Page 71 of Gentleman Jim

“Your title!” Allendale stalked to Lionel, only stopping when they were nose to nose. “I’m not dead yet, my boy. And when I go, make no mistake, it’s my grandson who will inherent my title, no matter how much hissing you and your mother do.”

St. Clare stood silent, his blood pumping hard in his veins. He didn’t dare say a word. His grandfather wouldn’t thank him for interfering. Not at this stage.

“I’ve been to see my solicitor this morning,” Allendale said. “He leaves for Italy tomorrow to collect proof of my son’s marriage, and of my grandson’s birth—proof that he’ll return with directly. In the meanwhile, if I hear so much as a single whispered word shared with a scandal sheet, I’ll ruin the pair of you. And don’t doubt that I have the power to do it. My name still counts for something in this country.”

Mrs. Beresford’s lips thinned. She’d long given up any pretense of civility. “You expect us to keep mute until you produce evidence of Lord St. Clare’s legitimacy? To say nothing of the scheme you’re perpetrating against my son, your true heir?”

Allendale regarded her with unvarnished contempt.

“For how long must we wait?” Lionel asked.

“My solicitor will return within a month’s time,” Allendale said.

“A month?” Mrs. Beresford’s gaze shot to her son. “Lionel—”

“It’s all right, my dear. We’ll be well occupied elsewhere.” Lionel looked to St. Clare. “Madre and I are going away for a time. A visit to the country. Someplace you might be familiar with.”

A flicker of foreboding put St. Clare on his guard.

“Mr. Burton-Smythe has invited us to Beasley Park as his very special guests,” Lionel said. “We leave for Somerset tomorrow.”

It was all St. Clare could do to keep his countenance. The fact that Lionel and his mother were traveling to Somerset—the very place St. Clare had been born and raised—was bad enough. But there was something even worse. Something that chilled St. Clare to his heart.

Fred would never go to Beasley Park without Maggie. Which meant…

She was leaving, too. Not in a week or a month. But tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

“Your travel plans are of no interest to us, boy.” Allendale’s hand closed around St. Clare’s uninjured arm in an iron grip, steering him to the door. “Mind well what I’ve said.”

They didn’t take their leave of Lionel or his mother, not by so much as a bow of acknowledgment. Allendale was in no mood for pleasantries.

“Take it back to Grosvenor Square,” he snapped at Enzo as they walked past St. Clare’s curricle in the drive.

The earl’s carriage was waiting in the street. St. Clare climbed in after his grandfather. A footman shut the door behind them.

“What did you hope to achieve by that display?” Allendale asked as the carriage set off.

St. Clare sat back in his seat. His arm twinged as his shirt brushed over his wound. He could barely suppress a grimace. “The same thing you did, I imagine.”

“To warn them off? It sounded to me as though you had something else in mind. Another duel, in fact.”

“It was Lionel who broached the topic of a duel, not I.”

Allendale frowned. “What’s he playing at, I wonder?”

“I’d have thought it was obvious. He’s attempting to dig up the truth. And he’s doing a damned good job of it.”

“On the scent like a bloodhound,” Allendale muttered from his place across from St. Clare. “All because of that duel of yours with Burton-Smythe. And because of your dealings with that Honeywell female.” He scowled at him. “You’ve been careless.”

“Perhaps I have.”

“You’ve forgotten your duty.”

A swell of bitterness took St. Clare unaware. “I beg your pardon, but I have not. How could I forget? It’s been hammered into my head every minute of every day for ten years.”

“Self-pitying claptrap. You may have been obliged to work hard and train hard, but look at what you’ve gained in the bargain. You came to me a raw country lad, nothing but unchecked emotion, and I’ve made you into a gentleman of restraint and refinement. My heir. My true heir. And you would throw it all away? Cast it to the wind the very moment we stand on the brink?”