to place the lady, but the more he tried, the more certain he was that he’d never seen her before in his life.

“I don’t know who you are.” He gripped the back of the chair he stood behind, grateful that there were several items of furniture—and two footmen—between himself and the woman. He didn’t know quite what this was, but it was nothing good, that was for certain.

She pressed a hand to her ample bosom and blinked rapidly, as if trying to contain tears. “That’s going to be very difficult to explain to our son, my lord.”

Michael’s eyebrows flew upward. “Our son?” Michael’s question was produced in much the same way as when Dr. Halveston thwacked the spot beneath his knee and his foot swung forward—reactionary, automatic.

“He’s just a wee baby,” the woman said, starting to cry. “We’ve been put out of our rooms and I don’t know what to do. I’ve been writing you letters.”

“Letters,” he repeated stupidly.

Michael had received no such letters. This was the first he’d heard of any child, and there was no possibility of having a son, not when he’d never engaged in the prerequisite activities. The truth of the matter would have come to him immediately if he hadn’t been so thrown by the bizarre interlude.

It was only natural he felt a bit set back on his heels—it had been a very trying morning even before he’d arrived home to find a delusional young lady in his parlor. This was not the first ambush he’d experienced today, though, strangely, this one was perhaps more subtle than the tea he’d shared with Aunt Dora and her meddling friends.

“Are you sure you have the right house?” he asked.

The footmen shared weighted glances. Even though Michael knew this was all some horrible mistake, he wondered what whispers would come of it. Rumors were like a glass of port spilled on a carpet—a momentary lapse in balance could lead to a permanent stain.

The young lady produced a handkerchief from somewhere on her person and started sniffling into it. “I never thought you would treat me like this. Never thought you would fail to care for me or our child.”

Just as she uttered the last shocking sentence, a real lady—the last lady Michael would ever want to witness such a scene—strode through the door. Miss Claire Preston was as icily beautiful as she’d ever been, though even Michael had to admit that the recent addition of an expensive wardrobe had sent her beauty to stunning new heights. Today she wore a navy day dress with a trim jacket over it. The lines of the gown looked like her—sharp and a bit severe, but stunningly beautiful.

How was she, of all people, here? Especially considering that they hadn’t spoken in nearly four years?

Claire frowned at the room collectively, at Michael in particular, then focused her disapproval on the lady blubbering on the chaise longue. The young woman didn’t seem to notice they had additional company.

“How could you?” she cried.

She was really gaining steam now. Her volume increased, and she’d even achieved the wetness of tears upon her cheeks. If Michael hadn’t been the object of her vitriol, he might have been impressed with her commitment to the charade.

“Michael, what on earth did you do?” Claire asked crisply.

At the sound of her voice, the other woman jolted and looked up from her wrung handkerchief. “He had a child off of me and now won’t even send us so much as a farthing.”

“I had no idea that congratulations were in order.” Claire smirked at him.

“They aren’t.” He was barely restraining himself from bellowing at the entire room.

“He abandoned us,” the woman insisted with large, tear-filled eyes.

“How dreadful,” Claire tsked, even as she motioned to the maid standing at the sideboard and very clearly mouthed tea. “Michael, how could you do such a thing?”

“I didn’t,” he protested.

This was like a terrible fever dream. He’d never felt this out of sorts, not even when he’d been dosed with laudanum after a bad fall from a horse years ago. He pinched himself discreetly, to see if it helped.

It didn’t.

“Yes,” the young woman warbled. “How could you do this to me and baby Michael?”

Claire gave him a serene smile, even as he raked his fingers through his hair. “You named your son after yourself? How charming. Though it does seem strange that the little fellow isn’t here. I assume you aim to rectify that immediately. I daresay, Michael, it’s bad form to keep your heir and the mother of your child in an apartment. They should move in here immediately.”

“Exactly what I was thinking, my lord.” The young lady perked up enough to glance around the richly appointed parlor with clear avarice, as if imagining herself lady of the house.