“No one is calling anyone out today.” The Earl of Allendale’s voice rang out.
St. Clare’s head jerked to the drawing room doorway just in time to see his grandfather walk into the room. He came to a halt at St. Clare’s side, giving him a sharp look of warning.
“Lord Allendale!” Mrs. Beresford leapt to her feet again, executing another curtsy. Her son rose to stand beside her. “What a surprise this is. That is to say, an honor. You never came to call before, not even when invited. And now, here you are—you and Lord St. Clare both—within minutes of each other. One can hardly countenance—”
“Enough of your forked-tongue pleasantries, Lavinia,” Allendale said. “There’s nothing I despise more than a serpent who walks upright.”
Mrs. Beresford’s mouth opened and closed and opened again. “Well! I never—”
“You’ve done enough damage with your infernal gossip. And you too, sir.” Allendale glared at Lionel. “Your scheming stops today. Do you hear me? I’ll have no more of it.”
Mrs. Beresford drew herself up. “Really, Allendale, if you continue in this manner, I will have to ask you to leave.”
“And if you continue,” Allendale said, “you will see how I deal with snakes. Even those who bear the name of Beresford.”
“And what of my cousin?” Lionel asked. “If we must be classed as serpents, how would you class him? He’s no Beresford.”
“He’s a wolf in lamb’s clothing is what he is,” Mrs. Beresford said.
“A fox, more like. Isn’t that the animal that graces the Allendale coat of arms? The trickster?” Lionel’s mouth curled. “I don’t have a mind to be tricked, Uncle. Not out of my title.”
“Your title!” Allendale stalked to Lionel, only stopping when they were nose to nose. “I’m not dead yet, my boy. And when I go, make no mistake, it’s my grandson who will inherent my title, no matter how much hissing you and your mother do.”
St. Clare stood silent, his blood pumping hard in his veins. He didn’t dare say a word. His grandfather wouldn’t thank him for interfering. Not at this stage.
“I’ve been to see my solicitor this morning,” Allendale said. “He leaves for Italy tomorrow to collect proof of my son’s marriage, and of my grandson’s birth—proof that he’ll return with directly. In the meanwhile, if I hear so much as a single whispered word shared with a scandal sheet, I’ll ruin the pair of you. And don’t doubt that I have the power to do it. My name still counts for something in this country.”
Mrs. Beresford’s lips thinned. She’d long given up any pretense of civility. “You expect us to keep mute until you produce evidence of Lord St. Clare’s legitimacy? To say nothing of the scheme you’re perpetrating against my son, your true heir?”
Allendale regarded her with unvarnished contempt.
“For how long must we wait?” Lionel asked.
“My solicitor will return within a month’s time,” Allendale said.
“A month?” Mrs. Beresford’s gaze shot to her son. “Lionel—”
“It’s all right, my dear. We’ll be well occupied elsewhere.” Lionel looked to St. Clare. “Madre and I are going away for a time. A visit to the country. Someplace you might be familiar with.”
A flicker of foreboding put St. Clare on his guard.
“Mr. Burton-Smythe has invited us to Beasley Park as his very special guests,” Lionel said. “We leave for Somerset tomorrow.”
It was all St. Clare could do to keep his countenance. The fact that Lionel and his mother were traveling to Somerset—the very place St. Clare had been born and raised—was bad enough. But there was something even worse. Something that chilled St. Clare to his heart.
Fred would never go to Beasley Park without Maggie. Which meant…
She was leaving, too. Not in a week or a month. But tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
“Your travel plans are of no interest to us, boy.” Allendale’s hand closed around St. Clare’s uninjured arm in an iron grip, steering him to the door. “Mind well what I’ve said.”
They didn’t take their leave of Lionel or his mother, not by so much as a bow of acknowledgment. Allendale was in no mood for pleasantries.
“Take it back to Grosvenor Square,” he snapped at Enzo as they walked past St. Clare’s curricle in the drive.
The earl’s carriage was waiting in the street. St. Clare climbed in after his grandfather. A footman shut the door behind them.
“What did you hope to achieve by that display?” Allendale asked as the carriage set off.
St. Clare sat back in his seat. His arm twinged as his shirt brushed over his wound. He could barely suppress a