Page 62 of The Music of Love

“Who does that belong to, Soames?”

“Viscount Pendleton, the Earl of Broughton’s heir. The family’s name is Harrington, ma’am,” he added, obviously pleased about his employer’s connection to such an illustrious visitor.

Portia was curious about what a viscount was doing here but she could hardly barge in on the two men without an invitation.

“I’ll be up in my chambers if Mr. Harrington wants me.”

When they reached her rooms Portia and Daisy spent half an hour looking through her garments, picking out some that Daisy could alter to fit her increasing size.

After they’d finished the men were still closeted in the library, so she decided to walk over to Nanny’s and bring her the tatting thread she’d requested. Portia had hoped to walk to the cottage with Stacy but she had no idea when he would be free.

Soames was nowhere to be found, but Daisy knew where she was going so Portia pulled on her gloves, glancing at the darkening sky. She considered waiting to see if the clouds passed but decided she could beat the rain if she hurried.

Portia was hurrying through the thickest part of the woods when the first drops of rain hit her. “Drat!” she muttered. Stacy had shown her the ruins of a very old cottage not far off the trail and she headed for that, lifting her skirts high to scramble over stumps and fallen limbs. It was farther than she remembered and her cloak was wet in spite of the shelter of the tree canopy. For a moment she thought she must have mistaken the spot but then saw a stone wall and a mossy section of roof just beyond several large trees. The rain began to pelt down heavily as she rounded the corner of the building and ducked under the bit of roof.

She stopped short; a fire smoked in a small pit and some bedding and clothing hung over an old table in the opposite corner. Somebody was living here, a man by the look of the clothing.

Portia started to back up and ran into something: something warm, hard, and human.

Chapter Seventeen

Stacy gaped at the tall blond man seated across from him. “Twin brother?” he repeated for the third time.

Viscount Pendleton nodded for the third time.

Stacy laughed, but not with amusement. “You’ll have to excuse me if I sound rather skeptical.”

Robert Harrington, Viscount Pendleton, raised a hand. “Please, don’t apologize. I did the very same thing when I heard.” He ran his hand absently through his thick blond hair. “I’m afraid I rather made a mess of things. Perhaps I should start from the beginning?”

“Perhaps you should. Would you like a drink?”

“God, yes.”

After they’d both taken long pulls from their glasses, Robert Harrington began his story.

“Our mother was Victoria Standish, the second wife of the Earl of Broughton—our father. The earl’s first wife bore him three daughters and died when the girls were well into their early twenties. The earl remarried exactly a year after his first wife’s death. Our mother was younger than the earl’s daughters, only seventeen to our father’s fifty-three. A year later the two of us arrived. I was born first and seventeen minutes later you came. Our mother died that night.” He drained his glass and Stacy refilled it without being asked.

“I’m afraid our father is . . .” He grimaced. “Well, let’s just say he is a man of narrow understanding. When he saw your, er, condition, he went to my mother’s family and confronted them. Our grandfather, our mother’s only surviving parent, confessed he’d known there was a possibility his daughter might bear a child with your, uh, affliction.” He took another gulp. “He admitted his infant brother, who’d died before he was a year old, was like you.” He frowned and stared at the floor, turning his glass round and round.

Stacy couldn’t help wondering why the man was so nervous. Or perhaps it was just his face that made the viscount uncomfortable, as it did so many others?

Pendleton resumed his story. “Our father was livid. He accused our grandfather of sabotaging his lineage, jeopardizing the Harrington bloodline, and all other manner of rubbish.” He gave Stacy a pained look. “I learned all this when I confronted our grandfather.” He must have seen the surprise on Stacy’s face. “Yes, he still lives.” He snorted. “He is younger than our father. He’s rather a wastrel and he bartered away his daughter to cover gambling debts—and he has accumulated even more in the last thirty odd years.” He sighed heavily. “Our father’s decision to banish you was appalling and I am aggrieved and angered at having missed the opportunity to know my brother, not to mention the disservice he has done to you. He’s old now, nearing ninety. He stands by his decision and insists I would not have been able to marry the daughter of a duke if you were known to exist.” His mouth twisted bitterly. “My wife is the daughter of the Duke of Rotherham. My father believes the illustrious connection vindicates his behavior.” His bitter tone indicated he felt otherwise.

Stacy stared at the man—his brother—not sure where to begin, or even if he wanted to begin. He’d lived thirty-five years without a father; a father who’d rejected him like an ill-bred calf. Why bother with him now? He looked at the stranger across from him and saw real pain in his eyes. Robert Harrington had been hurt by their father’s actions, not as badly as Stacy, perhaps, but just as deeply.

“You’ve not said how you finally learned all this?” Stacy asked.

He hadn’t thought it was possible, but Robert looked even more miserable. “My father recently told me when he, uh. . .” he coughed, his face darkening beneath his healthy tan. “It might be easier if you would ring for Frances.”

Stacy felt as if he’d been punched in the face. “How the devil do you know my aunt?”

Robert Harrington stared fixedly at the floor, as if he’d used up whatever reserves he’d brought with him. “Just summon her.”

Stacy ground his teeth but pulled the bell. The men didn’t have long to wait before the door opened and Frances entered, as if she’d been waiting.

“Stacy,” she hurried toward him and then stopped, her worried eyes flickering to the other occupant in the room. “Have you told him everything, Robert?” She clasped her hands in a vaguely prayerful way as she looked from Pendleton to Stacy.

Stacy gave an ugly bark of laughter. “Just what the hell is going on?”