Elisabeth Fairchild by Captian Cupid

Come home from the fighting? Seen her fed, clothed, educated and loved?”
    “She is mine, then?” Val concluded, voice loud, focus finite.
    She responded in the same  calm, well modulated tone. “I did not say that. I merely ask what would have been different had you known the child existed.”
    A puzzled look furrowed Val’s brow.
    “And if I were to say yes? What then? What would you do with an illegitimate daughter, Valentine?”
    He shook his head, as if he were a bear and she the buzzing bee. “I would . . . would . . .”
    “Expect your parents to look after her while you jaunt across the Continent? Forget that idea. They have already refused her. Perhaps you would send her off to boarding school? Let strangers see to her upbringing? Tell me, would you name her in your will? Would you allow the legitimate children I am sure you will one day father know she exists?”
    Glaring at her he flung his punch cup across the dance floor, shattering glass, scattering the flock of dancers. Shocked gasps met his violence. Alexander stepped between the two of them, ready to come to blows if Val turned his anger on Penny.
    “Slut,” Val spat, loud enough that most everyone present might hear him.et was one of his favorite obscenities when he was drunk.
    She flinched, but stood her ground, steely-eyed. “You would be pleased, perhaps, to hear me say, no, now, would you not? She is not yours?”
    Val’s only reply in that instant was to curse her most foully, before casting up accounts, in the middle of the dance floor.

    Val dozed on the way home, leaning out of the window occasionally to further relieve himself of too much spirits.
    Oscar turned to Alexander during one of these bouts, and whispered, eyes narrowed, “Never did get a straight answer out of her, did he?”
    Alexander shook his head.
    “His, isn’t she?”
    Alexander sighed, shrugged, heart heavy. “I make no assumptions,” he said, mouth dry, the taste of cider bitter on his tongue.

Chapter Eleven

    It dawned sunny and clear the following day, and Alexander knew, at first glance through his bedchamber window, where he would find her. He could not, of course, be sure which of the fells Miss Foster would walk, but that she must walk them today was a certainty.
    And yet, it seemed he would not have a chance to hunt for her. Red-eyed and hang dog, Val slunk early into the breakfast room, a cheerful room with a southern exposure that Val met almost every morning with a scowl and the order to draw the draperies lest he be blinded by the light.
    As a result, Alexander made a habit of breakfasting early, before Val rose, for he liked the light that poured like golden honey across the breakfast table.
    “God help me, “ Val grumbled, squinting at Alexander’s bowl of porridge. “I would rather die than down anything so disgusting.”
    “There is plenty to choose from,” Alexander waved at the sideboard.
    Val groaned, turned his nose up at the sideboard’s steaming dishes, threw himself down in a chair, and carefully, as if it were made of fine china, rested his head upon the white linen tablecloth.
    Yarrow followed him in, and drew the drapes, throwing a cheerless gloom upon the room that Val met with a grunt.
    “Coffee?” Alexander asked, pouring a cup.
    “Gently!” Val grumbled when he set the saucer on the table beside his head.
    “Headache?” Alexander asked.
    The deflated shoulders shrugged wrinkles into the tablecloth. “No worse than usual.
    Oscar sauntered into the room whistling.  “Damn, but it’s dark in here,” he complained, flinging open the draperies nearest the food. He clapped hands together at sight of the sideboard. “Mm. Smells good!  And I have worked up quite an appetite with all last night’s dancing. I am in the mood for coddled eggs and a rasher of bacon. No! Smoked salmon and mushroom toast.”
    Val made a muffled groan. “What puts you in such a good mood?”
    “Oh, I say,” Oscar showed no pity as he spooned