“He had a temper too, they say.” Lionel extracted his handkerchief to wipe the remaining snuff from his nostrils. “I’ve heard the stories. He was reckless and foolish. Wasting his fortune on whores and drink and gambling. Playing ridiculous pranks. According to Madre, your grandfather had had enough of him. And when your father shot Penworthy’s boy—”
“Penworthy’s son was no child. He was a man grown.”
“In years, perhaps. But not in reason. Madre says the boy hadn’t the sense of an addled pea goose. By consenting to a duel with your father, he all but signed his death warrant.”
“Your mother knows nothing about my father. Nor do you.”
Lionel shrugged. “Merely stating the facts.”
St. Clare shot a narrow glance back toward the ballroom. A few footmen and housemaids were busy tidying up near the glass doors. Conspicuously busy. There didn’t appear to be any guests lurking about, but one never knew. “By the by, where is your esteemed mother?”
“Enjoying her supper when I left her. Madre’s found a kindred spirit in your Miss Steele. They’ve become fast friends.”
St. Clare supposed Lionel’s statement was meant to put him on his guard. As if Louisa Steele was in possession of any of St. Clare’s secrets. During the past days, as he’d squired her about town, he’d done little but smile as she rattled on about herself in tiresome detail. All the compliments she’d received from men and all the ladies who were—inevitably—jealous of her.
It had been a small sacrifice to appease his grandfather, but a sacrifice nonetheless. Every minute spent with Miss Steele was one St. Clare might have spent with Maggie. And now, to know that Maggie had misunderstood him. That he might have hurt her in some way.
It wasn’t what he’d intended. Not by any stretch of the imagination.
More and more he was beginning to feel like one of those hapless street performers he’d seen in Venice as a lad. A juggler with too many balls in the air. It took all of one’s focus to keep the balls from dropping. A single fumble could mean catastrophe.
“I congratulate you, Cousin,” Lionel went on. “Miss Steele is a great beauty. The prize of the season, I understand, and that set on marrying a title. It would be too bad if she were disappointed in that regard.”
Too bad, indeed.
St. Clare’s mouth curled into a humorless smile as he crossed to the terrace doors. His shoulder narrowly clipped Lionel’s as he passed. “Do your worst.”
Inside the ballroom, the servants who had been eavesdropping scattered in his wake. St. Clare paid them no mind. He’d said nothing that couldn’t be repeated.
No. It was Lionel who had provided the gossip. An outright accusation that St. Clare wasn’t who he said he was. It was only a matter of time before that accusation made the scandal sheets. An unambiguous charge made from one member of the Beresford family against another.
His grandfather would want to know.
St. Clare didn’t look forward to the conversation. Not tonight. He had other things on his mind. Maggie and Frederick Burton-Smythe for one. He nevertheless descended the stairs leading down to the dining room. At the foot of them, he found George and Jane Trumble, their heads bent together, deep in whispered conversation.
Miss Trumble straightened at the sight of him. “Lord St. Clare. Good evening.”
Her brother inclined his head in a stiff greeting. “St. Clare.”
St. Clare looked between the two of them. A frisson of uneasiness went through him. “Is something amiss?”
“Not at all,” George replied.
“It’s Miss Honeywell,” Miss Trumble said at the same time.
St. Clare’s pulse leapt with something like alarm. He took a step forward. “What about Miss Honeywell?”
“Jane,” George whispered a warning.
“It’s all right,” Miss Trumble whispered back to him. “He’s Margaret’s friend.” She looked up at St. Clare. “Mr. Burton-Smythe insisted on taking her back to Green Street in his carriage.”
St. Clare’s alarm grew exponentially. “Alone?”
“No, no,” Miss Trumble answered quickly. “Nothing like that. My Aunt Harriet has gone with them as chaperone.”
The same elderly, enfeebled aunt who had been asleep on every occasion that St. Clare had chanced to meet her? What kind of chaperone was she? No chaperone at all, as far as he was concerned.
“We offered to take Miss Honeywell home ourselves,” George said, “but she wouldn’t allow us to suspend our pleasure on her account.”
“I’m sure everything’s fine,” Miss Trumble said. “She can look after herself. It’s only that…Mr. Burton-Smythe was in such a temper, and it’s such a long drive back to Green