The possibility struck Maggie like a lightning bolt.
It would certainly explain why Jenny had felt such animosity toward her child. If she believed Nicholas to have been responsible for inspiring such a trick—if she blamed him for driving away her lover—it would be natural for her to resent him.
But even if Gentleman Jim had known, why bother with a fake marriage? Why not simply abandon Jenny full stop? He was already escaping to the continent to avoid the noose. Escaping the burden of a pregnant mistress was minor in comparison.
Surely, he wouldn’t have toyed with her merely for his own amusement? A prank was one thing, but to convince the woman who was carrying your child that the two of you had married—that the child’s name was secure…
That was no masculine prank. It was an outright cruelty.
And it made no sense at all.
“You claim you heard this tale secondhand,” Maggie said. “Who told it to you?”
“Why, it was Squire Honeywell. He mentioned it not long after Miss Seaton arrived at the Park. I warned him that girls in that sort of trouble often conjured outrageous fictions out of whole cloth. He knew it to be true. But he was a big-hearted man, your father.” Mr. Entwhistle’s mouth dropped into a frown. “He came to regret that kindness after you took ill.”
“That wasn’t Jenny’s fault. It was mine. I’m the one who insisted on nursing her during her final days.” She’d spent endless hours seated beside Jenny’s cot. She’d held her hand and sponged her brow. Had listened to her ravings about Nicholas and Father Tuck.
A priest, Maggie had thought. Someone to whom Jenny wished to confess. But what if…
What if…
Maggie’s lungs seized on a breath. All at once, the small parlor felt even smaller. She forced herself to breathe.
Mr. Entwhistle rose. “Are you all right, Miss Honeywell?”
She waved him back. “Fine. Perfectly fine. I need a little air, that’s all.”
He put a hand under her elbow, assisting her to her feet. “I’ll have the gig readied. Thomas can drive you back to the Park.” He turned to go but Maggie forestalled him.
“Mr. Entwhistle, I wonder…”
“Yes?”
“Have you ever heard of a clergyman hereabouts by the name of Father Tuck?” It was a stab in the dark, but she’d never forgive herself if she left without asking. “It may have been a long while past. Possibly before I was born.”
Mr. Entwhistle beetled his brows. “Can’t say I have. Is it something to do with the estate?”
“Nothing like that. Merely my own curiosity.” A curiosity that hadn’t been satisfied yet. That wouldn’t be satisfied until she’d found out the whole of the matter.
Which was precisely what she intended to do.
London, England
Summer 1817
St. Clare set down his fork. He was seated, along with his grandfather, at one end of the long, polished mahogany dining table at Grosvenor Square. A row of liveried servants lined the silk-papered wall behind them, standing at the ready. Supper had been served early this evening to accommodate their engagement at the theater.
Allendale shot a narrow glance at St. Clare’s unfinished meal. It sat before him, the sturgeon à la broche and French beans and white sauce on his plate all but untouched. “Something wrong with your fish?”
“Nothing’s wrong,” St. Clare said. “Other than the fact that I have no appetite for it.”
The dining room was awash in light. Two branches of dripping beeswax candles graced the table, and on the walls evenly spaced sconces glowed with dancing flames. Shadows played across the enormous oil paintings that hung over them—gilt-framed Beresford ancestors looking down at them with all-too-familiar expressions of hauteur.
“Off your feed, are you?” Allendale asked.
“Something like that.” St. Clare leaned back in his chair. He was in no mood to eat. No mood to do much of anything save bark and growl at everyone around him. A lion with a wounded paw and a sore head, wasn’t that what Maggie had called him?
He could only imagine what she’d think of him now.
One week without her and he was already too cross for company. No longer icy and implacable, but sullen and short-tempered and restless as all hell.
Allendale gave the signal for the servants to leave. The line of footmen swiftly filed out, shutting the door behind them.
St. Clare looked at his grandfather, brows raised in question.
Allendale fixed him with a disapproving glare. “If this is how you mean to conduct yourself, you may as well go after the gel.”
As permission went, it was lukewarm at best. It nevertheless