Page 2 of A Lady in Name

Lord Pennington sat down near her, one long leg stretched out, the other tucked under as he leaned back, setting one arm along the table. Much to Lucy’s discomfiture, he continued to regard her with the same appraising stare. But he made no allusion to her tremors, and she was emboldened to hope she had successfully concealed them.

She would have been dismayed had she known how much his lordship had taken in of what she preferred to conceal. Stefan Ankerville, Earl of Pennington for the better part of a year now, had been set in a mood of cold fury by this morning’s errand. His ire was directed less at the supposed victim who had sued to him for succour than at his uncle for this fresh discovery to add to a sordid legacy.

Miss Graydene’s letter had been brief and to the point, giving no hint of her reason for revealing herself, but Stefan had come prepared for a harpy. Instead, he had discovered a woman of evident gentility. There was, moreover, no sign of want in her appearance. The garments were new, if he was any judge, and of respectable quality, if not precisely fashionable.

At a guess, her obvious bereavement was recent, a notion borne out by the pale cast of her cheek, strain about the dark eyes and a certain gaunt look about her willowy form. Stefan was struck by an indefinable air that hung about her — of tragedy. Or was that fanciful?

By her communication, he had known Miss Graydene was unaware of his uncle’s decease, and had taken grim satisfaction in her first inevitable confusion. A moment’s scrutiny had reassured Stefan as to her condition in life, and her attitude — scarcely conciliatory — argued against his initial expectation. Nevertheless, if Miss Graydene supposed he was a man to be easily bled, she had something to learn of him.

“Your letter was explicit,” he said, keeping his tone carefully controlled. “You claim to have been fathered by Lord Pennington, and you expect —”

“Hope,” she cut in, a flash in her eye. “I hope. I do not expect.”

“Very well then, you hope he may be induced to visit you here for a purpose which you cannot set down in writing. Have I that right?”

From the defiance in her stare, it was evident the ironic inflection was not lost on the girl. Stefan was conscious of a flicker of admiration.

“Sufficiently, sir.”

“I realise your letter cannot have been intended to my address,” he continued smoothly.

“Obviously.”

He was nettled. “This hostility of yours is scarcely politic in the circumstances, Miss Graydene.”

Her cheeks grew taut, indignation bringing a shine at the dark of her eyes. “Do you take me for a beggar, my lord? Who has been wronged here? Your predecessor — for such I assume the villain to have been — is at fault, not I. I did not frame my request to you, but to him. If you are his son —”

“I have not that distinction, I thank God,” he broke in, revolted at the thought. “He was my uncle, not my father.”

The information did not appear to afford Miss Graydene the slightest satisfaction. Her slight bosom rose and fell sharply.

“Whatever he was, sir, his existence is anathema to me. I would to heaven you had been he, for there is a great deal I could say to him were he before me now — and none of it complimentary.”

Thoroughly taken aback, his lordship eyed the sparkle at her lashes with unconcealed curiosity. So she had not come with blackmail in her mind, but to ring a peal over his Uncle Beves, a proceeding which could not but draw Stefan’s sympathy. He dug a hand into one of his inner pockets and silently proffered a crisp white handkerchief.

She eyed it, stiffening at the shoulders, and sniffed. Her gaze lifted to his, but he said nothing, steadily returning her regard.

After a moment’s hesitation, a tiny smile quirked the corners of her mouth, and she took the offering, turning away a little to make use of it. His lordship watched the starched handkerchief turning into a damp and crumpled ball. He received it back a trifle gingerly, and was surprised when Miss Graydene gave vent to a watery chuckle.

“I am afraid it is ruined. I beg your pardon.”

“No matter.” He stuffed it into a pocket of his greatcoat. “I take it you have only lately been made aware of your alleged relationship to my uncle?”

The faint lightening of mood gave way, and a world of sadness was in her eyes. She did not appear to notice his deliberate resumption of doubt upon her claim.

“Papa fell ill very suddenly. When he knew he was fading and could not recover, he told me. That was November, I think — oh, near three months ago. I could not take it in at first, there was so much to do upon his death. The funeral, and Christmas in the parish is always busy.” She looked away, into the embers of the dying fire. “I think I did not want it to be real, pushed it out of mind.” Her gaze returned to Stefan’s, and a sliver of pity smote him at the re-emergence of tragedy in her face. “Until I knew I could ignore it no longer. My choices were too limited. I persuaded myself it was just — that he should pay. I wanted … I don’t know … to hurt him somehow, I think, as he had punished me.”

Her voice died. Through a welter of confused sensation, Stefan realised that her gaze, unseeing upon his face, was far away. He would swear the painful revelation was in her mind. One could imagine the scene. Grieved for her dying parent, she must have been distraught at the news. Just what had been said, and how it might impinge upon his family was forgotten for the moment. The compulsion, as he later told himself, was born of this sympathetic concern.

“I must ask you to accompany me, Miss Graydene. We will continue this discussion at my home.”

How Lucy came to be jolting along in the Earl of Pennington’s curricle was a circumstance passing her comprehension. The matter had not been settled without argument. She knew she had instantly demurred when he had suggested she should go with him to Pennington Manor, whither they were bound at this moment.

“No, indeed, I cannot possibly come with you.”

His lordship, to her combined surprise and indignation, had become autocratic. “But you will certainly do so, Miss Graydene, since I so desire it. Kindly collect together what belongings you may have with you.”

“I have none,” she had protested, distracted. “At least, nothing other than a bandbox for necessities. I had no expectation of remaining beyond the one night.”