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his own, he would not have her as his wife. If he became the duke, he would
banish her from his sight, but the house was still his father’s so he had no
say if she lived here now. But the son, Beau wasn’t certain about. Nothing was
the boy’s fault and acknowledging him was the right thing to do.
    Beau stepped forward and held out his hand. “First, I will
take my son to his room and bid him good night. Tomorrow we will discuss the
ramifications of whatever decision I will make when I have had time to consider
what I will acknowledge...or not.”
    “Beau,” said his father on a low warning note. “You cannot
deny the marriage. It is done.”
    Beau looked down at his father. “I will not be rash. I am
not the callow youth who left here a decade ago. I will be considered and
thoughtful in my decision on how to go forward, and I would know that
this boy is worthy of the Havendish name.”
    “He is a good lad, studious and serious. He will make a fine
duke one day.”
    Every word of his father’s grated like the sound of a
machete grinding against a whetstone. Beau had never been serious with his
studies. What was the point? No matter how poorly he did in school, his degree
would be conferred on him by virtue of his father being a duke. No, Beau had
rather enjoy himself than spend useless hours studying, and it wasn’t as if
he’d ever been expected to take over the dukedom—but everything was different
now.
    “Beau—” began his father.
    “You know him. I do not. You should be glad that I am not so
rash as when I left.”
    The duke opened his mouth and then closed it. He opened it
again. “You cannot leave their status in limbo—”
    “I have been neither dead nor alive for near a decade. A few
days for them will matter not.” Beau shifted his attention to the boy Yvette
stood behind, her hands on his shoulders.
    Etienne stared at his outstretched hand but refused to be
drawn back or move forward. Then Yvette leaned down and whispered in the boy’s
ear. “You must go with your papa.”
    The boy’s nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed.
    “Come, Etienne, you should at least get to know me before
you decide if you hate me,” said Beau.
    Beau waited to see if the child would take his hand.
    Yvette stroked her son’s hair.
    Even that soothing maternal gesture reminded him that she
had cheated him out of the first eight years of his son’s life.
    She whispered to her son to obey and be a perfect gentleman.
Of course the scheming bitch would do anything to keep her place in the world,
even toss her own son to the lions.
    Not that Beau was a lion or would feed on his young.
    The boy’s lips tightened. He marched past Beau’s extended
hand and reached for the newel post. And Beau added being cheated of knowing
his son as another mark against Yvette, as if she didn’t already have enough to
damn her to hell.
    *~*~*
    “You are not my father,” Etienne said to the man who’d
followed him to the nursery floor, into his room, waited while his nurse helped
him into his nightclothes, and now stood fingering the spines of his books.
Etienne wanted him to remove that rough finger from his things.
    “If I am not your papa then you have no right to be here,”
said the man going on to finger the tin soldiers lined up on the shelves. “And
these are not your things.” He turned around and his eyes went soft.
    Maman always said he had his papa’s eyes. Etienne jerked his
head toward the dusky window.
    “But I am your father, Etienne. Of that much we can be
certain. You remind me of myself at your age.”
    Maman and Grandpere said he looked like his papa, but this
man was burnt like a farm worker and had an African for a friend. He was
nothing like the man standing there. This man couldn’t be his father. His
father was dead. “A slave cut mon pere with his machete.”
    The man went still. “I am sorry to hear that.”
    His voice was kind and Etienne didn’t want him being kind.
“I hate it here. I want to