the settee beside his father. “No such proof exists.”
Sir Roderick silenced his son with a wave of his hand. “Be quiet. Let his lordship speak.”
Allendale settled himself in a chair next to Maggie. She had a good view of the folded document in his hand. But he didn’t open it. He held it as he spoke, rather like a prop. “I traveled to Exeter this morning to consult with the bishop. To see if he could assist me in finding the Devonshire church of this Father Tuck fellow.”
Maggie cast an excited glance at St. Clare, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking steadily at his grandfather.
“Father Tuck?” Mrs. Beresford gave a trilling laugh. “And who might he be?”
Allendale fixed Mrs. Beresford with an implacable glare. “A rogue clergyman who once knew my son.”
Mrs. Beresford seemed to shrink a little under the earl’s regard.
“Another Banbury tale,” Mr. Beresford said dismissively.
“It certainly is not,” Maggie told him. “Father Tuck frequented the Crossed Daggers some thirty years ago. He was known in these parts, and if you doubt it, you may ask our vicar, Mr. Applewhite, yourself.” At that, she inclined her head to the earl, bidding him to continue.
Allendale acknowledged Maggie with a nod. “The Bishop of Exeter isn’t a stranger to me. He was gracious enough to see me without an appointment. After consulting the records, he directed me to a church some thirteen miles away, in the village of Thorne St. Mary. It lies not far from the main road, which was convenient to my return journey, and so I made haste to go there.”
Fred was shaking his head, frowning, but he remained mute for the moment.
“You met Father Tuck?” Maggie asked.
“He goes by Mr. Tuck,” Allendale said. “But yes. I was fortunate to meet the man. He’s a humble fellow, near to my age, and deeply repentant of the sinfulness of his former life. The past is painful to him, but his memory is untarnished. He readily recalled my son—and the tavern wench, Jenny Seaton.”
“Like hell he did!” Fred burst out.
Sir Roderick reprimanded him through gritted teeth. “Be quiet, I said!”
“Can’t you see it’s just another lie? Another made-up story like the last one?” Fred gestured angrily at St. Clare. “He’s no heir to an earldom!”
St. Clare didn’t react at all to Fred’s outburst. He was still watching his grandfather.
“Ah, but he is.” Allendale’s mouth curved in a cold smile of triumph. “Mr. Tuck’s former church in Somerset was destroyed in a fire, and most of the records along with it. But Mr. Tuck was, for most of his life, a man of order and good sense, and in his sober hours saw fit to keep copies. He stored these copies in a strongbox and has most of them still. He went through them while I waited, and at last produced the evidence which I now have in my possession.” The earl raised the document in his hand. “Jenny Seaton’s marriage lines.”
There was a sudden silence, as if the entire drawing room had collectively caught its breath.
“Do you mean…they were married after all?” Maggie asked.
“You may see for yourself.” Allendale handed her the document.
She took it, unfolding the paper in front of her. Her eyes widened and her heart skipped, tripping over itself.
Good heavens.
It was true. It was all true.
“Out loud, if you please, Miss Honeywell,” Allendale said.
Her fingers fairly trembled on the paper as she read: “‘Jenny Seaton of Colebrook Parish, Somersetshire and James Edward Beresford of Worth House, Hertfordshire were married at Southleigh Chapel, Somersetshire this seventh day of June in the year 1789 by William Oswald Tuck.’” She looked up. “It’s signed and witnessed.”
Mrs. Beresford leapt from her chair. “Let me see it.” She snatched the marriage lines from Maggie’s hands before Maggie could stop her. “Poppycock! This is a forgery.” She thrust the paper at her son, who had come to stand beside her. “The witnesses haven’t even signed it.”
“It’s a copy written out by Mr. Tuck,” Allendale said. “No different than the marriage lines kept by countless women as proof of their nuptials.”
Mr. Beresford was no longer affecting an air of lazy amusement. His eyes were alert beneath his drooping lids. “And who are these witnesses? Did you meet them?”
“We shall meet them,” Mrs. Beresford said. “You may depend upon it, my lord. We shall question them without delay.”
“I wish you luck, madam.” Allendale plucked the marriage lines from Mr. Beresford’s fingers, and folding the paper in half, passed it to St.