“I’m fine,” he lied. She didn’t respond but arched a challenging brow. He smiled despite himself and lifted her hand to his lips. “I’m…tolerable,” he corrected.
“And I’m sorry,” she said, and not for the first time. She’d been saying it every so often all morning. They both knew why. It was only because of Nora that he was here, and Jane took responsibility for that and the pain that came with it. A foolish thing since he would endure a great deal more pain than this to help her. He’d burn alive to do that.
The door to the parlor opened and Jane withdrew her hand as the stern butler who had met them earlier stepped in and announced, “The Earl of Pottinger.”
They both rose and watched as a tall man entered the room. Ripley had seen the man before, of course, in passing, but it was always a shock to see one’s own features on visage of a stranger, even as an older version. Ripley had his mother’s eyes, but the shape of him was this man. Though certainly the earl was more a tamed dragon than a wild one.
The butler stepped out, closing the door behind himself, and the earl took a little breath before he crossed toward Ripley with a hand outstretched. “Mr—Mr. Ripley. I’m so pleased to finally make your acquaintance.”
Ripley blinked but didn’t take the outstretched hand. He wasn’t certain how he expected his father to greet him, what would have made him calmer rather than angrier, but this wasn’t it. Pottinger spoke to him like he was some stranger. Or worse yet, just the famous former fighter that men of his ilk liked to trip over themselves to meet, even though they considered him beneath him.
“My lord,” he said softly, and instead of shaking the hand still outstretched, he touched Jane’s lower back. “This is my—my—Miss Kendall.”
His father’s gaze slid to her and his brow wrinkled, like he vaguely recognized her. Of course he would. He’d likely seen her in places like the Donville Masquerade. Once again, Ripley’s anger flared. His father had continued with his mistresses and courtesans and lightskirts even though all the while Ripley’s mother had withered and died.
He clenched his teeth. He was here for Jane, not to have a long-denied showdown with his father. He would not jeopardize her ability to find out where her sister was.
“Miss Kendall.” The earl inclined his head and then glanced at Ripley and back to her. “Welcome to my home. Please, won’t you both sit? It will be more comfortable.”
He and Jane returned to the settee, the earl took the chair across from them. For a moment there was only silence until his father filled it. “I-I’ve heard your club does very well. All my friends and their sons are members. I always recommend it to people, and did so especially at the beginning when you first opened it.”
Ripley glared at him. Was this man taking some kind of credit for his success? Acting as though men came to his club because an earl had suggested it, rather than because Ripley had been a champion? A fighter because he’d had no choice?
“Am I supposed to thank you?” he snapped, that anger bubbling up to the surface.
Jane reached for him, took his hand again without looking at him. She settled it against her knee, covered it with both her own, like she was offering shelter to some small part of him. To his surprise, he felt sheltered by her touch.
“No,” the earl said swiftly. “N-No, of course not. I only meant that I’ve been aware of your success. Proud of it.”
Ripley pressed his lips together, swallowed back every retort that bubbled in his mind, every anger he’d ever felt toward this selfish, entitled man. He was here for Jane. He had to focus for Jane.
“If we’ve done enough of the pleasantries, perhaps we could move on to why Jane and I are here.”
The earl nodded. “Yes, of course. May I call for tea or some other refreshment?”
“No,” Ripley said. “Where is your son, my lord? One of your legitimate sons? He goes by Hugo.”
Pottinger’s nostrils flared slightly. “What do you know of Hugo? Why would you be seeking him?”
Ripley drew a shaky breath, but before he could say anything, Jane leaned forward. “I have a younger sister, my lord. She has apparently met your son, there was an attachment of some kind which developed between them and she…she’s missing now. There’s reason to believe he may know where she is.”
Pottinger’s jaw tightened. Once again, Ripley realized with a start how much he looked like the man. How he hated that. “What is your sister’s name, Miss Kendall?”
“Honora Winchester, sir,” she said. When the earl arched a brow, Jane added, “We have different fathers. She also goes by Nora.”
“Nora,” the earl repeated, but it wasn’t said in a neutral tone. No, he sounded frustrated. Exhausted.
Ripley leaned forward. “You know that name?”
His father glanced at Jane again and then refocused on him. “I…I had become aware that Hugo had met one of the young women who attends the seminary not far from our country estate. He seemed smitten, was asking me for permission to formally court her. I said no, of course.”
“Of course?” Jane asked softly, but Ripley felt her tense at the instant dismissal of her sister.
He glanced at her again apologetically. “We are a family of title and wealth, Miss Kendall. And I…I looked into your sister’s background. Although I was unaware of your attachment to Ripley, I did find out about your mother’s past…and your own. You’re a woman of the world, you must understand why a connection between my family…my legitimate family…and yours would be untenable.”
Jane turned her face slightly and her tone became brittle. “Certainly.”
“Do not turn your face away from him as if you’re less,” Ripley said, squeezing her fingers gently. “Never do that, Jane. He doesn’t deserve that deference.”
