The door closed behind her, and Rhys stood alone in his study, feeling the weight of the encounter settle onto his shoulders. It was done. One more ghost from his past, dismissed. One more step toward the life he was building.
He crossed to his desk and pulled out fresh paper, beginning a letter to Mel that he would send with the evening post.
Lady Forsythe visited today. She wished to resume our acquaintance. I declined in terms she could not misunderstand.
He paused, considering what else to add. The encounter had been significant, a test of his commitment that he had passed without hesitation. But he did not want to make too much of it, did not want to seem as though he expected praise for doing what he should have done all along.
He settled on simplicity.
I am coming home next week.
The letter went out with the evening post. He returned to his drainage report with a lighter heart, counting the days until he could return to Cornwall and show Mel, through presence rather than letters, that he had become the man he had promised to be.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Trevane. A word, if you please.”
Lord Arthur’s voice cut through the murmur of conversation in the parliamentary antechamber, carrying the particular edge of a man who had been waiting for this moment. Rhys turned from his discussion with a colleague to find the older peer approaching with an expression that suggested trouble.
Lord Arthur was one of the pillars of traditional society, a man whose opinions carried weight precisely because he rarely offered them. When he spoke, people listened. When he disapproved, careers faltered. His attention was never casual and never welcome.
“Arthur.” Rhys inclined his head with careful neutrality.
“How can I be of assistance?”
“You can confirm or deny a rumour that has reached my ears.” Arthur positioned himself so that their conversation was visible to the several dozen peers and officials who populated the antechamber. This was deliberate, Rhys realised. Whatever was about to happen, Arthur wanted witnesses.
“I was not aware that I owed you confirmation of rumours.”
“You owe me nothing. But society owes itself the truth, particularly when that truth concerns the behaviour of itsmembers.” Arthur’s voice carried just enough to reach the nearest listeners.
“Is it true that you have been maintaining a household in Cornwall that contains three illegitimate children? Your illegitimate children?”
The antechamber fell silent. Conversations died mid-sentence. Heads turned with the particular attentiveness of people witnessing something they would discuss for weeks.
Rhys felt the weight of every eye in the room settle upon him. This was the moment he had known would come eventually, the reckoning he had been dreading since the day he first held his daughters in his arms and understood that cherishing them meant exposing himself to exactly this kind of scrutiny.
He had a choice. He could deny it, deflect and employ the charm and misdirection that had served him so well for the past fifteen years. He could claim ignorance or distance or some misunderstanding that would allow him to escape this confrontation with his reputation intact.
Or he could tell the truth.
He thought about Anna, with her attendance registers and her fierce intelligence and her determination to impose order on a chaotic world. He thought about Viola, who had been too afraid to speak above a whisper until a governess taught her that her voice mattered. He thought about Thistle, who ate beetles in the name of science and loved her toad with a love that had not yet learned to protect itself.
He thought about Mel, who had told him not to decide what she could bear. Who had asked him to decide what he was willing to fight for.
He thought about the man he was trying to become, and the man he refused to be anymore.
“Yes,” he said.
The word fell into the silence like a stone into still water, sending ripples through the assembled peers. He could see shock on some faces, satisfaction on others and the particular gleam of excitement that appeared when scandal was confirmed.
“Yes,” he repeated, louder this time.
“I have three daughters. They live in Cornwall, in my household and are cared for by an excellent governess and a devoted staff. Their names are Annabelle, Viola, and Thistle. Their mother was a woman I cherished deeply and failed utterly, and they are the best thing I have ever done.”
The silence stretched. Arthur’s expression shifted from anticipation to uncertainty, as though the response he had received was not the one he had expected.
“You admit it,” Arthur said finally.
