“I’m sorry that Augustus has duped your sister into believing that he was my son,” the countess said, sitting back in her armchair.
“Who is Augustus, and why would he pretend to be the earl? And why choose my sister?” Delia had a thousand questions, but she was wasting time sitting there, useless.
“Augustus is our cousin,” Lady Helen said. “He feels that he should be the earl and not my brother.”
Delia’s leg bounced faster underneath the confines of her day dress and pelisse. She’d run out of Aunt Francis’ house barely presentable, determined to get answers and stop her sister from making the worst mistake of her life.
If being in London for the Season had taught Delia anything, it was that the Ton never forgets. She was five and twenty, and yet they knew exactly who her parents were and would never allow her into their folds.
But Delia was no wilting flower. She would not easily crumble from their cruelty. Margaret, however, would. She would not survive ruination, of that Delia was certain.
“What does that have to do with my sister?” she asked, as Lady Helen sat on the sofa.
“If Augustus is pretending to be my son, the only explanation is that he is trying to get his hands on the Wakefield fortune.” The countess gripped her cane, tapping it against the pristine carpet.
“There was a clause in my father’s will that if Hunt brought shame or scandal to the earldom, the entirety of the fortune that is unentailed will pass to Augustus.” Lady Helen clapped her hands together. “We’re one big happy family.”
“Really, Helen, must you?” The countess leveled her daughter with a glare that would’ve had Delia shaking.
Delia knit her brow together, wondering how a father could think so lowly of his own son that he would add such a clause in his will. It baffled her how some parents treated their own children. She knew that if she ever had children of her own, shewould never treat them how she’d been treated by her mother, and even her father on occasion.
Her own mother had left her at the age of seven at her father’s doorstep with nothing but a handmade doll and a carpet bag. Delia’s father was slightly better than her mother as he provided room and shelter from the moment the butler had discovered her. But he’d never hugged her or given her any sort of comfort. She could count on her hands the number of words they had spoken that year.
“Look after your sister, Adelia.”
“I’m sorry, Mother, but clearly, we’re the typical dysfunctional family of the Ton, and now Augustus has taken advantage of an innocent girl!” Lady Helen raised her hands over her head as a maid entered carrying an elaborate tea tray and biscuits.
Delia’s stomach growled at the sight of the elaborate tray, the obscene noise filling the parlor. At Aunt Francis’, the food was edible but nothing in comparison to the elaborate tray that was set in front of her.
“Please help yourself, Miss St. George,” Lady Helen said, as she poured tea into three of the cups on the tray.
“Delia, call me Delia, Lady Helen.” She picked up a small saucer and piled it with biscuits, not caring if she looked slightly hungry. She was starving and savored the first bite of the buttery goodness as the taste exploded in her mouth.
Was that salt?
Delia finished the biscuit, her leg bouncing as she counted the seconds until the earl came back downstairs. She wasn’t sure when Margaret and Augustus had left for Gretna Green, but Delia knew that it had been at least several hours.
They had arrived home in the early hours of the morning. All Aunt Francis could speak of was the Earl of March and his wayward cousin. Margaret, strangely enough, was exhaustedand insisted on retiring early. When Delia had finally gone to bed after writing in her journal for an hour, she found her sister sound asleep. Whether that was true or not, she did not know.
“You must call me Helen.” Helen reached over and squeezed Delia’s hand. “We’re still going to be friends once this is all over,” she said, releasing her hand and picking up one of the three teacups.
Delia chuckled. “I will gladly be your friend once my sister is returned.”
She couldn’t think about anything but Margaret being safely returned to her. Aunt Francis was frantic and had sent a letter to their father before Delia could stop her. He surely would not be pleased with his eldest daughter. Her one responsibility since the moment she’d been allowed to stay at Cliff Manor was to look after her sister, and she’d failed.
Delia berated herself for allowing Margaret to become acquainted with a gentleman that she’d never met. It had happened swiftly. A fortnight ago, she’d gone to the ladies’ retiring room for peace and quiet from all the whispers that surrounded her. She hadn’t expected anyone to know who or what she was, if she were being honest, but they knew and judged her for the circumstances of her birth.
She had entered the small ballroom of Lord and Lady Henderson with Margaret and Aunt Francis, determined to enjoy the spoils of the Season. However, it all came crashing down around Delia from the first whisper,“I hear she’s Cliffbury’s bastard.”
More followed her; every step she’d taken was met with words or looks of disgust or hunger. It was more attention than Delia had ever had in her life. She fled to the confines of the ladies’ retiring room.
Her one moment of peace had changed the trajectory of her sister’s life forever.
“I’m going after them,” the deep voice of the Earl of March slammed through her thoughts.
Delia’s head whipped toward the main door of the parlor to find him now properly dressed, a few droplets of water still clinging to his beard.
Ignoring her body’s reaction to the man, she placed her teacup down, wishing she’d had a chance to partake in the warm beverage.
