What was the name of Georgie’s supposed fiancé?
“Benedict,” he asked the footman as he was collecting Tom’s empty glass, “do you know of a family named Sharpe in the ton?”
The footman paused, his brow deepening into a vee.
“The name is familiar,” he replied, then gave his head a quick shake. “Though I cannot account for it.”
“I have no idea if he is in the Lords,” Tom said, referring to the House of Lords where member of the peers had duties to the crown, “though it is likely.”
Tom couldn’t imagine that Georgie wouldn’t have been matched to a member of the peerage. She’d been so vehement in her rejection of Tom in part because she’d been promised to someone “worthy.” And that, at the time, was most definitely not the adopted son of nobody in particular.
“I can make some discreet inquiries,” Benedict offered.
Tom reached into his purse and pulled out several coins and pressed them into Benedict’s gloved hand.
“I shall be out for the afternoon,” he said. “And I don’t anticipate needing you directly. Please take your time.”
“Understood, sir,” he said, his mouth betraying only the hint of a smile as he left.
Tom closed his eyes and pushed out his chair, stretching his legs. Perhaps he should spend the rest of the day resting his head before another evening that required him to be sharp.
“There you are.”
The sound of the viscount’s voice roused Tom out of his half slumber and brought him to his feet.
“Sir.”
The viscount cocked a brow as he strode into the room with the confidence and self-possession of a man who seemed at ease with the world and everyone in it.
“You are my son, Tom” he said, with a warmth that felt genuine. “You need not stand every time I enter the room.”
Tom didn’t spend much time looking in mirrors, but if anyone questioned his lineage, a quick study of Viscount Worthington’s features would quickly answer them. They not only shared a similar build and size, but the same eyes and mouth.
“I’ve been going over the ledgers,” he replied, gesturing to the books.
His father stopped on the other side of the desk, peering down at the ledgers.
“Alas, it’s not all balls and afternoons at the club,” he said. “Your time working at Whetherby will serve you well. You already have a very particular view of estate management that many of your station only wish they had. When we visit Foxleigh Court, we’ll have a tour of the grounds with our steward.”
Tom raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t feel ready for all of this.”
“I’m not yet fifty, my boy,” the viscount said. “I don’t hope for you to be ready for several decades. The Worthingtons are long-lived. Remember that I only inherited the title from my father a handful of years ago.”
“But not my mother’s family?”
His father turned grim. “Your mother passed away two years ago. It was only on her deathbed that I learned of you. In time, if you like, I can make discreet inquiries. It would be good for you to meet your entire family.”
His entire family. He had a half-brother who was now a duke. And a cousin who was an earl. He wanted to laugh at the irony of his entire situation.
“Why didn’t you marry?” he asked. It had been on his mind for months, but not until now had he even felt comfortable broaching the subject. While the viscount had made it clear he grieved for the loss of the years with Tom, the undeniable factof his scandalous birth made it something he felt uncomfortable raising, particularly when his stepmother was in the room.
“She was already intended for another,” his father said, taking a seat and gesturing for Tom to do the same. “I had offered to make things right between us, but she was hellbent on being a duchess I suppose. We were both so bloody young. I don’t know how she hid the pregnancy from her family.”
“Did the duke know?” Tom asked.
His father shook his head. “I would not want to betray your mother’s secret—at least not yet. While I believe the duke would not object to the news, the past can be a difficult subject for some.”
That was true enough.
