Page 114 of Gentleman Jim

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. “It 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?”