“For what, precisely?” His tone cut like ice. “What help? Did you believe I would throw wide my arms to strangers and call them kin? That I should welcome those kept from me all my life? That I would open my home and my arms to those hidden like a foul scandal. For all I know, you may be a resourceful impostor seeking to fasten claims upon my family.”
A single tear traced her cheek. “I am sorry,” she said hoarsely. “I was as shocked to learn you existed as you are to see us. I did not understand that the connection between our parents was not… respectable. We are alone, without family or funds, and I did not know what to do.”
Not respectable. So her mother had been a mistress.
Sebastian’s fist curled at his side until his glove creaked. How could his father have lived in any fashion that allowed this woman to believe there had been a proper marriage between her mother and his father? That suggested family dinners and celebrations. That implied his father had been a constant presence in their lives. How in God’s name had his father lived a double life for so many years, and with such success that his own son had not known. The more Sebastian considered it, the more disbelief rose in him, and with it suspicion. They were charlatans. That must be it.
“You claim a connection to my father. If there is any truth in what you have said, you will present it—names, dates, every particular, and anything you possess that may be called proof.”
“I have some measure of proof,” she said quickly.
A harsh sound escaped Sebastian. “Only a measure. Do you think I am a fool, Miss Whitley ? Only a measure will not do.”
Miss Whitley reached into her pocket with a visibly shaking hand and drew out several envelopes, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a frayed ribbon. She moved toward him. The ribbon rasped softly as she offered the bundle. His tempersurged anew, recalling the awareness he’d felt at the tilt of her mouth and the lush curves of her figure.
For my damn sister! If this is true… bloody hell.
He ruthlessly shoved the memory aside and took the packet regardless. The paper lay cool against his palm, faintly scented of dust and lavender. Sebastian drew a long breath and banked the fire that leaped in his chest.
“I will allow you to stay the night.”
Visible relief swept through them. “Thank you, my lord,” Miss Whitley said. “We?—”
“You will not use that word in this house,” he said quietly. “Sisters.”
The youngest’s eyes filled with tears. He looked away before the resemblance could work upon him further, then fixed the eldest with a hard gaze. “You will also refrain from speaking to anyone outside this room about the purpose of your visit. If one whisper of your tale escapes the servants’ hall and reaches society, and above all, my mother’s ear, I will see you crushed. Do you understand me?”
Miss Whitley nodded, tears held fiercely at bay, but her mouth trembled when she replied, “Yes, my lord.”
He rang for Gerald. When the butler appeared, carefully impassive, Sebastian said, “There shall be no discourse among the servants regarding my guests. No one is to speak of their arrival, and no one is to speculate upon it. You will not repeat that Miss Whitley styled themselves as family. Do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord,” Gerald said, and bowed.
“And Gerald,” he added, still watching her, “have Peabody attend me first thing in the morning.”
“Very good, my lord.” Gerald withdrew.
Sebastian held her gaze as he continued, “Tomorrow at ten, you will come to my study and give me a detailed account ofyour lives, and you will answer every question put to you. If I determine your tale is false, you will depart my house at once. If it proves true,”—he stopped, his throat tightening on words he could not yet shape—“then we shall speak of what is to be done.”
Miss Whitley inclined her head. “Thank you, my lord.”
“Do not thank me,” he said with bare civility. “Thank the rain.”
She nodded and ushered her sisters away. The youngest cast him a last, searching glance. In profile, the cleft at her chin looked more pronounced; his heart gave a betrayedthud. When the door closed behind them, the room felt too large and too quiet. He stood a long moment, the rain whispering at the panes, the clock marking out seconds he wished he could reclaim.
Sebastian went to his private study, set his shoes by the hearth, and flung his jacket across a chair. His cravat hung loose at his throat. Rain whispered against the tall windowpanes, and the fire burned low and steady, a dull glow along the grate. Leather and old paper scented the room.
All the letters bore his father’s seal. The wax had long since been broken, yet the signet’s impression remained clear. The hand was unmistakable, the same measured strokes he had seen upon ledgers and a hundred notes. Sebastian chose one of the later letters. The paper had softened at the folds, the edges furred where fingers had worried them, as if the message had been read until it learned the reader’s touch. His throat burned as he read.
My dearest Mary,
The weather has played the tyrant with the post, and only this morning did your letter reach my hands. I wish I could be with my family this Christmas day, to see our girls around the hearth. I miss Emelia with her sensible smile, Jane withher quick curiosity, and dear Darcy, whose care so sweetly steadies the younger two. Pray tell me the parcels pleased them. I long to picture their faces when the ribbons were loosed, and each treasure made its appearance. I fancied Jane would lay immediate claim to the pencils, while Emelia would divide the comfits with judicial fairness and then scold Darcy for pretending she wanted none.
You chide me unjustly when you suppose I am disappointed for want of a son. I am perfectly satisfied, more than satisfied, to be blessed with daughters only. God be praised, our newest little one has come safely into the world. If it please you, grant me the honor of calling her Sarah, for her grandmother. The name has long lived in my thoughts; should we be blessed again with a girl, and I should count it a privilege to bestow it upon our child.
I am grieved beyond measure to have missed the hour of your giving birth. Forgive me for not being by your side. I miss you more than is seemly to confess, and I loathe that business keeps me so long from our little household. The cares of town and the duties of the earldom are obligations only; my true comfort is with you in the quiet of the country, where the evenings fall gently, and the girls’ laughter makes a music no London concert can rival.
Take care of your strength. Sit by the fire when the wind rises, take broth, and let the nurse carry Sarah to you only when you are rested. Send to me at once for anything you lack. I will contrive it, however tiresome the town may prove. Kiss each girl for me and tell them their papa thinks of them every hour and keeps them in his prayers.
