Page 12 of A Scandal at Stonecliffe

“I am his son.”

CHAPTER FIVE

THE MAN COULD not have tossed in a more explosive conversational bomb. Nathan’s jaw dropped, and for a moment, the scene was frozen in silence. Then Lady Lockwood thumped her cane and exclaimed, “What impertinence! Toss the charlatan out.”

That was very much what Nathan would like to do, but the last thing he wanted was to have a brawl in Adeline’s house. The important thing—the only thing—was to get this fellow out before his mother and aunt came back inside from the garden.

“I don’t know what you want,” Nathan said firmly and stepped up to grip the man’s arm. “But we are not speaking of this here and now. I will return to London tomorrow, and we can discuss the matter.”

Douglas jerked his arm away. “I’m not taking orders from you. I mean to be heard.”

“And I will listen. You have my word. Contact me, and we will set up a meeting.” Nathan gave him the address of his flat, then went on firmly, “But now, unless you want to get tossed into the nearest pond, you will leave. Immediately.”

For a moment, Nathan thought the man would refuse, but when Carlisle and Sloane came up to stand with Nathan, Douglas shot him a final glare and stormed out of the house.

Nathan turned to the others. “Please don’t say anything to my mother and aunt about this. It would be most distressing to them. I’ll take care of the matter, and Mother need never hear of it.”

“Of course, we shan’t say a word,” Lady Lockwood said stoutly. “I’m sure the scoundrel is lying. He’s not George’s son. He’s Scottish.”

Marcus, standing beside Lady Lockwood, cleared his throat. “George was friends with that chap—what was his name—whose family had a lodge in Scotland. Used to go there for the fishing and whatnot. George visited him there a summer or two.”

Lady Lockwood sent Marcus a quelling look. “I never heard of this. And I don’t know any Douglases, either.”

“Well, that should settle the matter then,” Sloane murmured.

“What are you going to do?” Carlisle asked Nathan.

“I’m not sure. I’ll make some excuse to Mother and return to London tomorrow and see what it is this fellow wants.”

“Money,” Sloane said drily.

“I’ll need to look into Douglas’s background, see if there’s any truth to his story.”

“There are some Douglases in the ton,” Carlisle offered. “A chap named Robert, I believe. I don’t know him, but I’m sure some of those Londoners who have estates in Scotland would know more about any Douglases.”

“Why would someone in the ton be claiming to be illegitimate?” Nathan said.

“Again,” Sloane said drily. “Money. There are a number of penniless second and third and fourth sons running about. They may be unwilling to lower themselves by working, but swindling would be acceptable.”

“Ever the cynic, I see,” Carlisle told Sloane. He turned to Nathan. “If there’s any way I can help you, you know I’ll be more than glad to do it.”

Nathan shook his head. “No, though I thank you for the offer. But I would ask a favor from you, Sloane. I need to find Verity Cole.”

Sloane’s eyebrows slid up in surprise, but he made no comment, merely gave Nathan directions to Verity’s detective agency. Just as he finished, Adeline and the Dunbridge women returned from the garden, and all discussion of Malcolm Douglas ceased.

NATHAN LEFT FOR London early the next morning despite his mother’s protestations that he should stay. He found the office easily enough, but when he walked inside, there was no sign of Verity, only a pleasant grandmotherly sort of woman who sat behind a counter, placidly knitting.

Her eyes were filled with curiosity when he asked for Verity. She hesitated for a moment, studying him, then, apparently deciding he wasn’t dangerous, directed him to a particular bench in Hyde Park, adding, “She often goes there around this time.”

Nathan found Verity right where the woman had said. Today she looked more like a governess than the lively widow of the other night, her red hair covered by a bonnet and her dress an unremarkable brown, with a decorous white fichu at the neckline. She didn’t see him at first, her gaze directed across the park to the wide walkway, where two women were walking, pushing a baby carriage.

As he came closer, Verity turned her head sharply and looked his way. She smiled—not one of her repertoire of smiles, carefully orchestrated to suit her needs, but a sweet curve of her lips and a certain warmth in her eyes that conveyed surprise and welcome. Or perhaps he just liked to think it meant that.

“Miss Cole.” He swept off his hat to bow slightly to her.

“Mr. Dunbridge. This is a surprise. We seem to have a habit of running into one another.”

“Well, this time I was looking for you.”