by Stacy Reid
Phillipa stepped back, shocked at her vehemence. She forgave her instantly, knowing the fear Payton felt. But her words still created a niggle of doubt.
He had not whispered words of love. Not once.
“Come here,” she whispered, drawing Payton into her arms, hugging her tightly. “All will be well. I’m sure of it.”
Phillipa met Lord Hoyt’s gaze over Payton’s head and gave him an even look. The hopeful pleasure that suffused his face sickened her. She had not accepted his offer, but she had not refused, either. He already felt he had won. She knew she must act out this charade until she could speak with Anthony. But dread filled her whole body, for she did not know if she could marry him if the rumors were true. The scandal would destroy the connections her father hoped to make.
And with a certainty she could no longer shrug off, she knew they could not be mere rumors. The man she loved was a bastard.
Oh, God, what was she to do?
…
The hum of the gentleman’s club seemed muted. Anthony sipped his port and read the report on Orwell with a cold distance. The blackguard was financially powerful, enjoying profitable returns from his many investments.
Hawke’s report was extensive, but despite that, he’d failed him. Orwell had retired to his country home in Suffolk and disappeared from the watchful eyes of the men Hawke had placed on him. Anthony found it curious that he had vanished without causing any ripples. Thankfully, he had not been sighted near Phillipa.
Anthony came to an entry in the report, and frowned. Orwell had visited his attorney the day before he disappeared. And they shared the same attorney. A chair scraped and his head snapped up to meet Calvert’s worried gaze.
Anthony was surprised to see Sebastian was also with him. Anthony leaned back in his chair as they sat, foreboding flooding over him at the look of savage fury on their faces. “What has happened?” he demanded.
“Newport has disappeared. His office was ransacked and all his correspondence missing. I traveled posthaste to let you know,” Sebastian said flatly.
Anthony clutched the report in his hand. Damnation. There was little doubt what all this meant. “Is Constance safe?”
“She is with our mother. We must go to her immediately.”
He nodded in agreement. Constance needed him. A cold, calm logic filled his mind, and he sifted through his options. He slashed his attention to Calvert. “What bad news do you bring me?”
Anthony saw the sympathy in his friend’s eyes and braced himself, though he knew what was coming.
“My father and several others were meeting to discuss withdrawing from ventures that you are heavily invested in.”
“Which ones?” he demanded.
“The railways and the steam engines.”
He calculated the loss, and the shares he had in them. Substantial, but he should survive.
“The reason?” he demanded evenly, needing confirmation of the worst.
“Lord Hubert and the Marquis of Gale report that you are not a legitimate heir to the Calydon holdings. They have refused to continue any business transactions with you. I tried to inform them that to withdraw from you is to withdraw from Calydon completely. They did not seem to agree,” Calvert said, anger threading his voice, as well.
Anthony met Sebastian’s gaze. They believed his own brother would turn from him, in fear of tainting the Calydon title. A thing he knew would happen when hell froze over.
Anthony saw the speculation in his friend’s gaze, but also the respect of his privacy. “Thank you, my friend, for hastening to inform me. I will not soon forget your support. Now, I must speak with Sebastian and then find Phillipa. I must not delay.”
Anthony froze at Calvert’s sudden stillness.
“Miss Phillipa Peppiwell?” he asked.
“Yes, what of it?”
Calvert gave him the most curious stare. “Why do you want to speak with her?”
Both Sebastian and Anthony measured Calvert carefully. Anthony’s heart stalled, wondering how Orwell had embroiled her in whatever schemes he had set in motion. “The lady and I have an understanding. I will be speaking to her father this afternoon. At least, I’d planned to. I shall, after sorting out this mess.”
“Damnation.” Calvert raked his hands through his too-long hair.
“What is it?” Anthony growled, fearing the worst. Had Orwell started rumors of Phillipa’s abduction, as well?
“Lord Hoyt was at that investors’ meeting. He announced to everyone there his imminent engagement to Miss Peppiwell.”
Betrayal shafted his insides, and he fought against the emotions that swamped him.
The lady had every right to beg off, but he could not credit that she would do so in such a cowardly manner, without speaking to him first.
“There is more,” Calvert said sympathetically. “My mother had morning callers, and I heard whispers that some of the ladies plan to give your sister, Constance, the cut direct.”
The curses that came from Sebastian were some of the most virulent Anthony had ever heard. He struggled to keep a calm facade in the face of them and his own rage. “Thank you, my friend, for letting us know.”
Calvert rose, shook his hand, and departed.
“I must go to Constance at once.” Anthony’s mind churned as he gathered the piles of paper from the report and shoved them into the file jacket. “You say she is with Mother?”
“I will come with you.”
He looked into the hard, angry face of his brother, shocked at the offer. Sebastian had not spoken to their mother in over a decade. Anthony wagered now would not be the best time for that first meeting. “Not necessary. Constance knows you adore her. But I really need to speak with her first.”
Anthony saw Sebastian’s disapproval, but he gave a short nod. “So, you made Miss Peppiwell an offer, after all,” Sebastian growled, addressing the matter Anthony had determined to avoid. It must wait until after he’d dealt with his sister.
“I sent a note to Sherring Cross to let you know.” He dismissed the concern in his brother’s gaze and fought against the rage at how easy she’d deserted him.
The first hint of rumors of his illegitimacy, and she’d crumbled? Good God. She had seemed so fearless, so disdainful of Society. He’d actually believed she would wed him even knowing he was a bastard. He had planned to tell her everything this afternoon, before speaking to her father. What a gullible fool he had been.
He turned his mind from his rioting thoughts and focused on Sebastian.
“Humboldt arrived with news that Lord Orwell’s lackeys paid him a visit.” Humboldt was their family lawyer, and a powerful man in his own right.
“Why?”
“Orwell wanted the papers father left. Humboldt refused, of course,” Sebastian said.
Which explained why Newport’s offices had been ransacked, and the papers forcibly taken from Anthony’s own attorney instead.
The brass balls of Orwell stunned Anthony. “Lord Orwell is growing too bold.” He relayed to Sebastian about Phillipa’s abduction and his rescue of her and about Newport’s break-in.
“The hell, you say!” Sebastian snapped in outrage.
Anthony pushed the report across the table toward him. “It’s all here. There is no doubt who is responsible for spreading the details of my illegitimacy.”
If possible, Sebastian went colder. “I will crush him,” Sebastian swore.
Anthony laughed mirthlessly. “You will need to get in line. Unfortunately, he has closed his houses and fled. He was last seen boarding a ship for the Continent.”
“The bloody coward.”
Anthony blew out a long, long, calming breath. “I find that I am more affected by Phillipa’s desertion than Society learning I am a bastard,” he said, meeting Sebastian’s gaze unflinchingly. It took a hell of a lot to admit that.
“You love her?”
Anthony filled his glass with more port. “It is not like you to talk of love. I thought you did not
believe in the notion.”
“I do not believe in it for myself. That doesn’t mean I don’t want you to find love,” Sebastian growled.
Anthony nodded. His brother had endured a bitter betrayal at the hands of a woman who’d claimed she adored him, so he could understand his cynicism. “I do love her. She is intelligent and passionate and finds the whirl of the haute monde tedious, the people lacking sincerity. Sentiments I agree with. However, it seems the lady has fallen prey to those same faults.” The words tasted bitter.
“What will you do?”
He lifted a shoulder. “What is there to be done? The lady has made her choice.” Though he tried to sound casual, the pain of her decision tied him in knots. He never dreamed he could feel such chaotic emotions over a female. “I think you may have the right of it brother. Women are not to be trusted,” he said dispassionately.
Sebastian hesitated before he spoke. “I can see you closing off your emotions, just as you did when Father shut you out. If you love Miss Peppiwell as you say, then speak with her. Make her tell you to your face.”
Anthony winced. Probably he was being spineless, but he feared what he might do if she admitted throwing him over for another man. The passion they burned with, the connection that had sparked between them…it hurt to think she could dismiss it all so callously. Over something she professed to disdain.
“I will not think on her one moment more,” he vowed. “She never wanted to marry me in the first place. I will be damned if I profess love for her, trying to convince her not to marry Hoyt. He is welcome to the fickle chit.”
Even as he said it, his gut turned to acid at the thought of her in Hoyt’s arms, yielding to his embrace with the fire Anthony knew she possessed.
“I am more worried about Constance,” he went on. “I cannot credit anyone would give her the cut without proof. But if Calvert is right—”
Sebastian muttered another curse. “Indeed, there is much to be done. We must protect Constance at all cost. But first you must call on your lady. I have never known you to be a coward, Anthony. Never. Speak with her before you make a decision that will haunt you for the rest of your life.” Sebastian got to his feet, clasped his shoulder, and left him.
Anthony was so wrapped in his thoughts it took him a few moments to realize the gentlemen he normally drank and conversed with were treating him to covert glances. A sad smile curled his lips. Fickle, indeed. He looked up as a shadow loomed over him. It was Sebastian returning. Anthony arched a brow.
“It occurred to me that you may lack transportation. I will leave my carriage at your disposal. I have informed the coachman.”
“I couldn’t possibly impose,” Anthony drawled, empting his glass of port, enjoying the warmth that trailed from his throat to stomach. “You’ll need it to get back to Sherring Cross.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Sebastian snapped. “Deliver me to your town house and I will order up a traveling coach that’s far more comfortable.”
“Very well. Who am I to argue?” No one, that was who. Anthony got to his feet, collected his greatcoat, and walked Sebastian out of the club they’d been members of for most of their lives—and their father before them, and his father before that. This would probably be the last time Anthony would be able to set foot in the establishment. Strangely, he discovered he cared not one whit.
What he cared about was confronting Phillipa. Hell. Going to her, to see the truth of her betrayal, was the hardest thing he would ever face. For, he realized he loved her unreservedly, and he’d never felt happiness as he had when she’d finally consented to marry him.
The future had seemed brighter. Dreams and promises had seemed possible.
How swiftly all his hopes had been swept away by bleak despair.
Chapter Sixteen
He had a sister to comfort.
And a father to confront.
Anthony shifted on his feet in front of Viscount Radcliffe’s town house on St. James Street. He had been shivering outside in the cold for over five minutes, numbing himself to the surge of emotions that filled him. He was standing in front of his father’s house.
His real father.
The knowledge settled in his stomach like lead. He and Radcliffe had never acknowledged each other as anything other than acquaintances and his mother’s second husband. He had avoided the viscount in the days since learning of his true parentage, not knowing how to handle their first official meeting as father and son.
The old duke had died several years ago and his mother had wasted no time marrying the viscount, her long-time lover. Unlike Sebastian, Anthony had been happy for her, hating the shadows that had haunted her eyes all her life up until then. He had not judged her for not honoring a two-year mourning period for a man he had never seen her touch in all his years. But never had he imagined that Viscount Radcliffe was his and Constance’s father. The man must surely have known the truth. But never had he revealed a hint of it to Anthony.
Not that he should have had to. Now that he knew, Anthony had only to look in a mirror to note the resemblance…and soon it would trumpet itself to the world.
He straightened his shoulders, climbed the steps with measured steps, and rapped on the door. The butler opened immediately, and Anthony could see the knowledge in his eyes. No surprise. Servants always knew everything before the masters of the house.
“No need to announce me,” Anthony said. The clock in the foyer struck one o’clock as he stepped inside and handed him his things.
The haunting strains of a violin filtered through the air, and he followed them to Constance in the music room. She sat on a bench facing the windows with her back turned to him as she played. Her taut spine and the stiff manner in which she cradled the violin to her left cheek bespoke her emotions. She wore a plain blue day gown, with her mass of blond hair tumbling unfettered to her waist. He glanced down and saw her stockinged feet peeking out from under the hem of her dress.
“Constance.” Anthony did not know how to face her. What to say to her.
She stiffened even further, but she did not pause. The violin cried with notes of such beauty his heart ached. He had never heard her play so poignantly before. When the last note dwindled he was regretful it ended. With reverent care, she stood and walked to its spindle and rested the violin and stick. She turned to him. Her tear-streaked face gutted him. Her gaze roamed his face as if she had never seen him before. He desperately wished he had never been so stupid as to wish for her to hold onto her childlike trust of the world. He should have told her at once. She should never have found out through cruel whispers.
“So, it is true.” Her voice was hoarse and he knew that only happened after a long bout of crying.
“Yes.”
She flinched as if struck, but he would give her nothing but the truth.
Where was their mother? Why was she not here comforting her daughter?
“You knew?” Constance asked.
“I learned a couple weeks ago. I was stupid not to tell you right away. I never dreamed it would come to this so quickly.”
She nodded, tears trickling down her face. She hugged herself tightly, hunching into herself. “Why do you think mother never told us? Fath— The old duke hated me…hated us. And she made us think we were his children, Anthony.”
He was not sure how to respond. He had asked himself the same question. He realized how different they would have seen themselves if they had known they were bastards. But still, they would not have been nearly as hurt by the old man’s disdain had they understood the reason. And perhaps…they might have had a closer relationship with their real father.
“I do not excuse Mother’s actions, Connie. And I know it may take time to forgive her and the viscount. But I think, in the end, she kept the knowledge to herself to protect us. To protect you from situations like the one you experienced today.”
She wiped her face. “But how is it even possible? She was married!”
Good Lord. The girl was a tru
e innocent. Realizing just how much so, he walked over and pulled her into his arms. Soft sobs shook her.
“Our mother made decisions we may never understand, Connie, but we must accept, and somehow live with them. I’m not saying it will be easy, but you mustn’t be afraid. We will get through it. Together.”
He led her from the music room toward the parlor. He saw his mother sitting on the staircase, her face in her hands, tears streaming down her cheeks. She glanced up and gave him a tremulous look.
He sighed, and managed a smile of reassurance.
Their mother had not been comforting Constance because she needed comforting herself. His heart warmed when he saw the viscount behind her, his arm around her shoulders in support.
Their eyes met, and Anthony wondered how he could have been so damned blind. They shared the same emerald-green eyes. The viscount’s hair was turning lighter with age, but it was easy to see remnants of the golden blond it had once been, just like his own.
It struck Anthony that perhaps he had chosen to be blind all his life.
His mother rose, and they all entered the parlor and sank into the sofas. The viscount called for tea.
“You missed Miss Peppiwell’s birthday celebration,” Constance managed, though her voice was soft and hoarse. “Mother— Mother and I like her very much. Why weren’t you there?”
He glanced at her, startled at the choice of subject. The last person he wanted to be thinking about was Phillipa. But Constance’s lips were pinched, and he saw the need in her eyes to talk about something else.
“I… I had other things to attend to. I saw her afterward, at Lady Prescott’s soiree.”
“You got her a gift, then?”
“Yes. Last week.” When he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her.
“What did you give her? Diamonds, pearls, rubies? I think rubies would be marvelous with her red hair.”
He chuckled softly and smiled. “I got her a map.”
Constance lifted her head from where it had been resting on his shoulder to give him an appalled look. “A map? Are you mad?”
“She wants to travel the world. I thought she would love it. Though, I confess, I have yet to give it to her.”
