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Anthony nodded. His brother had endured a bitter betrayal at the hands of a woman who’d claimed she adored him, so he could understand his cynicism. “I do love her. She is intelligent and passionate and finds the whirl of the haute monde tedious, the people lacking sincerity. Sentiments I agree with. However, it seems the lady has fallen prey to those same faults.” The words tasted bitter.
“What will you do?”
He lifted a shoulder. “What is there to be done? The lady has made her choice.” Though he tried to sound casual, the pain of her decision tied him in knots. He never dreamed he could feel such chaotic emotions over a female. “I think you may have the right of it brother. Women are not to be trusted,” he said dispassionately.
Sebastian hesitated before he spoke. “I can see you closing off your emotions, just as you did when Father shut you out. If you love Miss Peppiwell as you say, then speak with her. Make her tell you to your face.”
Anthony winced. Probably he was being spineless, but he feared what he might do if she admitted throwing him over for another man. The passion they burned with, the connection that had sparked between them…it hurt to think she could dismiss it all so callously. Over something she professed to disdain.
“I will not think on her one moment more,” he vowed. “She never wanted to marry me in the first place. I will be damned if I profess love for her, trying to convince her not to marry Hoyt. He is welcome to the fickle chit.”
Even as he said it, his gut turned to acid at the thought of her in Hoyt’s arms, yielding to his embrace with the fire Anthony knew she possessed.
“I am more worried about Constance,” he went on. “I cannot credit anyone would give her the cut without proof. But if Calvert is right—”
Sebastian muttered another curse. “Indeed, there is much to be done. We must protect Constance at all cost. But first you must call on your lady. I have never known you to be a coward, Anthony. Never. Speak with her before you make a decision that will haunt you for the rest of your life.” Sebastian got to his feet, clasped his shoulder, and left him.
Anthony was so wrapped in his thoughts it took him a few moments to realize the gentlemen he normally drank and conversed with were treating him to covert glances. A sad smile curled his lips. Fickle, indeed. He looked up as a shadow loomed over him. It was Sebastian returning. Anthony arched a brow.
“It occurred to me that you may lack transportation. I will leave my carriage at your disposal. I have informed the coachman.”
“I couldn’t possibly impose,” Anthony drawled, empting his glass of port, enjoying the warmth that trailed from his throat to stomach. “You’ll need it to get back to Sherring Cross.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Sebastian snapped. “Deliver me to your town house and I will order up a traveling coach that’s far more comfortable.”
“Very well. Who am I to argue?” No one, that was who. Anthony got to his feet, collected his greatcoat, and walked Sebastian out of the club they’d been members of for most of their lives—and their father before them, and his father before that. This would probably be the last time Anthony would be able to set foot in the establishment. Strangely, he discovered he cared not one whit.
What he cared about was confronting Phillipa. Hell. Going to her, to see the truth of her betrayal, was the hardest thing he would ever face. For, he realized he loved her unreservedly, and he’d never felt happiness as he had when she’d finally consented to marry him.
The future had seemed brighter. Dreams and promises had seemed possible.
How swiftly all his hopes had been swept away by bleak despair.
Chapter Sixteen
He had a sister to comfort.
And a father to confront.
Anthony shifted on his feet in front of Viscount Radcliffe’s town house on St. James Street. He had been shivering outside in the cold for over five minutes, numbing himself to the surge of emotions that filled him. He was standing in front of his father’s house.
His real father.
The knowledge settled in his stomach like lead. He and Radcliffe had never acknowledged each other as anything other than acquaintances and his mother’s second husband. He had avoided the viscount in the days since learning of his true parentage, not knowing how to handle their first official meeting as father and son.
The old duke had died several years ago and his mother had wasted no time marrying the viscount, her long-time lover. Unlike Sebastian, Anthony had been happy for her, hating the shadows that had haunted her eyes all her life up until then. He had not judged her for not honoring a two-year mourning period for a man he had never seen her touch in all his years. But never had he imagined that Viscount Radcliffe was his and Constance’s father. The man must surely have known the truth. But never had he revealed a hint of it to Anthony.
Not that he should have had to. Now that he knew, Anthony had only to look in a mirror to note the resemblance…and soon it would trumpet itself to the world.
He straightened his shoulders, climbed the steps with measured steps, and rapped on the door. The butler opened immediately, and Anthony could see the knowledge in his eyes. No surprise. Servants always knew everything before the masters of the house.
“No need to announce me,” Anthony said. The clock in the foyer struck one o’clock as he stepped inside and handed him his things.
The haunting strains of a violin filtered through the air, and he followed them to Constance in the music room. She sat on a bench facing the windows with her back turned to him as she played. Her taut spine and the stiff manner in which she cradled the violin to her left cheek bespoke her emotions. She wore a plain blue day gown, with her mass of blond hair tumbling unfettered to her waist. He glanced down and saw her stockinged feet peeking out from under the hem of her dress.
“Constance.” Anthony did not know how to face her. What to say to her.
She stiffened even further, but she did not pause. The violin cried with notes of such beauty his heart ached. He had never heard her play so poignantly before. When the last note dwindled he was regretful it ended. With reverent care, she stood and walked to its spindle and rested the violin and stick. She turned to him. Her tear-streaked face gutted him. Her gaze roamed his face as if she had never seen him before. He desperately wished he had never been so stupid as to wish for her to hold onto her childlike trust of the world. He should have told her at once. She should never have found out through cruel whispers.
“So, it is true.” Her voice was hoarse and he knew that only happened after a long bout of crying.
“Yes.”
She flinched as if struck, but he would give her nothing but the truth.
Where was their mother? Why was she not here comforting her daughter?
“You knew?” Constance asked.
“I learned a couple weeks ago. I was stupid not to tell you right away. I never dreamed it would come to this so quickly.”
She nodded, tears trickling down her face. She hugged herself tightly, hunching into herself. “Why do you think mother never told us? Fath— The old duke hated me…hated us. And she made us think we were his children, Anthony.”
He was not sure how to respond. He had asked himself the same question. He realized how different they would have seen themselves if they had known they were bastards. But still, they would not have been nearly as hurt by the old man’s disdain had they understood the reason. And perhaps…they might have had a closer relationship with their real father.
“I do not excuse Mother’s actions, Connie. And I know it may take time to forgive her and the viscount. But I think, in the end, she kept the knowledge to herself to protect us. To protect you from situations like the one you experienced today.”
She wiped her face. “But how is it even possible? She was married!”
Good Lord. The girl was a tru
e innocent. Realizing just how much so, he walked over and pulled her into his arms. Soft sobs shook her.
“Our mother made decisions we may never understand, Connie, but we must accept, and somehow live with them. I’m not saying it will be easy, but you mustn’t be afraid. We will get through it. Together.”
He led her from the music room toward the parlor. He saw his mother sitting on the staircase, her face in her hands, tears streaming down her cheeks. She glanced up and gave him a tremulous look.
He sighed, and managed a smile of reassurance.
Their mother had not been comforting Constance because she needed comforting herself. His heart warmed when he saw the viscount behind her, his arm around her shoulders in support.
Their eyes met, and Anthony wondered how he could have been so damned blind. They shared the same emerald-green eyes. The viscount’s hair was turning lighter with age, but it was easy to see remnants of the golden blond it had once been, just like his own.
It struck Anthony that perhaps he had chosen to be blind all his life.
His mother rose, and they all entered the parlor and sank into the sofas. The viscount called for tea.
“You missed Miss Peppiwell’s birthday celebration,” Constance managed, though her voice was soft and hoarse. “Mother— Mother and I like her very much. Why weren’t you there?”
He glanced at her, startled at the choice of subject. The last person he wanted to be thinking about was Phillipa. But Constance’s lips were pinched, and he saw the need in her eyes to talk about something else.
“I… I had other things to attend to. I saw her afterward, at Lady Prescott’s soiree.”
“You got her a gift, then?”
“Yes. Last week.” When he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her.
“What did you give her? Diamonds, pearls, rubies? I think rubies would be marvelous with her red hair.”
He chuckled softly and smiled. “I got her a map.”
Constance lifted her head from where it had been resting on his shoulder to give him an appalled look. “A map? Are you mad?”
“She wants to travel the world. I thought she would love it. Though, I confess, I have yet to give it to her.”
