Sir Roderick turned on her. “Hold your tongue, young lady. I take leave to tell you that you’ve done a lamentable job as Miss Honeywell’s chaperone. Her ruin is on your head.”
“Don’t you dare speak to her in that tone,” Maggie said sharply.
“Where is Lord Allendale?” Mrs. Beresford asked St. Clare. “Why did he not come with you?”
“My grandfather has been detained elsewhere,” St. Clare replied.
Lionel idly dusted a piece of lint from his waistcoat. “Undoubtedly. Now that his scheme has been laid bare, he’ll have returned to London. Or is he already en route back to the continent? He never was much for England. Not after his son disgraced the family name.”
“The apple didn’t fall far from the tree,” Mrs. Beresford remarked.
St. Clare ignored the barb. “He’ll join us as soon as he’s able.”
Maggie looked at him, brows lifted. There was a question in her eyes. Is he truly coming? But she didn’t ask that. To do so would have revealed her uncertainty. “Should I hold back dinner?” she asked instead.
“That won’t be necessary. My grandfather wouldn’t want us to postpone our meal.”
“And why not?” Lionel smiled, enjoying himself. “We can wait another ten minutes, can’t we? Another fifteen, for such esteemed company as my uncle?”
Fred leaned back against the mantelpiece. “Seaton can entertain us while we wait. He can tell us where he went after escaping the hangman’s noose.”
“A hanging. Dear me.” Mrs. Beresford tittered. “Quite shocking. But necessary, I daresay, for certain crimes—and for certain men. Men of low character and low breeding.”
“He stole Miss Honeywell’s jewelry,” Fred said. “Three priceless pieces passed down to her from her mother. I found them hidden in his room above the stables.”
“Above the stables?” Lionel chuckled. “How indescribably quaint.”
“Strange that you should be the one to find my mother’s jewels, Fred,” Maggie said. “You discovered them before I’d even realized they were missing. And on a day when my father was conveniently away from home, unable to intervene.”
“Nothing strange about it,” Sir Roderick replied crossly. “My son had the ear of the servants. Someone reported the crime to you, didn’t they? A maidservant, I believe you said.”
Fred was quiet. And then: “I don’t recall.”
A flicker of rage threatened St. Clare’s composure. One last glowing ember that the brawl at the tavern had failed to extinguish. “Because it never happened. You knew the jewelry was there because you put it there yourself.”
St. Roderick exploded. “You dare to accuse my son?”
“It’s nothing I didn’t say myself at the time,” Maggie answered him. “And it’s the truth. Fred was always trying to separate me from Nicholas, by fair means or foul.”
“Then you admit this man is the servant boy born on your estate?” Sir Roderick demanded. “The one sired by that highwayman?”
“Jim,” Miss Trumble’s aunt said helpfully. “That’s what he was called.”
“Gentleman Jim,” Fred said. “A rogue and a villain.”
“And my son,” Lord Allendale added from the doorway.
St. Clare stood immediately, along with the rest of the guests, as his grandfather entered the drawing room. The earl was still in his traveling clothes, as if he’d come directly to Beasley Park upon returning from his journey. A frantic footman trailed behind him, too late to properly announce his arrival.
“Your what?” Sir Roderick asked.
“This highwayman you speak of. He was my son, James Beresford. And you’re quite right. The gentleman you see before you is James’s boy.” Allendale’s stormy gray eyes met St. Clare’s. “My grandson and heir. My legitimate heir.” He withdrew a document from his coat. “And I have the papers to prove it.”
Maggie looked from St. Clare to Lord Allendale and back again. Something seemed to pass between them. An unspoken understanding. It suddenly occurred to her that St. Clare had known his grandfather would return. Not only that, but that Allendale would arrive in just such a dramatic fashion.
He was a wily old man, the earl. She reminded herself of that fact as she resumed her seat. Hadn’t he already been attempting to pass St. Clare off as his legitimate heir? Putting it about that St. Clare was born on the continent, the son of James Beresford and an Italian lady who had long since passed away? And yet…
And yet Maggie was filled with a sense of hope at the earl’s arrival. On the edge of her seat with anticipation at what he might reveal.
Jane and her aunt Harriet were equally riveted, both of them hanging on the earl’s every word.