Smythe averted his attention, not once meeting Jonathon’s gaze. The solicitor took the papers and laid them on his ample desk without as much as a glance at them. “Please sit down, my lord.”
Utter frustration seeped into Jonathon’s bones, and dread seized his heart as he looked at the guilt in Bentley Smythe’s glassy eyes. He knew at that very instant Aunt Harriet and the papers bespoke the truth.
“See here, Smythe. I am not a sapling any longer. I do not need to sit down. I need the truth and I need it now.”
“Please, Lord Somerset, sit down. This is not an easy matter to discuss. For certain, I am not sure I should speak of it at all. It was a confidential matter between your father and me.”
Jonathon’s blood raged a war within him. “My father is dead, Mr. Smythe. His business is now my own.”
Smythe looked truly chastised. He expelled a heavy sigh and perched on the corner of his desk. “Very well,” he conceded. He nodded everso slightly “Yes. The papers are correct, however, you were never to know.”
Jonathon sat down. Aunt Harriet was such a villainous prattlebox; he had wished it to be a mistake, a fabrication she’d devised to obtain more wealth. But it was true. Hollowness settled in the pit of his stomach. “Tell me the entire story. And do not omit a single detail. If I am to carry on this charade, I must know exactly what happened.”
Jonathon wondered if he had truly known his father at all. Oh how he prayed his mother had died without knowledge of his father’s indiscretion, for Geoffry’s age made it apparent that this deed had been perpetrated before her death. He swallowed the billiard-sized ball in his throat.
“I cannot know the exact circumstances, Lord Somerset. Understand, although I was a friend to your father as well as legal counsel, I was not privy to the relationship he shared with your mother.” Smythe paused, studying his hand as if there were notes for the conversation written on them.
Jonathon watched stone-faced and waited for Smythe to continue. The air between them lay heavy with dread and hesitation, but Jonathon could do nothing to ease the turmoil Smythe was obviously experiencing—his own unrest was much too great for that.
“All…right…then,” Smythe faltered. “By the time your father approached me he had already made arrangements with Lady Wescotte. He needed me only for the legality of the settlement, you see.
“There was a child conceived.” He stated the obvious with much strain evident in his voice. He slid from the corner of the desk and began to walk the floor beside Jonathon.
With mounting frustration, Jonathon watched the older man chew the carpet. “Do sit down, man,” Jonathon ground out.
Smythe stopped abruptly, showed an apologetic look, started, stopped, then started again to make his way behind the desk to sit opposite Jonathon.
“Your father, with my aid, drew up an agreement that would ensure no scandal would touch any of his heirs. Lady Wescotte agreed to spend an appropriate time with the late Lady Bertrum. At the time, Lady Bertrum was considerably ill as you may recall, and so it was not suspected that there was any other reason for Lady Wescotte to visit her sister in the country.”
Always overlooking the fact that Aunt Harriet had never done anything so self-sacrificing in all her days. The waspish thought stung Jonathon’s mind. And now the old dragon was all but threatening to tell The Political Register of Geoffry’s true parentage. After raising him from a pup, did she not care about his feelings in the least?
“Are you telling me that not even Lord Wescotte knows of this?” Jonathon asked incredulously.
Smythe nodded. “That is correct. Lady Wescotte was to come back from the country with the newborn after writing Lord Wescotte some time before that she was in the family way and would not travel home until after the event. No one was to learn of it, you see. That is the tragedy of it all.”
“I dare not call it a ‘tragedy’ that I found out the truth, Smythe. After all, it was Aunt Harriet herself who told me. It wasn’t some tragic accident that gave up the game.”
Smythe shook his balding head quite emphatically. “Oh, was not speaking of yourself, my lord, as much as that of your lady mother.”
So the very thing Jonathon dreaded most had happened. His poor mother had known the truth before her death. He dropped his gaze to a spot on the deep red carpet beneath his feet. He hoped the solicitor did not notice the emotion present there. When he had regained his composure, he looked again to Bentley Smythe.
“When did my mother learn of the result of my father’s indiscretions?”
“It was the very night she died, my lord.”
That news was a lead pipe to Jonathon’s head. He seemed to know his father and mother less and less, as Smythe revealed more and more. It was a dreadful, disjointed feeling of being out of kilter with everything he had ever believed was his life. “How do you know this?”
“I know because it plagued your father, and after he took in Miss Lark and had no outside connection, I was his only confidante. We were more than business acquaintances, as I mentioned before, and he knew whatever he told me would go no farther.” Smythe shifted his chair closer to the desk and rested his forearms on the wood.
Jonathon searched his thoughts for answers, for some sort of connection. His mind was a jumbled mess that wanted to be arranged, coupled. The truth about Geoffry, the death of his mother, Lark being sequestered, the fire. He tried to link the incidents together without knowing why, or even if he should. His efforts were in vain. No amount of logic could connect it all.
“Are you positive you would not care for a refreshment?”
“What? Ah.” Jonathon shook his head absently. “No thank you.”
Smythe stood. “Look, my lord, do not try to think on it too much. It is really nothing of consequence any longer. You now know the truth regarding Geoffry’s parentage. By all legalities, you should continue to abide by the contract until the time expires. If you wish me to draft another agreement I shall be happy to do so.”
Jonathon looked at Smythe with vacuous eyes. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again as nothing profitable came to mind. He raised himself out of the chair and his right arm autonomously offered itself. “Just one more thing, Smythe,” he asked hesitantly, “What of Miss Lark, her parentage, the danger to her?”
“I could not begin to elaborate, my lord.”
“But I must know.” The alarm in his tone echoed throughout the solicitor’s chamber and came back at Jonathon; it sounded foreign.
“I’m sorry, my lord. I have no knowledge of either.”
Jonathon took his leave without uttering another sound.
~*∞*~
Jonathon paced the garden. The whir of information in his head was too much to comprehend. It would serve Aunt Harriet right if he dissolved the resolution between her and his father. What would she do? Ruin the reputations of them all? The old dragon just might be that spiteful. She had gone thus far.
Then there was Lark to consider. He was still unsure how she entered into this enlightened information, but he was quite positive there was a connection somewhere. It was too much of a coincidence that his father would ask him to marry and protect the only survivor from the fire in which his mother died—and on the very night she had discovered his indiscretion. Too much of a coincidence indeed.
The more Jonathon thought about it, the more it seemed that Lark might actually be his kinswoman. Yet, Jonathon still could not fathom that his father would do such a thing as wed him to his own kin. The very thought churned his stomach. There had to be another explanation.
His feet wandered to and fro while his mind drove in circles. In the end, he decided he would have to know more about the fire, why his father believed it was no accident.
He could hire a Bowstreet Runner, he supposed. They were always trustworthy, efficient detectives. But this matter was much too delicate with which to take chances. He needed help from someone he could trust with his very life—for his very life did depend on it, an
d Lark’s, too, for that matter. Instinct told him she was as much a pawn in this game as he, but then when it came to her, he couldn’t rely on his instinct. His fondness of her tended to cloud his judgment.
Only one name came to mind. Drew Hollingsworth. Being in newspapers, he would have the insight, the background information, and he was trustworthy.
Jonathon turned to go back to the house, ready to send Hollingsworth a missive, and saw movement behind the thicket. He walked over to the low-growing bushes and peered over, curious as to who would be out here at this time of the day.
His eyes narrowed when he saw Lark. “Spying on me, Miss Blackwell?” he snapped.
She lowered her head, shaking it emphatically, and he immediate felt remorse.
He was in a foul mood and should not take it out on her. “I am sorry for snapping at you,” he said and her head darted up. “Well you don’t have to look so surprised. I am not so stubborn that I can’t apologize when I am in the wrong.”
Her brows came together, and her blue eyes studied him in apparent confusion. It did something to his insides to see her thus, to know that he had done her so wrong in days past that now she was taken aback by a simple act of civility. He hadn’t intended their relationship to digress so.
He wanted to reach out to her, touch her, reassure her, but he was afraid she would take it as an affront. He had been a veritable ogre.
Instead, he held out a hand. “Look, we have been at each other’s throats since learning of Father’s wishes. Let us make amends, shall we? Then perhaps you will see I’m not the beast you think I am.”
Her hands flew like air through a tube, so quickly he had been able to decipher only one word. Unfortunately, that word had been “beast,” and he was not at all sure whether she had said he was a beast or was not.
She looked at him with that confusion in her eyes again. This time it made him smile. She was unaware of his taking instruction in her hand language. “Repeat what you said, only more slowly,” he said, explaining no further.
She moved her hands more slowly, deliberately. Her eyes never left him. “I do not think you are a beast.”
“I thought sure you would have labeled me a beast at the very least, perhaps something even more ghastly.” He showed her a wry smile.
Lark returned his smile and Jonathon’s blood chilled. Did not the shape of her mouth match that of his father’s?
~*∞*~
The square was free of vendors and ominously quiet as Jonathon rounded the corner the next morning. The wheels of his cabriolet mixed with the clopping of Haydn’s hooves, becoming a harbinger of things yet unknown. Jonathon’s somber mood, already borne in the deadened street, grew even dimmer.
His groom tugged on the reins and Haydn obediently stopped outside the black, wrought iron gate that heralded the house of Drew Hollingsworth.
Jonathon stepped down from the carriage and surveyed the desolate square. Adjusting his tall hat, he tilted his head and peered into the upper storey of Hollingsworth’s building, a large white monstrosity that had been handed down when the man’s family still owned their title. That disgrace had taken place some generations before Hollingsworth came into existence, but it was still a cause for Drew to be looked down upon.
Such was the reason, Jonathon supposed, that Drew had chosen the rather controversial profession of newspapering.
He tugged on the waist of his coat and turned to his groom. “Collect me on the hour. I shall be no longer than that.”
The groom nodded and snapped Haydn’s reins. The stallion trotted away. With steps that were surer than his mind, Jonathon approached the black iron gate, lifted the latch, and went up to the glaring white front door. He was surprised to see Drew himself answer the herald.
“Rexley, old chap, good to see you again. Sorry about your papa.” Hollingsworth held out a freckled hand and shook Jonathon’s vigorously.
“Where is that Indian fellow you call a butler.”
“Sad turn of events, that. Rashid’s mother fell ill. I granted him a leave to take care of family business. Hopped a boat to India a fortnight ago.” He turned aside. “But enough of that; come in and tell me to what I owe the pleasure of this visit.”
Jonathon entered the ornate vestibule.
“If you want tea you will have to make do with improficiency,” Hollingsworth joked. “However, I am quite sure I can pour you a brandy without mucking it up too much.”
“I am quite fine at present, thank you.” Jonathon slipped out of his overcoat and propped it on the coat rack without much care, then gave another healthy tug to the hem of his waistcoat. “I’m in quite a bit of a dilemma. I thought you might be able to help me with a bit of investigation?”
Hollingsworth sliced through his mop of orange hair with thick fingers. “Come into the library,” he said and led the way. “You positive about that drink, then?”
“Are you deliberately avoiding the question, Drew, or is something the matter?” Jonathon did not wait for an invitation but rather sat on the gilt-edged, olive green chair.
“Of course I want to help you, it is merely…well…you see…well you would not see, would you, you have harbored yourself away and…”
“Oh, what are you blathering on about, Hollingsworth?” Jonathon’s ragged nerves unraveled farther. With growing apprehension, he watched a play of emotions travel his friend’s countenance.
Hollingsworth probed Jonathon with worried green eyes. “There has been some gossip of late, Jon. There is word about that you are to take a wife.”
Jonathon’s mouth opened, but Hollingsworth showed him a quick palm. “No, let me finish. I, as you well know, listen not a tot to rumors. But if you are bouncing on the fringes of propriety are you positive it is all the go for the likes of me to aid you in some matter that might better be left to Bow Street?”
Jonathon could feel the rage bubbling inside him. There were but a handful of people who knew about his betrothal, and they had all sworn their secrecy in light of circumstances.
Someone of the Rexley lineage could not be trusted. And Jonathon had a definite suspicion what name that sneaky culprit bore. She did not know with whom she played. Malice made a home in Jonathon’s heart. This was a match he would not lose.
He crossed one leg over the other and rested a nonchalant arm on the chair rest. “‘Tis not a rumor, Drew. That is the precise matter to which I would like to enlist your aid.”
Hollingsworth drew thin eyebrows into an even thinner line. “What the devil do you mean ’tis not a rumor. You are in mourning. It wouldn’t be proper for you to announce an engagement. And if you recall, old chap, you are a stickler for the rules.” Drew came to sit on the edge of the chair next to Lord Somerset.
“You speak the truth,” Jonathon replied evenly. “I have always felt a responsibility to uphold a certain decorum in light of my father’s and brother’s weaknesses in that regard. But you know full-well, Drew, that I am not so bound by that stringency that I haven’t raised a few eyebrows in the past.”
Hollingsworth came to the edge of the chair. “By Jove, I do believe the passing of your father has addled your brain. Have you gone completely mad? This surpasses dancing on the fringes, Jon, this is…well, it is…” He threw his hands up in defeat. “I know not what it is.” Hollingsworth shook his head.
“It is not that bad. I am not green enough to attach myself formally to a woman before the oncoming weeks ensue. My wits are fully functional, I assure you. Besides, all the truth be out in the open, it was at the request of my father that I am to marry. I could not very well go against his last wish, could I?” He audibly exhaled and then stood. “I think I will have a brandy after all.” He made his way across the room to the drinks cabinet.
“Do me one up, too,” Drew said.
“What a host,” Jonathon quipped. As he made his way back to his seat, he inquired one more time. “So, are you willing to come to my aid, or not?”
Hollingsworth took a sip of the brandy
Jonathon handed him. “Of course. Anything for you. I daresay you are the only friend of merit I have. But what do you want me to do?”
“This is all in the strictest of confidences, Drew. If anyone were to discover the truth of things, I can scarce imagine what might happen. This is exactly why I cannot trust even Bow Street. One never knows what another will do for a price, and the price of discovery is too great to risk.”
Jonathon took pause as the dreadful thought of harm befalling Lark popped into his head. Odd, how she had wormed her way into his being so strongly that the thought of losing her caused his heart to twist. More than her deficiency, his primary fear now was the skulking possibility that he might discover something much more detrimental.
That nagging thought mercilessly held him prisoner. He exorcised it as best he could and proceeded to fill in Hollingsworth about the fire, Lark, and his father’s actions. “The truth will set you free,” he had been taught in church as a child. And regardless of how fearful that truth might be, he had to know what it was.
Chapter Twelve
Jonathon sat under the large shade tree studying the notes he had taken during his last session with Rebekka. It was more difficult than he’d expected to think in English and sign in French, but he was glad to be able to understand Lark first-hand.
He had not seen her since the garden two days ago, yet he would dine with her this eve and wanted to apologize for the abrupt manner in which he had left. He had just been so startled by the resemblance she had shown to his father.
He shook his head and tried to concentrate on speaking with his hands. He leaned his head back on the tree trunk and closed his eyes.
“What sadness lengthens Romeo’s hours?”
Jonathon opened his eyes at Cyril’s Shakespearean recital. “Are you here to irritate me, or is there some useful reason for your presence?”
“Tut, tut, Jonathon. You have longer claws than that of Aunt Harriet. I would take a scissors to them if I were you. It is most unbecoming of a gentleman.”
Jonathon conceded, knowing his outburst was born more of an irritation with his own situation than with Cyril.
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