“Do you mean…they were married after all?” Maggie asked.
“You may see for yourself.” Allendale handed her the document.
She took it, unfolding the paper in front of her. Her eyes widened and her heart skipped, tripping over itself.
Good heavens.
It was true. It was all true.
“Out loud, if you please, Miss Honeywell,” Allendale said.
Her fingers fairly trembled on the paper as she read: “‘Jenny Seaton of Colebrook Parish, Somersetshire and James Edward Beresford of Worth House, Hertfordshire were married at Southleigh Chapel, Somersetshire this seventh day of June in the year 1789 by William Oswald Tuck.’” She looked up. “It’s signed and witnessed.”
Mrs. Beresford leapt from her chair. “Let me see it.” She snatched the marriage lines from Maggie’s hands before Maggie could stop her. “Poppycock! This is a forgery.” She thrust the paper at her son, who had come to stand beside her. “The witnesses haven’t even signed it.”
“It’s a copy written out by Mr. Tuck,” Allendale said. “No different than the marriage lines kept by countless women as proof of their nuptials.”
Mr. Beresford was no longer affecting an air of lazy amusement. His eyes were alert beneath his drooping lids. “And who are these witnesses? Did you meet them?”
“We shall meet them,” Mrs. Beresford said. “You may depend upon it, my lord. We shall question them without delay.”
“I wish you luck, madam.” Allendale plucked the marriage lines from Mr. Beresford’s fingers, and folding the paper in half, passed it to St. Clare. “The witnesses are buried in the graveyard of Mr. Tuck’s former church. They were acquaintances of his past—fellow rogues. When he returned to the clergy, they accompanied him as his servants but have long since passed away.”
Mrs. Beresford’s face fell. She looked to her son. “Lionel?”
“And I suppose,” Mr. Beresford said, “that this clergyman—this Mr. Tuck—would swear to all of this in a court of law?”
“If it comes to that,” Allendale said. “But I warn you, I won’t take kindly to the Beresford name being dragged through the courts. I may find myself constrained to retaliate in kind—with a defamation suit.”
“A defamation suit!” Mrs. Beresford slumped back into her seat with a nervous laugh. “You never would, would you? Why, the very thought of it.”
“It will be more than a thought, madam, if you dare to challenge me.” Allendale’s brows lowered in a threatening glare. “And if I find out that the pair of you have been spreading gossip about my heir—sending letters to those scandal sheets in London—a defamation suit will be the least of your troubles.”
Mr. Beresford blanched.
Fred, meanwhile, was growing redder by the second beneath his bruises. “It’s all very convenient. Too convenient.” And then: “Have you nothing to say, Seaton?”
St. Clare had yet to examine the document in his hands. He glanced at Fred, but his response—when he gave it—was directed at Allendale. “I find myself at a loss for words.”
“Understandable,” Allendale said.
Maggie nodded. “It’s a great deal to take in. Indeed, you must be quite overcome.”
St. Clare looked at her. There was a roguish gleam in his eyes. “Too right, Miss Honeywell.”
“If all of this is true,” Sir Roderick said, “why did this scullery maid let everyone believe she was unmarried? That her child was a product of sin? Was she not right in the head, this woman?”
“She was young and ignorant,” Maggie replied, a trifle defensive. Jenny hadn’t been perfect. Far from it. But she was still St. Clare’s mother. “After her wedding, when she encountered Mr. Tuck in the tavern, drunk beyond all decency, she must have thought she’d been hoaxed.”
“For that, we can only surmise. But…” The earl’s forehead creased. “I suspect it’s as you say. Miss Seaton had reason to think that Tuck was no clergyman, but only a nefarious associate of my son’s. She left Market Barrow, pregnant with my son’s child, believing herself to be unmarried.”
“Young Jim did enjoy his little jokes,” Aunt Harriet said.
“What’s that, Aunt?” Jane asked.
“Wagers in the betting books. That kind of thing.” Aunt Harriet smiled. “You know what fashionable young gentlemen are like.”
“This was no joke, madam,” Sir Roderick said. “This was a sacred event. A marriage. And this man’s life blighted by the confusion of it.” He looked at St. Clare. “You are to be pitied, sir.”
Fred gaped. “You don’t believe any of this? Surely, Father, you can’t—”
“Pitied, I said.” Sir Roderick mouth compressed in an unforgiving line. “But that doesn’t excuse his other crimes.” He looked at St. Clare. “To steal from the daughter of your benefactor—”
“Really, Sir Roderick,” Maggie objected. “I’ve told you countless times—”
“I’ve no desire to rewrite history, Miss Honeywell,” Sir Roderick said. “We’ve had quite enough in the way of revisions for one evening. I confess, I’m not fond of surprises.”
“Regrettable,” Allendale said. “For I have more news to come.” Reaching back into the inner recesses of his coat, he withdrew another paper. “While I was in Exeter, the bishop was good enough to provide me with a license.”
“A license for what?” Maggie asked.
Allendale handed the paper to her. The gleam in his eyes was very much like the one in St. Clare’s. “A license for you and my grandson to be married.”
Thus far, St. Clare had been singularly unmoved by his grandfather’s revelations. He knew when the old earl was putting on a show. Everything, from the manner of his arrival to the dramatic fashion in which he’d produced his proof, had reeked of the theater. But this…
This was real.
Maggie lifted her gaze from the special license, meeting his eyes. And this time he wasn’t cold and impassive, revealing nothing of his feelings. Quite the reverse. He gave her a lopsided smile.
An answering smile shone in her face.
“Have you agreed to this, Miss Honeywell?” Sir Roderick asked. “To marry this man?”
“I have, sir. With my whole heart.” Maggie went to St. Clare.
He rose to meet her, taking her hands in his. “I promise you, you won’t have cause to regret it.”
“Foolish man,” she said, making the words a caress. “Of course I won’t regret it. You’re the love of my life.”
Fred was up from his seat in a flash. He paced to the mantel. “An affecting scene.” He turned to confront Maggie. “I’ll never approve of you marrying him, you do realize that? And without my approval, you may bid goodbye to Beasley Park.”
“I’m aware,” Maggie said.
Allendale stood. “And why won’t you approve a marriage between my grandson and Miss Honeywell?” he demanded in a growl. “You can’t hope for a better match for the gel.”
Fred drew himself up. “Miss Honeywell is going to marry me.”
“I’m afraid she isn’t,” St. Clare said. “You had best accustom yourself to the fact.”
“No, I’m not,” Maggie agreed. “I never promised to marry you, Fred. You only assumed I would because of Papa’s will.”
“Two suitors to choose from,” Miss Trumble’s aunt said. “Who, pray, is the second lad? The ginger-haired fellow?”
“Mr. Burton-Smythe,” Miss Trumble replied. “He lives on the neighboring estate.”
“Who, dear?”
“Mr. Burton-Smythe!”
“As romantic as this all is,” Mr. Beresford said, rising from his chair. “Madre and I must excuse ourselves.” He made for the door.
Mrs. Beresford sprang up to follow her son. “Quite right. We have matters to attend to. Our departure to arrange and so forth. We won’t remain wher
e we’re unwelcome.” She bobbed her head to Allendale as she passed. “My lord.”
The pair hastily took their leave, frantically whispering to each other as they exited the room.
“Probably trying to catch the post before all those letters of theirs go out,” St. Clare murmured to Maggie.
Her mouth curved. “They shall have to be quick about it.”
A footman appeared at the door, narrowly avoiding a collision with the exiting Beresfords. He cleared his throat.
“Yes, Salter?” Maggie asked. “What is it?”
“Dinner is served, Miss Honeywell.”
“Splendid.” Allendale offered his arm to Miss Trumble’s aunt. “Shall we go in, ma’am? Give the betrothed couple a few moments of privacy?”
“An excellent idea, my lord.” She took his arm, permitting him to escort her from the room. Miss Trumble accompanied them, stopping only briefly to offer a word of congratulation to Maggie.
“This is a rum business.” Sir Roderick’s voice faded as he departed the drawing room with the others. “Can’t say I approve of the way it’s transpired.”
Maggie gazed up at St. Clare. She looked as though she might say something, but he forestalled her with a subtle shake of his head.
They weren’t yet alone.
Fred hadn’t gone in to dinner with the rest of the party. He remained by the mantel, his face contorted in a frightening mask of hatred. “I expect you believe you’ve won.”
St. Clare drew Maggie closer to his side. He knew Fred, even after all these years. Knew that he was at his most dangerous when he believed himself to have been humiliated.
“I’m not a prize to be fought over, Fred,” Maggie said. “I’m a grown woman with thoughts and feelings and opinions of my own.”
Fred didn’t seem to hear her. He was too incensed. “I would have done anything to have you. I’d have treated you like a queen. But all you cared about was Seaton.” He bit out his words as though he might choke on them. “The two of you, with your secret meeting places and your private jokes. Always laughing at me behind my back.”
Maggie shook her head.
“You were a bully then,” St. Clare said. “Just as you are now.”
“I was your better,” Fred retorted.
“Is that what you call it? To beat a servant boy—a boy who couldn’t fight back?”
Fred was unrepentant. “Someone had to put you in your place.”
“I’m in my place now, aren’t I?” It wasn’t a good idea to provoke him, but St. Clare couldn’t seem to help himself. “Despite all your scheming, all your machinations, Maggie and I are together.”
“Are you? Are you? I still hold power here, Margaret. Over this house and over your fortune. If you marry him—”
“Enough, Fred,” Maggie said. “Enough. I’m not going to marry you, not even for Beasley Park. I don’t think of you that way. I never have, not in my entire life.”
“Because of him. If he wasn’t here—”
“You’ve already tried to get rid of me once,” St. Clare said. “That didn’t work out so well for you, did it?”
Fred’s brawny frame quivered. “I could have killed you that night.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because I wanted you to suffer. I wanted you to hang. And worse.”
St. Clare’s brows lifted. Worse?
“I wanted you to see what it was like to be entirely alone,” Fred told him. “Abandoned, with no one to shield you.”
St. Clare chest tightened. Even after all of these years, the memory of that night, locked in the loose box, was as vivid to him as if it had happened yesterday. The fear of it, and the desperation. The way he’d pounded his fists on the walls until they’d bled.
And then the blessed sound of the bolts sliding back from the door, and of his name whispered in the dark.
“I wasn’t alone,” he said. “Maggie came for me.”
Fred looked away from them. “She wasn’t supposed to know you were there.”
“I mightn’t have,” Maggie said, “if I hadn’t overheard my Aunt Daphne gossiping with the vicar’s wife.”
“That was my mistake,” Fred said, as much to himself as to them. “I should have hidden the jewelry the day before. If I’d arranged to find it earlier—”
“Hidden the jewelry?”
St. Clare turned his head to the open doors of the drawing room.
Sir Roderick stood there, framed in the doorway, having apparently doubled back to fetch his son rather than continue to dinner without him. “Arranged to find it?” he echoed. His stern countenance was swiftly mottling with barely controlled fury. “Do you mean to say that all this time, Miss Honeywell has been telling the truth? That you—my son—conspired to have a servant arrested for a crime he didn’t commit?”
Every last vestige of color drained from Fred’s face. “Father, I—”
“Be silent!” Sir Roderick’s voice resounded through the drawing room like a pistol shot. “You would have seen this man hanged? The grandson of an earl?” He turned to St. Clare. There was no friendliness in his expression, only the formality dictated by his son’s actions. “On behalf of my family, I beg your pardon, my lord. You may be sure that my son will make amends for his actions, beginning with his approval of your marriage. It is the very least he can do to atone for his sins.”
Fred’s jaw dropped. “Father, I didn’t—”
“Not another word.” Sir Roderick shoved Fred between the shoulder blades, marching him out the door of the drawing room. “We’re returning to Letchford Hall, where we will discuss your conduct in private.”
St. Clare stood next to Maggie, still and silent, as he watched them go. He had the strangest sense that a part of his life had finally come to a close. A painful, unresolved piece of his history, still raw after so many years. The duel with Fred had been a temporary salve on it, as had the brawl at the tavern. But there had been no real justice.
Not until tonight.
Sir Roderick’s acknowledgment of what Fred had done didn’t have the force of law, but by God, it was enough.
“My goodness.” Maggie looked up at him, stunned. “Does this mean what I think it means?”
St. Clare smoothed a strand of hair back from her temple. “That depends. Will Sir Roderick keep his word? Will he make Fred consent to our marriage?”
“He’s the only one who ever could. The only authority Fred’s ever recognized.”
“Which means…”
Tears sprang into her eyes. “Beasley Park will remain mine.”
He gathered her close. “I thought it didn’t matter?”
“It doesn’t. Not if I must choose between you. But if I don’t have to choose…” She encircled his neck in a fierce embrace. “Oh, I should so very much like to have everything.”
He smiled against her cheek. “Of course you would.”
“And not just for myself.” She drew back to meet his gaze. “Aren’t you even going to look at your mother’s marriage lines?”
“I don’t need to look.”
Her brows knit. “You don’t believe they’re real, do you? You think it’s just another yarn your grandfather has spun to serve his own ends?”
“It very likely is.”
“And what if it isn’t?” She slid her hands down the front of his waistcoat, searching for the folded paper he’d tucked into his pocket. When she found it, she pulled it free. “Here. Look at it, and tell me it isn’t real.”
He grudgingly unfolded the paper and read the swirling, uneven script. The writing was long faded, darker in some places than others. As if it truly had been written decades ago. His pulse accelerated against his will, against all rational thought.
Was it possible?
Could it really be true?
He swallowed hard. “I
t can’t be.”
“Why can’t it?” she asked. “Don’t you want everything, too? The title. The Beresford name. Me.” She stretched up to press a soft kiss to his lips. “Be greedy,” she said. “I intend to be.”
He stared down at her, his heart thumping heavily. A rare trace of vulnerability deepened his voice. “You’re already so much more than I deserve.”
Eyes shining, she reached up to frame his face, cradling his jaw in the silken curve of her small hands. “What has deserve got to do with anything? Do you think I deserve you? That I deserve any of this? But it’s mine. You’re mine. And tomorrow, my love, we’re going to take that special license Lord Allendale procured and you and I are going to get married.”
A slow smile tugged at his mouth. “Is that so?”
“It is. Unless you have something else planned?”
His smile broadened. “Not a thing.” He bent his head to hers, his beautiful blue-eyed hellion. And love surged within him. The same love that had led him back here like a beacon, guiding his way home. Not to a place, but to her. Back to her side where he belonged. Where he’d always belonged. “Tomorrow is yours,” he vowed. “All of my tomorrows.”
“Tomorrow, then,” she said. And standing up on the toes of her slippers, she kissed him again, softly, deeply, promising him all of her tomorrows, too. Promising him forever. Her heart and soul. The very world.
Beasley Park
Somerset, England
Spring 1823
Maggie brought her bay mare to a standstill at the top of the rise. A fragrant breeze ruffled the skirts of her riding habit as she gazed out over the blooming countryside. In the springtime, the forget-me-not-covered landscape of Beasley Park was still the most beautiful place on earth. “Look at that view, my darling. Is there anything more glorious?”
The Honorable James Aldrick Nicholas Beresford slowed his plump pony to a halt beside her. His dark-blond hair was disheveled, his small hands steady on the reins. At five years of age, he was a natural equestrian, as confident in the saddle as Maggie was herself. “You’re not supposed to gallop, Mama,” he reminded her. “Papa says—”
“Even your Papa wouldn’t forbid a gallop on such a day as this.”
Gentleman Jim Page 30
