St. Clare ascended the stairs. “Then you’re not half as intelligent as I gave you credit for.”
Lionel’s eyes gleamed beneath his heavy lids. “Ah. You’ve read the report in Bell’s Weekly Messenger, I gather.”
“A report that you’re responsible for.”
“As you say, Cousin, you give me too much credit.” He gestured for St. Clare to join him in the townhouse’s well-appointed drawing room. “Madre will be pleased to see you. She’s been grieved that neither you or Lord Allendale have yet seen fit to call on her. An oversight, I’m sure.”
Lavinia Beresford was perched on a plump-cushioned settee, a beribboned lace cap upon her head and a scrap of embroidery in her hands. “Lord St. Clare!” Setting aside her needlework, she rose and executed a curtsy. “Do come in, my lord. And pray sit down.” She flashed her son an arch look. “How naughty you are, Lionel. You might have told me your cousin was expected.”
“He wasn’t expected,” Lionel replied.
“I should have been,” St. Clare said, “after that scurrilous report in the paper.”
“You’ve read it, have you?” Mrs. Beresford made a clucking noise as she resumed her seat. “Such a shock! To insinuate that you were born in Somerset of all places. An imposter they seem to believe. Not half-Italian at all. I wonder where they can have got such an idea?”
Lionel sat down, uttering a languid sigh. “Lord St. Clare believes it was we who gave it to them.”
“We?” Her eyes went wide. “But we know nothing at all about you, my lord. Nothing about your life in Italy, nor in Somerset.” She tittered. “Though I see no great difficulty in clearing up the matter. All you need do is present your parents’ marriage lines. They have such, don’t they? Even on the continent, I believe.”
St. Clare made no move to sit. This wasn’t a social call. “By what right do you demand proof from me?”
“Oh no. We would never demand. Not from Allendale’s heir. What must you think of us?” Another titter. “To be sure, it’s only a bit of advice. If an heir—a presumptive heir—is accused of being illegitimate, why, it stands to reason that the simplest course is for him to show his papers. Why wouldn’t he produce them if he has nothing to hide?”
“My grandfather won’t take kindly to your demands,” St. Clare said. “Simple or otherwise.”
“They’re quite unobjectionable,” Mrs. Beresford said. “And made in the familial spirit.”
“They are, madam, equivalent to calling my grandfather a liar. To calling me a liar.” St. Clare stepped forward. “And we neither of us take kindly to being called liars. Indeed, I find I can’t abide the charge with any degree of equanimity.”
She blinked rapidly. “We would never—”
“Which is why I must ask you, madam,” he said in the same cold voice, “which one of you spoke to the papers?”
Lionel cleared his throat. “If you mean to call me out, St. Clare, know this: I’m unskilled with pistols, and equally so with swordplay. You’ll get no satisfaction—”
“Your cousin wouldn’t call you out, my love,” Mrs. Beresford said. “What a notion!”
“Which one of you?” St. Clare asked again.
For the first time, Lionel seemed to falter. He looked a trifle white about the mouth.
Mrs. Beresford had gone a bit pale herself, but she was quick to rally. “I may have mentioned an incident or two I observed at the ball. There’s no harm in talk. Not when facts, properly presented, can so easily disprove the rumors.”
Some of the tension in Lionel’s expression eased. “Just as Madre says,” he agreed. “People will talk, you know. And if it should become cumbersome—these rumors about your legitimacy—you’ve only to produce your papers. That’s not so much to ask, is it? The way you’re behaving now, you’d think I’d done you an irreparable harm.”
St. Clare turned on him. “Was it you, then?”
“He misspoke,” Mrs. Beresford said hastily. “I already admitted it was I who talked to the paper. My son is blameless.”
St. Clare didn’t believe her for a minute. “What manner of man are you,” he asked his cousin, “to hide behind the skirts of your mother?”
Lionel’s cheeks flushed. “This from a man who has no mother at all. No mother anyone’s ever heard of.” He jutted his chin. “I’ll not be lectured to by you, sir. If you mean to call me out—”
“No one is calling anyone out today.” The Earl of Allendale’s voice rang out.
St. Clare’s head jerked to the drawing room doorway just in time to see his grandfather walk into the room. He came to a halt at St. Clare’s side, giving him a sharp look of warning.
“Lord Allendale!” Mrs. Beresford leapt to her feet again, executing another curtsy. Her son rose to stand beside her. “What a surprise this is. That is to say, an honor. You never came to call before, not even when invited. And now, here you are—you and Lord St. Clare both—within minutes of each other. One can hardly countenance—”
“Enough of your forked-tongue pleasantries, Lavinia,” Allendale said. “There’s nothing I despise more than a serpent who walks upright.”
Mrs. Beresford’s mouth opened and closed and opened again. “Well! I never—”
“You’ve done enough damage with your infernal gossip. And you too, sir.” Allendale glared at Lionel. “Your scheming stops today. Do you hear me? I’ll have no more of it.”
Mrs. Beresford drew herself up. “Really, Allendale, if you continue in this manner, I will have to ask you to leave.”
“And if you continue,” Allendale said, “you will see how I deal with snakes. Even those who bear the name of Beresford.”
“And what of my cousin?” Lionel asked. “If we must be classed as serpents, how would you class him? He’s no Beresford.”
“He’s a wolf in lamb’s clothing is what he is,” Mrs. Beresford said.
“A fox, more like. Isn’t that the animal that graces the Allendale coat of arms? The trickster?” Lionel’s mouth curled. “I don’t have a mind to be tricked, Uncle. Not out of my title.”
“Your title!” Allendale stalked to Lionel, only stopping when they were nose to nose. “I’m not dead yet, my boy. And when I go, make no mistake, it’s my grandson who will inherent my title, no matter how much hissing you and your mother do.”
St. Clare stood silent, his blood pumping hard in his veins. He didn’t dare say a word. His grandfather wouldn’t thank him for interfering. Not at this stage.
“I’ve been to see my solicitor this morning,” Allendale said. “He leaves for Italy tomorrow to collect proof of my son’s marriage, and of my grandson’s birth—proof that he’ll return with directly. In the meanwhile, if I hear so much as a single whispered word shared with a scandal sheet, I’ll ruin the pair of you. And don’t doubt that I have the power to do it. My name still counts for something in this country.”
Mrs. Beresford’s lips thinned. She’d long given up any pretense of civility. “You expect us to keep mute until you produce evidence of Lord St. Clare’s legitimacy? To say nothing of the scheme you’re perpetrating against my son, your true heir?”
Allendale regarded her with unvarnished contempt.
“For how long must we wait?” Lionel asked.
“My solicitor will return within a month’s time,” Allendale said.
“A month?” Mrs. Beresford’s gaze shot to her son. “Lionel—”
“It’s all right, my dear. We’ll be well occupied elsewhere.” Lionel looked to St. Clare. “Madre and I are going away for a time. A visit to the country. Someplace you might be familiar with.”
A flicker of foreboding put St. Clare on his guard.
“Mr. Burton-Smythe has invited us to Beasley Park as his very special guests,” Lionel said. “We leave for Somerset tomorrow.”
It was all St. Clare could do to keep his co
untenance. The fact that Lionel and his mother were traveling to Somerset—the very place St. Clare had been born and raised—was bad enough. But there was something even worse. Something that chilled St. Clare to his heart.
Fred would never go to Beasley Park without Maggie. Which meant…
She was leaving, too. Not in a week or a month. But tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
“Your travel plans are of no interest to us, boy.” Allendale’s hand closed around St. Clare’s uninjured arm in an iron grip, steering him to the door. “Mind well what I’ve said.”
They didn’t take their leave of Lionel or his mother, not by so much as a bow of acknowledgment. Allendale was in no mood for pleasantries.
“Take it back to Grosvenor Square,” he snapped at Enzo as they walked past St. Clare’s curricle in the drive.
The earl’s carriage was waiting in the street. St. Clare climbed in after his grandfather. A footman shut the door behind them.
“What did you hope to achieve by that display?” Allendale asked as the carriage set off.
St. Clare sat back in his seat. His arm twinged as his shirt brushed over his wound. He could barely suppress a grimace. “The same thing you did, I imagine.”
“To warn them off? It sounded to me as though you had something else in mind. Another duel, in fact.”
“It was Lionel who broached the topic of a duel, not I.”
Allendale frowned. “What’s he playing at, I wonder?”
“I’d have thought it was obvious. He’s attempting to dig up the truth. And he’s doing a damned good job of it.”
“On the scent like a bloodhound,” Allendale muttered from his place across from St. Clare. “All because of that duel of yours with Burton-Smythe. And because of your dealings with that Honeywell female.” He scowled at him. “You’ve been careless.”
“Perhaps I have.”
“You’ve forgotten your duty.”
A swell of bitterness took St. Clare unaware. “I beg your pardon, but I have not. How could I forget? It’s been hammered into my head every minute of every day for ten years.”
“Self-pitying claptrap. You may have been obliged to work hard and train hard, but look at what you’ve gained in the bargain. You came to me a raw country lad, nothing but unchecked emotion, and I’ve made you into a gentleman of restraint and refinement. My heir. My true heir. And you would throw it all away? Cast it to the wind the very moment we stand on the brink?”
“We are standing on the brink,” St. Clare said. “But not of success, I fear.”
“Nonsense. My solicitor will manufacture the proof required. After which—”
“After which, I shall be beholden to the man for the remainder of my life.” The prospect left a sour taste in St. Clare’s mouth. “I’m amazed you’re willing to trust him with our secret.”
“What’s the alternative? You’ve yet to make a match with a suitable gel. Had you proposed to Miss Steele—or one of the dowager’s granddaughters—”
“Not this again.”
“Yes, this,” Allendale snapped. “If you’d managed to contrive a betrothal with Miss Steele, it wouldn’t only be my influence you’d have on your side. It would be the influence of the gel’s father.”
“I’m not going to marry Miss Steele. It was a mistake to act the part of her escort these past days. I thought I could stomach it—”
“Stomach it!” Allendale repeated, outraged. “You talk as if the gel’s an antidote.”
St. Clare folded his arms. His stitches strained across his wound. The bite of pain only sharpened his resolve. “She may as well be as far as I’m concerned.”
“Bah! She’s an acknowledged beauty.”
“She’s not for me. Only one lady is. And I’ve a mind to have her, by whatever means. Even if I must—”
“Don’t dare say another word,” Allendale warned. His face was red, his jaw clenching and unclenching with barely controlled fury. “By heaven, I never thought I’d see the day you’d go the way of your father. Throwing everything away for the sake of your basest impulses.”
“For love.”
“Love!”
“Love,” St. Clare affirmed.
“We were soul mates,” Maggie had said. “As essential to each other as light or air. From my earliest memory, I existed only for those moments when I could see him next, and he did the same. Neither of us was complete outside the presence of the other.”
St. Clare’s chest constricted to recall it. It was the truth. He’d only ever been loved but once in his life, and had only ever loved once in return. “I tried to forget her,” he said. “To leave her behind with all the rest of my past. I thought I had done. But I hadn’t. I can’t. I’d sooner cut out my own beating heart.”
Allendale studied his face. “Because you love her.”
St. Clare nodded grimly.
“You’d give up the title? You may as well do. You’ll be leading the papers straight to Somerset. Any enterprising reporter could find out the rest. Question the servants at that estate where you lived. What was it called?”
“Beasley Park.”
“Just so. You won’t have been forgotten completely. Some groom or groundskeeper will sell their secrets for a shilling. ‘Aye, that’s him,’ they’ll say. ‘That’s the scullery maid’s bastard.’ And when that much is known, you may bid goodbye to the title.”
“It’s not mine,” St. Clare said. It was the bitter truth. He was a bastard. A drunken mistake. He had no right to any of this. “Not by law.”
“You had no scruples about that when we began this venture. No more than I did.”
“That was before.”
“Before you saw this Honeywell gel.”
St. Clare fell silent.
“Think well on it, my lad,” Allendale said. “If you abandon the claim, you’ll receive nothing from the estate. Nothing from me. Not a single penny. I won’t support my son’s bastard.”
St. Clare’s felt a twinge in his midsection—the veriest ache somewhere in the region of his heart. Stupid, really. He supposed he’d begun to believe that his grandfather cared for him. Not for what he could do to secure the title, but for him. The man. “I’d expect nothing from you, of course.”
Allendale inclined his head. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking. His expression was inscrutable, his gray eyes cold as hoarfrost. “So long as we understand each other.”
Maggie paced from the marble fireplace to the tall damask-curtained library windows and back again, her arms folded at her waist. It had been hours since Fred had called on her in Green Street. Long, anxiety-filled hours during which Jane had persuaded her to exercise patience.
Patience!
Every instinct within Maggie had told her to leave at once for Grosvenor Square. To find St. Clare and to tell him everything. But Jane had warned against it.
“Your recklessness will only expose the both of you to further censure,” she’d said.
It was sound advice. Reasonable and wise. It was also deeply infuriating. Maggie wasn’t accustomed to inaction. And in the present circumstances—
“I’m certain he’ll come to you, Margaret,” Jane said from her place on the library sofa. A leather-bound book lay open at her side. “If you will but wait a while longer.”
“And if he doesn’t?” Maggie had no sooner posed the question than the Trumbles’ butler materialized at the door carrying a silver salver. A calling card lay upon it.
“Who is it, Olmstead?” Jane asked.
“Lords St. Clare and Mattingly, ma’am,” he said. “Shall I show them in?”
Maggie stopped where she stood on the thick Aubusson carpet. She shot an anxious glance at Jane.
“Yes, do.” Jane rose from the sofa to smooth her pale green day dress. “And have Carson bring in the tea tray, if you
please.”
“He’s brought Lord Mattingly with him,” Maggie said. “I wonder why?”
“For me, obviously.” Jane smiled slightly. “He’s meant to distract me from my duties as chaperone. Not that my role has made one jot of a difference in this affair.”
Maggie sighed. Jane wasn’t deaf to the gossip that had begun swirling about town. Much more of it and it would begin to reflect on her. Maggie was her houseguest after all.
A rather poor one, at that.
She felt a flare of guilt for putting her friend in such a precarious position. “Oh, Jane. What a trial this all must be.”
“It’s rather an adventure, truth be told.” Jane moved to stand next to Maggie. “But you must take care, my dear. At present there are only whispers about the pair of you, but it wouldn’t take much to instigate a full-blown scandal. Not now that the papers are on the scent.”
“I know that,” Maggie said.
Lord St. Clare appeared a moment later, with Lord Mattingly close behind. The pair of them were as impeccably dressed as always, looking as though they might have come straight from a strut on Bond Street or a promenade in the park during the fashionable hour.
It gave Maggie to wonder whether St. Clare had heard about her departure at all. Perhaps his visit was nothing more than the natural consequence of their romantic interlude at Grillon’s? A brief interview to ascertain that she was well, and that her feelings were unchanged?
“Miss Trumble,” he said, bowing. “Miss Honeywell.” It was impossible to tell that he’d been injured. There was no stiffness about his arm, no awkwardness in the way he held himself.
Maggie suspected that he was used to ignoring his pain. “Lord St. Clare. Lord Mattingly.” She curtsied along with Jane.
Lord Mattingly smiled, revealing a flash of perfectly straight white teeth. “I trust we’re not interrupting anything?”
Gentleman Jim Page 20
