Page 70 of Gentleman Jim

Lionel sat down, uttering a languid sigh. “Lord St. Clare believes it was we who gave it to them.”

“We?” Her eyes went wide. “But we know nothing at all about you, my lord. Nothing about your life in Italy, nor in Somerset.” She tittered. “Though I see no great difficulty in clearing up the matter. All you need do is present your parents’ marriage lines. They have such, don’t they? Even on the continent, I believe.”

St. Clare made no move to sit. This wasn’t a social call. “By what right do you demand proof from me?”

“Oh no. We would never demand. Not from Allendale’s heir. What must you think of us?” Another titter. “To be sure, it’s only a bit of advice. If an heir—a presumptive heir—is accused of being illegitimate, why, it stands to reason that the simplest course is for him to show his papers. Why wouldn’t he produce them if he has nothing to hide?”

“My grandfather won’t take kindly to your demands,” St. Clare said. “Simple or otherwise.”

“They’re quite unobjectionable,” Mrs. Beresford said. “And made in the familial spirit.”

“They are, madam, equivalent to calling my grandfather a liar. To calling me a liar.” St. Clare stepped forward. “And we neither of us take kindly to being called liars. Indeed, I find I can’t abide the charge with any degree of equanimity.”

She blinked rapidly. “We would never—”

“Which is why I must ask you, madam,” he said in the same cold voice, “which one of you spoke to the papers?”

Lionel cleared his throat. “If you mean to call me out, St. Clare, know this: I’m unskilled with pistols, and equally so with swordplay. You’ll get no satisfaction—”

“Your cousin wouldn’t call you out, my love,” Mrs. Beresford said. “What a notion!”

“Which one of you?” St. Clare asked again.

For the first time, Lionel seemed to falter. He looked a trifle white about the mouth.

Mrs. Beresford had gone a bit pale herself, but she was quick to rally. “I may have mentioned an incident or two I observed at the ball. There’s no harm in talk. Not when facts, properly presented, can so easily disprove the rumors.”

Some of the tension in Lionel’s expression eased. “Just as Madre says,” he agreed. “People will talk, you know. And if it should become cumbersome—these rumors about your legitimacy—you’ve only to produce your papers. That’s not so much to ask, is it? The way you’re behaving now, you’d think I’d done you an irreparable harm.”

St. Clare turned on him. “Was it you, then?”

“He misspoke,” Mrs. Beresford said hastily. “I already admitted it was I who talked to the paper. My son is blameless.”

St. Clare didn’t believe her for a minute. “What manner of man are you,” he asked his cousin, “to hide behind the skirts of your mother?”

Lionel’s cheeks flushed. “This from a man who has no mother at all. No mother anyone’s ever heard of.” He jutted his chin. “I’ll not be lectured to by you, sir. If you mean to call me out—”

“No one is calling anyone out today.” The Earl of Allendale’s voice rang out.

St. Clare’s head jerked to the drawing room doorway just in time to see his grandfather walk into the room. He came to a halt at St. Clare’s side, giving him a sharp look of warning.

“Lord Allendale!” Mrs. Beresford leapt to her feet again, executing another curtsy. Her son rose to stand beside her. “What a surprise this is. That is to say, an honor. You never came to call before, not even when invited. And now, here you are—you and Lord St. Clare both—within minutes of each other. One can hardly countenance—”

“Enough of your forked-tongue pleasantries, Lavinia,” Allendale said. “There’s nothing I despise more than a serpent who walks upright.”

Mrs. Beresford’s mouth opened and closed and opened again. “Well! I never—”

“You’ve done enough damage with your infernal gossip. And you too, sir.” Allendale glared at Lionel. “Your scheming stops today. Do you hear me? I’ll have no more of it.”

Mrs. Beresford drew herself up. “Really, Allendale, if you continue in this manner, I will have to ask you to leave.”

“And if you continue,” Allendale said, “you will see how I deal with snakes. Even those who bear the name of Beresford.”

“And what of my cousin?” Lionel asked. “If we must be classed as serpents, how would you class him? He’s no Beresford.”

“He’s a wolf in lamb’s clothing is what he is,” Mrs. Beresford said.

“A fox, more like. Isn’t that the animal that graces the Allendale coat of arms? The trickster?” Lionel’s mouth curled. “I don’t have a mind to be tricked, Uncle. Not out of my title.”