Page 107 of His Improper Lady

“The trust,” Reed replied. “The thing has been in effect for years and years, ever since Alistair signed it. But as best I can tell from his letter, Blackstock never told anyone about it. Never paid out anything. He invested the principal and let it sit there. His letter rambled on about not wanting to die with this sin on his conscience, which is certainly understandable. Apparently, after Alistair ran off, Blackstock didn’t want to tell anyone about the trust because of the distress it would cause Lady Tabitha and Gregory.”

“There you are.” Uncle Bellard beamed. “I didn’t think Alistair was that shallow a young man. He did provide for his children, or, well, he did his best to.”

“It was for your care, entirely separate from Alistair’s estate,” Reed told the Malones. “It made—I mean, it would have made you and your mother independent.”

Tears filled Desiree’s eyes, and she turned to Tom, reaching out for his hand. “This is so...”

“I’m sorry.” Reed looked taken aback. “I’m sure it must be distressing to hear of this miscarriage of duty. I shouldn’t have sprung it on you in that way.”

“No.” Desiree smiled at him, blinking away her tears. “It’s wonderful. It’s the best thing we could have heard.” She turned toward Brock. “You see. Our father did care for you.”

“This can’t be right,” Brock insisted. He turned to Reed. “I’m not Alistair’s child. Only Wells and Desiree are. I was born years before he met my mother.”

“Well, um...” Reed shrugged. “That’s not what the trust says. In the letter, Blackstock called all three of you Alistair’s natural children. It says so in the trust agreement, as well.” Reed pulled a document out of the envelope and handed it to Brock.

As Brock studied it, Uncle Bellard said, “It wouldn’t be impossible, you know. Alistair wanted to marry a young woman, but had to marry Tabitha instead to avoid the scandal. Perhaps that young woman was Stella Malone. And perhaps she bore him a son. There’s nothing to say Alistair didn’t go back to the same woman years later. When were you born?”

“December of 1858,” Brock answered, looking up from the document in his hand.

“There you are. Alistair was married in...” Bellard cast his eyes upward, seeming to search some list in his head. “Yes, definitely 1858. I believe the wedding was May or June. So he was married to Tabitha after March, which would, um, be the pertinent date regarding your birth.” Bellard blushed.

“But... I...” Brock turned to his siblings. “Why wouldn’t they have told me if that was the case?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps because our mother had already told you that polite fiction about your ‘heroic’ father who died. Maybe she wanted to wait until you were older so you’d understand,” Desiree suggested.

“I don’t think you can deny it, Brock,” Wells put in, grinning. “Look around you—you look more like these people than either Desiree or I. That’s why our father gave you his ring. It wasn’t to hold for me. It was because you were Alistair’s son. His first son.”

SOMETIME DURING THE hubbub that followed, Desiree took Tom’s hand and pulled him aside. “I very much like my new family, but right now, I think I’d enjoy a bit of peace and quiet.”

He smiled and they slipped out of the room and walked through the house to the terrace in the rear. Desiree leaned against Tom, and he slid his arm around her shoulders and for a long moment they simply stood, gazing out at the lovely grounds and drinking in the tranquility of the place.

“It’s hard to believe it’s all over,” Tom said.

“Yes. I can’t imagine what we’ll do now,” Desiree replied lightly. She cut her eyes over at Tom, a suggestive smile playing on her lips. “Although I can think of a few things we could do to occupy our time.”

Tom’s pulse quickened, and he turned toward her, his voice thickening with desire. “Miss Malone! What an indelicate thing to say.”

Desiree widened her eyes. “Why, Mr. Quick, your mind goes to the most shocking places. I meant planning our wedding.”

Tom tightened all over, and his hand slid from her. “Desiree...”

“What? Don’t tell me you plan to jilt me.” Her eyes danced. “You should remember I have two brothers.”

“Of course not. But we cannot—Desiree, I can’t ask you to marry me now.” He reminded himself that he had to be practical. Desiree, of course, would charge ahead, ignoring any problems.

“If you are planning to bring up that nonsense about me being a Moreland, I shall scream.”

“No. It’s not that. I meant we have to wait...if you’re willing, that is. I’m not yet in a position—I haven’t saved enough for a house for us. I can’t ask you to live in my flat above the agency.”

“I rather like your flat. I have very pleasant memories of it.” Desiree put her hands on his arms, moving closer, and went up on tiptoe to brush her lips against his.

Everything in him quivered. “Desiree, you’re trying to distract me.”

“Am I succeeding?”

“Yes.” He bent his head to kiss her more thoroughly, one hand curving around the nape of her neck. When at last they broke their kiss, he leaned his forehead against Desiree’s, unable to keep his thumb and fingers from moving up and down her neck in a slow, rhythmic caress. “But it doesn’t change the facts.”

“I would live quite happily with you above the agency...though I fear we would go hungry, as I have little knowledge of saucepans.” Desiree took a half step back to smile up into his face.