Gentleman Jim

by Mimi Matthews

  Anger rose in her breast. With it, came a sharp pang of guilt.

  None of this would have happened if she hadn’t insisted on accompanying St. Clare to Market Barrow. It was all her fault.

  Grasping his hand, she tugged him down the hall and into the library. The wall sconces were lit, along with an overhead chandelier. She didn’t bother shutting the door. This wouldn’t take long.

  Which was just as well.

  The two of them had only a few moments. Everyone else was already assembled in the drawing room—Jane and her aunt Harriet, Lionel Beresford and his mother, Fred, and even Sir Roderick. They were enjoying a preprandial drink, waiting for her to return, and if she didn’t do so promptly, one of them was bound to follow after her.

  “Your grandfather’s not coming back, is he?” she asked.

  St. Clare gazed down at her, his hand still holding hers. “Does it matter?”

  “Not to me,” she said. And she meant it. “To put it in terms you might understand…I’d take you in your underclothes.”

  He huffed a laugh. “Is that what I told you?”

  “You did.”

  “Well. Your underclothes are a vast deal more pleasing than mine.”

  There was a heaviness in her chest that prevented her from laughing with him. She had too much of a sense of what he’d lost on her account.

  She drew his hand to her lips and pressed a kiss to his bruised knuckles. “I have a little money of my own. A small income meant to sustain me in the event that Beasley Park passes out of my control. It isn’t much, but—”

  His brow furrowed. “Maggie—”

  “—two can live as cheaply as one, I’ve heard.”

  “I’m not a pauper, my love.”

  “I-I know that,” she said, stammering a little. She didn’t know it, actually. It was merely an assumption.

  Nicholas Seaton had appreciated the value of money—the vast difference it could make in a person’s life. She couldn’t imagine St. Clare respecting it any less.

  He’d have put something by, surely. Something to live on if ever his grandfather withdrew his patronage. She’d have bet her last shilling on it.

  But whatever it was, it would never be enough to equal what he’d given up. Had she not forced him to go to Market Barrow, he’d never have been obliged to reveal himself as Nicholas Seaton. The Allendale title would have one day been his. He’d have been rich and powerful—entirely free from the unpleasant associations of his past.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ve ruined the whole scheme, haven’t I? All because I insisted on going with you to the Crossed Daggers. And now—”

  “Hush.” He cupped her cheek, and leaning down to her, brushed a kiss to her forehead. “The game’s not over yet.”

  St. Clare ascended the stairs to the drawing room with Maggie on his arm. She was clad in a fashionable dinner dress of dark blue-gray silk. It was cut low across her bosom, with elbow-length sleeves that gently hugged her slim arms. Glass beads adorned the fabric, making her skirts sparkle as she walked.

  She was a creature of magic. A beautiful blue-eyed sylph or fairy. And she was his, at last. All his.

  A smile built within him as he recalled how she’d looked last night, standing outside the tavern, a smoking flintlock in her hand.

  People underestimated Maggie Honeywell at their peril. She might be weaker than she’d once been. Her health more fragile. But what she lacked in physical stamina, she more than made up for in spirit. In heart.

  He glanced down at her. The grave expression on her face provoked a twinge of conscience.

  She believed that what had happened in Market Barrow had driven Allendale away. That she was to blame for his leaving.

  It was the furthest thing from the truth.

  St. Clare knew his grandfather. If he’d really intended to abandon him, Allendale wouldn’t have slunk away while St. Clare slept. The earl would have confronted him. Would have told him that he had no more use for St. Clare now that he’d been exposed as a bastard.

  It was nothing less than Allendale had said countless times before.

  Indeed, on many occasions during the past several years, the earl had seemed at great pains to remind both St. Clare and himself that he had no use for his grandson aside from securing the title.

  St. Clare had often wondered. And when Allendale had suggested accompanying him to Somerset to meet Maggie, St. Clare had wondered even more.

  No. His grandfather wasn’t gone for good.

  That wasn’t to say that St. Clare hadn’t experienced a minor shock when he’d woken and found Allendale gone. And it wasn’t only that he’d left without a word, but that they were expected at Beasley Park for dinner that evening. In his absence, St. Clare had but two choices: either send his regrets or attend alone.

  Sending his regrets wasn’t an option. Not with Maggie depending on him.

  Besides, he’d realized something last night. He wasn’t afraid of facing his past. There had been something profoundly liberating about declaring his identity to the mob of villains inside the tavern. Not only his real name, but the fact of his parentage.

  Maggie’s hand tightened on his arm as they crossed the landing. The drawing room lay ahead. No sounds emerged from within. No voices, and no soft music from the pianoforte.

  It was soon apparent why.

  All of the guests were sitting in rigid silence. Jane Trumble was on the sofa beside her aunt, sipping a glass of sherry. Lionel and his mother were perched in twin armchairs. Fred was standing by the mantelpiece, scowling. And Sir Roderick was on a settee alone, hands folded across his thick midsection, frowning at the assembled company like a disapproving father.

  He was the very image of Fred, only older, heavier, and grayer about the temples. St. Clare remembered him as a hard, unforgiving sort of man. A man who was as pitiless to poachers as he was toward his own son on occasion.

  The first to see them enter, he rose to his feet, his knees creaking. The rest of the company followed suit, standing briefly to acknowledge St. Clare’s arrival. All but Mrs. Beresford, who remained stubbornly in her chair.

  Lionel sketched a bow, a smug smile spreading over his face. “Do you see, Madre? I was right. He has come after all.”

  Mrs. Beresford pivoted her head from Lionel to St. Clare. The long, double strand of pearls she wore at her neck made an unsettling clacking sound. “I didn’t believe it. That you would show your face here this evening. Such gall. Such effrontery. But my son said otherwise. Were it up to me—”

  “It isn’t up to you, ma’am,” Maggie said. “Lord St. Clare is my honored guest.”

  “Honored.” Fred practically spat the word. His face was black and blue, one of his eyes swollen shut, and his nose—which St. Clare suspected had been broken during their brawl—looked as though it had recently been reset by the surgeon. “And what do you mean by addressing him so? He’s no viscount.”

  “What’s that?” Miss Trumble’s aunt asked as she resumed her seat. “He’s no what?” She was wearing a plumed turban over her white hair. The lone ostrich feather trembled as she tilted her ear to Miss Trumble’s lips.

  “A viscount,” Miss Trumble said loudly. She gave St. Clare a rueful smile. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, my lord.”

  “And you, Miss Trumble,” St. Clare said. “Lord Mattingly requested that I convey his respects.”

  Miss Trumble’s cheeks turned pink. “Did he? How very kind.”

  Sir Roderick surveyed St. Clare with a steely-eyed glare. “Miss Honeywell, you may entertain who you like while you are mistress here, but pray do not expect us to participate in this charade. This man is a former servant of your father’s, is he not? The scullery maid’s son?”

  “A bastard,” Fred said.

  “A what?” Aunt Harriet turned to Miss Trumble again, who whisp
ered something back to her in her ear. “Ah. But surely…?”

  “He’s Lord Allendale’s grandson,” Maggie said. “It’s an indisputable fact.”

  Lionel laughed. “That’s doing it a bit too brown, Miss Honeywell. The game, as they say, is up. You may as well admit he’s this Seaton fellow. He admitted it himself when we met at the tavern.”

  “The two aren’t mutually exclusive, sir.” Maggie motioned for St. Clare to sit down. “Would you care for a glass of sherry, my lord?”

  “No thank you.” St. Clare waited for Maggie to sit before taking a seat himself in a chair next to Miss Trumble and her aunt.

  “Your face,” the old lady said, looking at his bruises in dismay. “You weren’t engaging in fisticuffs again?”

  Again?

  St. Clare recalled Maggie saying that Jane’s aunt was often confused. “I’m afraid I was, ma’am.”

  “In my day, a man in such execrable condition wouldn’t have forced his company on a party of ladies.” Sir Roderick shot a withering glance at Fred. “He’d have spared them the pain of looking at him.”

  Fred’s shoulders stiffened under the weight of his father’s censure.

  “And you, Miss Honeywell,” Sir Roderick said. “Your part in this affair hasn’t escaped me. Had I not believed the Earl of Allendale would be in attendance this evening, I’d have foregone dinner in favor of a private interview with you. A discussion about your behavior is long overdue.”

  St. Clare glanced at Maggie. He wouldn’t blame her if she was irritated. She’d only agreed to go through with this dinner after Allendale had asked her to. But she didn’t appear upset. She looked defiant. Her back was straight, and her chin lifted. There was a martial glint in her sapphire eyes.

  “You may speak to me if you wish, certainly,” she said. “But I’ll not be lectured to. Not by you, sir, or your son. Or by anyone so unconnected with my future happiness.”

  “Here, here,” Miss Trumble said.

  Sir Roderick turned on her. “Hold your tongue, young lady. I take leave to tell you that you’ve done a lamentable job as Miss Honeywell’s chaperone. Her ruin is on your head.”

  “Don’t you dare speak to her in that tone,” Maggie said sharply.

  “Where is Lord Allendale?” Mrs. Beresford asked St. Clare. “Why did he not come with you?”

  “My grandfather has been detained elsewhere,” St. Clare replied.

  Lionel idly dusted a piece of lint from his waistcoat. “Undoubtedly. Now that his scheme has been laid bare, he’ll have returned to London. Or is he already en route back to the continent? He never was much for England. Not after his son disgraced the family name.”

  “The apple didn’t fall far from the tree,” Mrs. Beresford remarked.

  St. Clare ignored the barb. “He’ll join us as soon as he’s able.”

  Maggie looked at him, brows lifted. There was a question in her eyes. Is he truly coming? But she didn’t ask that. To do so would have revealed her uncertainty. “Should I hold back dinner?” she asked instead.

  “That won’t be necessary. My grandfather wouldn’t want us to postpone our meal.”

  “And why not?” Lionel smiled, enjoying himself. “We can wait another ten minutes, can’t we? Another fifteen, for such esteemed company as my uncle?”

  Fred leaned back against the mantelpiece. “Seaton can entertain us while we wait. He can tell us where he went after escaping the hangman’s noose.”

  “A hanging. Dear me.” Mrs. Beresford tittered. “Quite shocking. But necessary, I daresay, for certain crimes—and for certain men. Men of low character and low breeding.”

  “He stole Miss Honeywell’s jewelry,” Fred said. “Three priceless pieces passed down to her from her mother. I found them hidden in his room above the stables.”

  “Above the stables?” Lionel chuckled. “How indescribably quaint.”

  “Strange that you should be the one to find my mother’s jewels, Fred,” Maggie said. “You discovered them before I’d even realized they were missing. And on a day when my father was conveniently away from home, unable to intervene.”

  “Nothing strange about it,” Sir Roderick replied crossly. “My son had the ear of the servants. Someone reported the crime to you, didn’t they? A maidservant, I believe you said.”

  Fred was quiet. And then: “I don’t recall.”

  A flicker of rage threatened St. Clare’s composure. One last glowing ember that the brawl at the tavern had failed to extinguish. “Because it never happened. You knew the jewelry was there because you put it there yourself.”

  St. Roderick exploded. “You dare to accuse my son?”

  “It’s nothing I didn’t say myself at the time,” Maggie answered him. “And it’s the truth. Fred was always trying to separate me from Nicholas, by fair means or foul.”

  “Then you admit this man is the servant boy born on your estate?” Sir Roderick demanded. “The one sired by that highwayman?”

  “Jim,” Miss Trumble’s aunt said helpfully. “That’s what he was called.”

  “Gentleman Jim,” Fred said. “A rogue and a villain.”

  “And my son,” Lord Allendale added from the doorway.

  St. Clare stood immediately, along with the rest of the guests, as his grandfather entered the drawing room. The earl was still in his traveling clothes, as if he’d come directly to Beasley Park upon returning from his journey. A frantic footman trailed behind him, too late to properly announce his arrival.

  “Your what?” Sir Roderick asked.

  “This highwayman you speak of. He was my son, James Beresford. And you’re quite right. The gentleman you see before you is James’s boy.” Allendale’s stormy gray eyes met St. Clare’s. “My grandson and heir. My legitimate heir.” He withdrew a document from his coat. “And I have the papers to prove it.”

  Maggie looked from St. Clare to Lord Allendale and back again. Something seemed to pass between them. An unspoken understanding. It suddenly occurred to her that St. Clare had known his grandfather would return. Not only that, but that Allendale would arrive in just such a dramatic fashion.

  He was a wily old man, the earl. She reminded herself of that fact as she resumed her seat. Hadn’t he already been attempting to pass St. Clare off as his legitimate heir? Putting it about that St. Clare was born on the continent, the son of James Beresford and an Italian lady who had long since passed away? And yet…

  And yet Maggie was filled with a sense of hope at the earl’s arrival. On the edge of her seat with anticipation at what he might reveal.

  Jane and her aunt Harriet were equally riveted, both of them hanging on the earl’s every word.

  “Impossible,” Fred said, plumping down on the settee beside his father. “No such proof exists.”

  Sir Roderick silenced his son with a wave of his hand. “Be quiet. Let his lordship speak.”

  Allendale settled himself in a chair next to Maggie. She had a good view of the folded document in his hand. But he didn’t open it. He held it as he spoke, rather like a prop. “I traveled to Exeter this morning to consult with the bishop. To see if he could assist me in finding the Devonshire church of this Father Tuck fellow.”

  Maggie cast an excited glance at St. Clare, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking steadily at his grandfather.

  “Father Tuck?” Mrs. Beresford gave a trilling laugh. “And who might he be?”

  Allendale fixed Mrs. Beresford with an implacable glare. “A rogue clergyman who once knew my son.”

  Mrs. Beresford seemed to shrink a little under the earl’s regard.

  “Another Banbury tale,” Mr. Beresford said dismissively.

  “It certainly is not,” Maggie told him. “Father Tuck frequented the Crossed Daggers some thirty years ago. He was known in these parts, and if you doubt it, you may ask our vicar, Mr. Applewhite, y
ourself.” At that, she inclined her head to the earl, bidding him to continue.

  Allendale acknowledged Maggie with a nod. “The Bishop of Exeter isn’t a stranger to me. He was gracious enough to see me without an appointment. After consulting the records, he directed me to a church some thirteen miles away, in the village of Thorne St. Mary. It lies not far from the main road, which was convenient to my return journey, and so I made haste to go there.”

  Fred was shaking his head, frowning, but he remained mute for the moment.

  “You met Father Tuck?” Maggie asked.

  “He goes by Mr. Tuck,” Allendale said. “But yes. I was fortunate to meet the man. He’s a humble fellow, near to my age, and deeply repentant of the sinfulness of his former life. The past is painful to him, but his memory is untarnished. He readily recalled my son—and the tavern wench, Jenny Seaton.”

  “Like hell he did!” Fred burst out.

  Sir Roderick reprimanded him through gritted teeth. “Be quiet, I said!”

  “Can’t you see it’s just another lie? Another made-up story like the last one?” Fred gestured angrily at St. Clare. “He’s no heir to an earldom!”

  St. Clare didn’t react at all to Fred’s outburst. He was still watching his grandfather.

  “Ah, but he is.” Allendale’s mouth curved in a cold smile of triumph. “Mr. Tuck’s former church in Somerset was destroyed in a fire, and most of the records along with it. But Mr. Tuck was, for most of his life, a man of order and good sense, and in his sober hours saw fit to keep copies. He stored these copies in a strongbox and has most of them still. He went through them while I waited, and at last produced the evidence which I now have in my possession.” The earl raised the document in his hand. “Jenny Seaton’s marriage lines.”

  There was a sudden silence, as if the entire drawing room had collectively caught its breath.