arrive tomorrow evening. Every last scheming one of them.”
Maggie didn’t relish the prospect. “If that’s what you wish but…it’s bound to be uncomfortable for all concerned.”
“Exceedingly so,” Allendale replied, “more for some than for others, I’d wager.”
The next day, at seven o’clock precisely, St. Clare arrived at the front door of Beasley Park, dressed in an impeccably cut black evening suit with a light-colored waistcoat and elegantly arranged cravat.
Maggie met him at the threshold. She looked behind him, down the stone steps and over the torchlit drive. There was no sign of the earl’s carriage. Nor of the earl.
A flicker of apprehension quickened her pulse. “Where is Lord Allendale?”
St. Clare’s expression was grim, made worse by the heavy bruising that had emerged on his face. He had a spectacular black eye, and a cut on his brow and on his lip. “Gone.”
“Gone? Gone where?” A footman approached, but Maggie waved him away. She let St. Clare into the hall herself, shutting the door behind him.
“I have my suspicions.” He scanned her face. “How are you?”
“Perfectly well.”
“Your guests haven’t been bullying you?”
“No. That is, Fred has been a trifle difficult. He called earlier, and then again this afternoon, trying to speak to me alone, but Jane refused to budge from my side. Fred was very nearly ready to throttle her.”
St. Clare’s mouth curved. “God bless Jane Trumble. And what of my meddling relations? Have they been difficult?”
“Not exactly. Not to me, at any rate. They’ve kept to their rooms for much of the day. I fear they’ve been writing letters, spreading the news of your identity to all and sundry. They came into the drawing room this evening looking as satisfied as two cats who had just stolen the cream.”
St. Clare didn’t appear at all worried. Indeed, he seemed far more concerned about Maggie’s well-being than his own. “I would have come sooner, but I thought it better to let tempers cool. Otherwise we might have had a reenactment of that unfortunate scene at the tavern.”
“Lord, I hope not. Things are quite tense enough without adding another brawl to the mix.”
Tense didn’t begin to explain it.
On returning home in the earl’s carriage, Maggie had gone straight to Jane and told her all. Jane had been an absolute brick, sitting up with Maggie until dawn. She’d also been a little hurt that Maggie had been keeping such an enormous secret. That she hadn’t trusted Jane enough to confide in her.
“It wasn’t my secret to tell,” Maggie had explained.
Jane had professed to understand. But Maggie couldn’t help feeling as though her friend was disappointed in her.
Fred was disappointed in her, too. Terminally disappointed. This evening, when he’d arrived for dinner, he’d fixed Maggie with a contemptuous glare, condemning her without saying a word.
She didn’t have to guess what he was thinking. He’d said it plain enough at the tavern. She was a light-skirt. A ruined woman. Someone who had thrown her innocence away on a scoundrel, and whose reputation was now past the point of recovery.
“It doesn’t matter about any of them,” Maggie said. “My only concern is for you.” She searched St. Clare’s eyes. There was an expression in them that was hard to read. “Will your grandfather be joining us later?”
“I don’t know. He left no word for me. He was already gone when I awoke this morning. According to the innkeeper, he departed in the early hours, shortly after I retired to bed. Just climbed into his carriage with his luggage and…” St. Clare shrugged.
Maggie’s heart clenched. The earl had abandoned him. Now that St. Clare’s true identity had been exposed, Allendale had no more use for his grandson. No more affection for him either, it seemed. As if St. Clare were as disposable as a piece of counterfeit paper. Something that, once revealed to be a fake, had no value at all.
Anger rose in her breast. With it, came a sharp pang of guilt.
None of this would have happened if she hadn’t insisted on accompanying St. Clare to Market Barrow. It was all her fault.
Grasping his hand, she tugged him down the hall and into the library. The wall sconces were lit, along with an overhead chandelier. She didn’t bother shutting the door. This wouldn’t take long.
Which was just as well.
The two of them had only a few moments. Everyone else was already assembled in the drawing room—Jane and her aunt Harriet, Lionel Beresford and his mother, Fred, and even Sir Roderick. They were enjoying a preprandial drink, waiting