simply tied cravat with some disdain. ‘He is an important and extremely busy man.’
‘No doubt, but I think you will find that he will be most eager to receive me when you show him this,’ Christopher said coolly, handing the man his business card.
The butler hesitated, but he was no fool. Perhaps it was the quiet authority in Christopher’s voice, it most certainly wasn’t his unostentatious attire, but for whatever reason the servant acquiesced. ‘Very well, if you will be so good as to wait here a moment, sir, I will ascertain whether your confidence is well placed.’
Less than a minute later, Christopher was shown into a study on the ground floor. The scent of beeswax polish mingled with the slightly musty smell emanating from the myriad tomes and ledgers which filled the serried ranks of bookcases lining the walls. From the empty grate a faint trace of smoke and coal ash added to the range of prosperously genteel odours.
His heart was pounding in his chest as he approached the middle-aged man seated behind the imposing walnut desk. Lord Henry Armstrong was distinguished rather than handsome, dressed with simple but expensive elegance. His grey hair was sparse on top, there were deep grooves running from his nose to the corners of his mouth and a fretwork of lines across his brow, but beneath heavy lids, his eyes were alert and piercing, his gaze assessing. His reputation as one of the most astute diplomats in government ranks was obviously well deserved. Those eyes met Christopher’s for the very first time, making his stomach lurch in a sickening manner. A distinctive deep blue rimmed with grey, they were his lordship’s most striking feature and were now widening in disbelief. ‘Christopher Fordyce,’ he said faintly, getting to his feet. ‘Is it truly you?’
Ignoring the proffered hand, Christopher sat down, while his lordship made for the side table, pouring himself a large brandy from the crystal decanter. ‘Would you care to join me? No? So be it, but you will excuse me if I avail myself. I find I have need of a stiffener.’ He took a large gulp before sinking back on his chair behind the desk. ‘Excuse me. If you had given me any prior warning—though I doubt it would have lessened the shock. I confess, I never expected this day to arrive.’
Clearly shaken, Lord Armstrong took another draught of brandy before picking up the business card which the butler had delivered. ‘Christopher. So those worthy people retained the name. It was my father’s, God rest him.’ He stared down at the business card again. ‘“Land Surveyor, Mineral and Ore Specialist”,’ he read. ‘You followed Fordyce’s vocation. I trust he is well?’
‘Not particularly. He died two weeks ago.’
‘Ah. My sincere condolences.’ Lord Armstrong mopped his brow. ‘And Mrs Fordyce?’
‘Passed away twelve years ago.’
‘I am sorry to hear that. They were good people. Your business, sir, does it prosper?’
‘I did not come here to exchange pleasantries, but instead to demand some answers from you.’
Lord Armstrong’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Demand?’
‘You heard me correctly,’ Christopher said, pleased to note that his steady and calm tone did not betray his emotions. ‘For a start, will you confirm that you recognise this document? Is it written in your own hand?’
Christopher pushed the thick parchment across the blotter. The aristocrat’s face tightened momentarily before, with an almost imperceptible exhalation of breath, he snatched it up, tugging at the knot on the faded red ribbon which bound it. Lord Armstrong perused the document, his mouth set, his pale complexion turning slowly ashen. When he finally replaced it on the desk, his hands were shaking.
‘There seems little point in indulging in obfuscation. I did indeed write it, under instruction from a trusted legal adviser, now long dead. May I ask how long you have been aware of its existence?’
‘I found it in my—among Mr Fordyce’s private papers while going through his personal effects after the funeral.’
Lord Armstrong imbibed another snifter of brandy. ‘You must excuse me. It has been so long, nearly thirty years. A lifetime ago. But those eyes.’ His smile was grisly. ‘I am afraid there is no denying the provenance of your eyes.’
Revolted, Christopher would have given anything to be able to contradict him but it was inescapably true that his own distinctive blue-grey eyes were an exact match with his lordship’s. That was one unspoken question answered. He forced himself to raise the next sensitive topic. ‘No mention is made in that document of my...’ He cleared his throat. ‘My mother.’
‘No, for one very pertinent reason.’ Lord Armstrong mopped his face again. ‘She died giving birth to you,’ he said heavily. ‘A rather tragic complication.’
‘Tragic for her, and an added complication for you, since it left you saddled with me,’ Christopher said bitterly. ‘Which must have been most inconvenient.’
‘Inconvenient for your mother’s parents, had she lived, since they would have been saddled with you, to use your own terminology.’ His lordship frowned. ‘There was no question of her keeping you, even if she had wanted to—though I can’t imagine why she would have willingly destroyed her marriage prospects. She’d have had no future worthy of the name. However,’ he continued brusquely, ‘it is a moot point—it simply wasn’t an option. You couldn’t have imagined that—no, no, stupid question, of course not, it’s a preposterous notion.’
The truth was that Christopher had indeed clung to that erroneous assumption. Confirmation that he had been summarily rejected by both his parents was a body blow. This man—yes, he had no difficulty in understanding his instinctive rejection, but his mother—had she lived, would she really have been so compliant? Every feeling rebelled. If he had a child, he’d have moved heaven and earth to keep it.
Lord Armstrong however, took his silence for tacit acceptance. ‘So, as you’ll have surmised, there were plans in place long before your birth for your—for your...’
‘Disposal is the word you’re fumbling for,’ Christopher interjected icily. Though he knew in his heart the answer to the next question, he steeled himself to ask it. ‘You did not offer to do the honourable thing and marry her then?’
Lord Armstrong’s look of astonishment was answer enough. To betrayal and rejection he must now add the shame of his bastard blood. ‘You need not answer that,’ Christopher said.
But Lord Armstrong igrnored him. ‘You wish to know the circumstances?’ he asked haughtily. ‘Why not, it is a common enough tale, I fear. I was very young, and barely had my foot on the bottom rung of the ladder at the Foreign Office. Your mother was no servant girl. If she had been, her condition would have been of much less consequence, but even as a callow youth, my tastes were refined. She was well born, and a great beauty.’
‘And no doubt an innocent, until you got your grubby hands on her.’
His lordship permitted himself a slightly lascivious smile, which Christopher found utterly repellent. ‘A catch, no doubt about it. Marriage would have been no hardship, but she was destined for greater things. And no wonder. I’ll be the first to admit, I simply wasn’t in her league back then and so...’
He made a helpless gesture. ‘Damage limitation. The merest whiff of scandal would have put paid to her family’s ambitions for her, and indeed to my own ambitions too. It was imperative that the matter be hushed up. She was closeted away in the country for the duration of her—her—for
