Page 108 of Gentleman Jim

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 whispered 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.”