in the man. It was no wonder his grandfather exploded at the mere mention of his second cousin’s son. The very things Allendale prided most in the Beresford line were conspicuously missing from Lionel. He had no looks, no bearing, and no trace of the infamous athleticism and daring that had characterized generations of Beresford men before him.
What he had instead was a certain low cunning, quite evident in the flintlike eyes that peered out from under deceitfully lazy lids. By St. Clare’s measure, those eyes had already calculated the relative value of the artwork and the furnishings down to a ha’penny, and were presently making the same not-so-subtle evaluation of St. Clare himself.
“Lord Vickers and Lord Mattingly,” Lionel said with seeming disinterest. He drew out an enameled snuffbox, flicked it open with one hand, and took a pinch of snuff. He promptly sneezed. “Friends of yours are they, my lord?”
“Friends? Indeed, so distinguished,” Mrs. Beresford said. “Have you met them, Lionel? No? But then, we’re not up to town as often as we would like. Shall I ring for tea, Allendale? I will pour, of course, being the most senior Beresford lady present. But then, there are no ladies present, are there? Dear me, so many single gentlemen! But that must be the reason you are come back to England, Lord St. Clare. To find a wife and set up your nursery. Lionel will be marrying soon, will you not, Lionel? Standing ready to do his duty by the title if things should not go quite as you have planned.”
St. Clare fixed the woman with an implacable stare. He was pleased to see her artificial smile dim by several degrees.
“There will be no tea this morning, madam,” Allendale informed her. “You and this young pup of yours have stayed quite long enough.”
The very next moment, Mattingly and Vickers were shown in, and after introductions all around, the earl, very curtly, instructed Jessup to see Lionel Beresford and his mother out.
“Mushrooms,” Mattingly pronounced as he watched them go. “Come up from the country to sniff around your claim to the title, have they?”
“That seems to be the case,” St. Clare said.
Mattingly nodded. “No doubt they’ll attempt to attach themselves to you for the duration of their stay.”
At this, Vickers was properly horrified. “I say, St. Clare, you won’t be obliged to spend much time in that fellow’s company, will you?”
St. Clare grimaced. “Good lord, I hope not.”
“I’ll say this.” Allendale addressed his grandson with a measure of pride. “If they’ve come up to town expecting to rattle you, they know better now. By gad, sir, but you can keep your countenance. Such phlegmatic coldness I’ve never had the privilege to behold. I would have done well to follow your example. I might have done, too, if that woman hadn’t had the effrontery to mention my son to me. And then that whelp of hers, calling himself a Beresford! I was hard pressed not to throttle the pair of them.”
“They’ve taken a house for the season,” St. Clare said. “In Half Moon Street, I believe.”
“They may engage as many houses as they please,” Allendale replied acidly, “but if they think to presume upon my acquaintance—”
“Unless you intend to give them the cut direct, you must acknowledge them some time or other.”
Allendale glowered at this bit of reasonableness. “Off with you. Go call on some of the young ladies you’ve met or take a gel for a drive. After what I’ve seen today, if you don’t soon make some advances toward matrimony, I shall be forced to take a wife and sire the next heir myself.”
Vickers stifled a choke of laughter. “He wouldn’t, would he?” he asked as they made their exit.
St. Clare shook his head. He didn’t elaborate. Unbeknownst to Vickers—or to society at large—a carriage accident during the early years of Lord Allendale’s marriage had robbed him of his ability to sire more children. He’d fathered only the one: James Beresford.
If the line was to survive, it must continue through James’s son. Through St. Clare himself. Indeed, it was the sole source of St. Clare’s value to his grandfather, and one that Allendale took pains that St. Clare should never forget.
As if he ever could.
Dr. Felix Hart was by no means the most fashionable physician in London, but after he spent an hour examining her, Maggie was convinced he must be the most thorough one. He was a young man with a kind face and a slow, thoughtful manner. He