Page 8 of The Earl’s Forbidden Temptation

Her heart raced, yet she spoke as steadily as she could. “I ask you to consider whether any provision was intended but left incomplete at the earl’s death. I ask you not to turn my sisters away, my lord.”

“You do not ask for yourself,” he said.

Her belly knotted with fear and hope. “I am not of your blood, my lord. I have no expectations for myself.”

He leaned back a fraction. It was a small movement, yet it felt like a wave withdrawing from the shore. She could not read what lay in his mind. He had the careful face of a man who kept his balance upon a dangerous height. Darcy could not trust someone so unreadable.

“Very well,” he said. “You will remain as my guests until I determine what is to be done.”

Relief trembled through Darcy. “Thank you, my lord.”

She rose and curtsied. Her knees felt untrustworthy, but she did not allow them to wobble. As she reached the door, he spoke again.

“Miss Whitley.”

She turned.

“You will be frank with me in all things,” he said. “I detest dishonesty. Do not allow it to mar our dealings.”

“I will be frank, my lord,” she replied. “I ask only the same in return so that I may know precisely where I stand and manage my expectations in a proper manner.”

He did not answer, merely inclined his head in dismissal. She stepped into the corridor and closed the door behind her with care. A sharp breath escaped her. It was not relief. It was not quite dread. They might have one more night under the earl’s roof, or they might have a week. Darcy also knew she could not rest their future upon the goodwill of a man who could look at them with such chilling indifference. She could not yet trust that the existence of three sisters would move him beyond duty. He might yet resent the scandal of their birth. She must keep finding a way forward and not let herself believe they were saved. Hope, indulged too soon, could make her careless, and she needed to be ready for every possibility.

CHAPTER 4

Sebastian leaned against a high-backed wing chair in a posture society would have deemed too indolent for a man of his consequence. Mr. Peabody sat in the leather chair opposite, his knees pressed tightly together, hat on his lap, his polished shoes tapping a nervous rhythm upon the carpet. He had been his father’s solicitor; Sebastian had never employed Peabody’s services, preferring another firm. The solicitor was a careful man of fifty, accustomed to the quiet privileges of a long connection with a noble family. His hair had thinned and gone grey at the temples. His jaw worked once as if he had swallowed a stone before he smiled, then sobered when it drew no response from Sebastian.

“My lord,” he ventured at last, after Sebastian had regarded him in silence for several minutes. “You sent for me, my lord.”

“Tell me about the other family my father kept.”

The solicitor blinked and assumed an air of bewildered innocence. “My lord, I am at a loss to know your meaning!”

“You are not,” Sebastian replied. “I shall not ask twice. Speak plainly.”

Peabody attempted a small, uncertain smile. “You refer perhaps to certain charitable remittances made in the late earl’s lifetime. Matters of benevolence are often conducted in private.”

“If you insist upon lying, I will make you regret it.” Sebastian’s voice dropped to a silken quiet. “Prevaricate again, and I shall have the Lord Chancellor review every instrument you have lodged these twenty years. Should I discover fraud or concealment, I will see you ruined in every court that will hear me and stripped of the profession that has sheltered you. Now speak plainly.”

Peabody’s lips parted and closed. A bead of perspiration showed at his hairline. “Yes,” he said at last, voice low. “The late earl made provision for a lady. His lordship lodged her in a substantial but unostentatious cottage with seven bedchambers upon the Hertfordshire estate.”

Though he expected such an answer, Sebastian’s chest still squeezed. “How long?”

Peabody shuffled the papers before him, as though the answer might somehow be found amongst them. “I cannot be exact. Fifteen years, perhaps a little more.”

“What is this woman’s name?”

“Mary,” he said after a beat. “Mary Whitley. She styled herself Mrs. Whitley.”

Something dark and unfamiliar wrenched through Sebastian’s chest. He drummed his fingers once upon the desk, thinking. If the woman had been beloved, why were she and her children left in such dire want? He frowned, recalling that the coffers of the earldom had not been flush; only Sebastian’s own investments and, yes, his luck at the tables had enlarged his inheritance. “You paid this mistress a regular allowance.”

“I did,” Peabody said. “From a private account the late earl kept in town. I drew the quarterly sums upon his instruction, and he signed where required. Receipts were kept.”

“He had children with her.”

The solicitor colored. “Three daughters, my lord. Mrs. Whitley also had an elder daughter by her first husband, whom the late earl raised as his own.”

“You are aware Mrs. Whitley died.”