“I assure you, Mr. Thorn—er, Your Grace, this is no jest. If you’ll allow me to—”
“I’ll allow you to nothing.” Pierce was on his feet, striding toward the door. “You’ve obviously received some gravely erroneous information. I didn’t even know the Duke of Mark—”
“Did you know Cara Thornton?” Hollingsby asked quietly.
Pierce came to an abrupt halt. Turning, he stared at the solicitor through furiously narrowed eyes. “You’d best have a damned good reason for speaking my mother’s name. She’s dead. If you’ve been paid to sully her character—”
“Cruelty is not my forte, sir. Nor am I so badly in need of funds that I would compromise my integrity. I assure you, no one has paid me to ruin your deceased mother. Quite the contrary, in fact. Now, will you sit and listen to what I have to say?”
Like a prowling tiger, Pierce crossed the room and perched, whip taut, on the edge of the chair.
“Thank you,” Hollingsby said, resettling himself and pointing to the pages in his hand. “I have here a letter and a legally binding codicil to the Duke of Markham’s will. Several months ago he summoned me to his manor, where he asked me to draw up the papers. I complied. It is my opinion that he meant to send for you in order to reveal the contents himself. Unfortunately, he took sick shortly after the papers were executed, with an illness from which he never recovered. Therefore, you are hearing this information today for the first time.”
“What information?”
“The late Duke of Markham was your father.”
Father.
The word hit him like an avalanche, its odious shock waves crashing through Pierce in harsh, physical blows.
“The letter is written in the duke’s own hand,” Hollingsby was continuing. “I can attest to that. Of course, you’re welcome to read it yourself, and the codicil as well, after I’ve had the opportunity to explain its terms and conditions. First, however, I’d like to clarify your true origins by recounting the details of the duke’s letter.” When he was greeted with nothing but silence, Hollingsby looked up, taking in Pierce’s rigid jaw. “Are you all right, sir?”
“Go on,” Pierce ordered through clenched teeth.
Hollingsby nodded, skimming the first page he held. “The duke met your mother some two and thirty years ago in a London pub. It was a dismal time of his life. He was estranged from his duchess, embittered by the knowledge that she seemed unable to give him a child. Your mother was a young and beautiful tavern maid, filled with vitality, hope, and passion. Markham fell in love with her on the spot.
“Over the next six months he returned to the tavern, and Cara, as often as he could, casting protocol and consequence to the wind, heeding only the dictates of his heart.”
“But consequence caught up with him,” Pierce interrupted, the heinous pieces falling rapidly into place. “He filled my mother’s belly with his child, then cast her aside and returned to his rightful title, his rightful position, and his rightful wife.”
Hollingsby nodded again, scanning that section of the letter. “Yes. Markham says himself that he was weak. Much as he loved Cara, he couldn’t bring himself to sacrifice everything and endure ostracism and scandal. So he turned her, and their unborn child, away.
“But, try though he would, he couldn’t forget them, nor would his conscience allow him to rest. After months of internal struggle, he went in search of Cara, only to find she’d lost her job and vanished. He panicked, and began an investigation of her whereabouts. It took months before he discovered her and the son she’d borne him living at the House of Perpetual Hope in Leicester. His intentions were to forsake everything and come forward to claim them.
“It was at that time his duchess announced she was with child. Needless to say, that altered everything.”
“Needless to say,” Pierce bit out, venom burning his throat.
“Markham had no choice but to commit himself to his wife and unborn heir. However, that didn’t prevent him from worrying over Cara and their son. He sent money as often as he could—anonymously, of course—and prayed that it reached them.”
“It didn’t.”
Hollingsby flinched at the hatred in Pierce’s tone. “Then the duke received a report of Cara’s death. At that point he knew he had to do more.”
“More than what? More than allow her to waste away and die in a workhouse? More than condemn his son to hell?”
“He began making personal visits to the workhouse,” Hollingsby responded. “The letter is vague about what explanation he gave the headmaster, but clearly no one knew his true reason for being there.”
“Which was?”
“To check on his son—Cara’s son.” The solicitor lifted his gaze, blanching beneath Pierce’s frigid stare. “You.”
“How touching.” Abruptly, Pierce rose, turning his back to Hollingsby. “And, having seen me, was he deeply moved? Did he make any attempt to free me from the prison I was living in?”
“He couldn’t. If he had—”
“If he had, everyone of importance would have known he’d fathered a bastard,” Pierce supplied with brutal accuracy. “And that might have angered his duchess and compromised the position of his legitimate heir. Right, Hollingsby? Isn’t that what you’re saying?”