Respectability, Andrew thought, had seldom looked so guilty.
The drawing room was cold despite the fire. Pale blue silk covered the walls. A marble clock ticked upon the mantel. On a table near the window, a vase of hothouse flowers gave off a faint, overripe sweetness that seemed entirely unsuited to the day.
Andrew did not sit. He stood in the center of the room and waited. He had waited all through the journey back to London. He had waited while the carriage fought its way through traffic. He had waited while the Ravenshaw butler took his card upstairs with a face carefully emptied of curiosity. Now, he was done waiting.
The door opened and Lord Ravenshaw entered first.
“Sinclair,” the man greeted him. “This is unexpected.”
Andrew looked at him. “I imagine it is.”
Ravenshaw was a handsome man, that much could not be denied. Even Andrew, who disliked him on sight and despised him by evidence, could understand the reputation. Ravenshaw had the dark hair, fine features, and careless elegance which foolish women had likely mistaken for depth and foolish men for charm. There was a sternness about his mouth now, but sternness improved him rather than diminished him. It gave his beauty consequence.
A rake with the face of a martyr… how convenient.
Lady Ravenshaw followed half a step behind him. She was pale, though not so pale that concern could not have been carefully arranged. Her gaze moved to Andrew’s face, then down to his hand, as if she already guessed why he had come.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of her shawl as she spoke. “Your Grace.”
He gave her no bow.
Ravenshaw’s expression hardened at the omission. “If this concerns some matter of business–”
“It concerns Mary Collins.”
The name struck the room like a thrown glass. Lady Ravenshaw went still. Her husband did not. He merely lifted one brow, as though boredom might serve him better than alarm.
“I do not believe I know the name.”
“You know it.”
“I assure you–”
“You seduced her,” Andrew continued without hesitation. “You abandoned her when she was with child. You threatened her into silence. Then, when scandal came too near your door, you spread a lie that made the child mine.”
For one moment, even the clock seemed to stop.
Then Ravenshaw laughed. It was a cold, handsome sound, practiced and useless.
“My dear Sinclair,” he mocked, “you arrive uninvited, insult my wife beneath my roof, and accuse me of crimes against a woman I have never heard of. Either grief has impaired your reason, or marriage has made you theatrical.”
Andrew reached into his coat and withdrew the folded letter. Ravenshaw’s laugh died before the paper had fully opened. That was enough. Andrew saw the minute contraction about the eyes, the sudden stillness of a man who had recognized the shape of his own ruin. Lady Ravenshaw saw it, too. Her face lost every trace of color.
Andrew held up the letter, not near enough for either of them to snatch. “Your seal.”
Ravenshaw recovered quickly, but not quickly enough. “A seal can be imitated.”
“Your hand.”
“Also imitated.”
“Your threat.”
This time, the man said nothing.
Andrew’s voice remained low. That was the only restraint he allowed himself. “You wrote to her. You told her to be silent. You told her not to speak your name to me, my servants, or any otherliving soul. You told her that if she forced your hand, the child would not live long enough to trouble either of you.”
Lady Ravenshaw made a small sound.
