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“Jay Truitt is an honest man. You may not agree with his actions, but he would never leave someone in a bad situation—never abandon someone. Especially not a child.”
“You’re saying my family is lying?” Reed’s voice echoed his daughter’s—two snakes, copperheads. His hand flashed opened—nothing—queen high.
She ran her tongue against the back of her teeth. Her silence had the desired effect.
Reed’s face turned the color of her new evening gown. “Eggplant” was what the dressmaker called it. The lawyer slid back from his companion, but J.T. Truitt glowered at her.
She glared right back. “I’m not sure what the goals of the rumors are, except the ones I stated. I, nevertheless, wouldn’t do any business deals with the Pierponts nor provide them any additional funds. Jay is a good man. A man, mind you, not a boy. One who can handle his own life and make his own decisions. He’s clever, very clever, cleverer than any professor has ever given him credit for, which is quite a shame.”
She would not flush, she would not. If Jay could withstand the judgment, so could she. “And, as I said, he’s taken precautions against disease and pregnancy for the past seven years.”
J.T.’s face paled after the phrase “seven years.”
Reed threw back his head and laughed. He stepped towards Ursula, his eyes inches from her pendant. “And your word is better than family’s? We’ve been in this country a great deal longer than you and have always been good, honest, Christian stock.”
He clenched his fists, spittle forming at the corners of his lips. “You’re a silly woman and a Jew, not exactly a people known for their honesty. If you had more sense one would think you’re taking advantage of Jay for his social connections. Sadly, after your last statement, I’m not even sure you’re clever enough for that, despite your background. I suppose that should be of comfort to you, J.T.”
She could vomit. Or throw a chair. Or both.
Bollocks. Double bollocks, blast, blast, blast, blast, blast.
Tears pricked the back of her eyes. She never received the benefit of the doubt.
Like Jay. Jay’s name and money insulated him from the snubbing, but not the gossip and rumors and worse, not his own father’s distrust and disapproval.
Her heart sat in her throat, swelling the lump more. What would it take to change J.T.’s mind? Because in the end, only what he believed mattered.
Priscilla’s demand popped into her head.
Proof.
What proof did she have?
Bloody Hell.
There was proof, wasn’t there? Clear as the nose on her face. She was nothing to any of them anyway. She’d never fit, never be right. She wasn’t marrying Hugo, so her place in society was immaterial. It was time to save Jay. She bit her tongue so hard she drew blood.
“It doesn’t matter what you gentlemen think of me or my father. What matters right now is Jay and I can prove that Jay has no living children. I could prove it in a court of law, if necessary.”
“Proof?” Reed snickered. “What could you possibly provide to contradict our information?”
She swallowed. The die was cast. “Before you slander my fiancé any further, see if any alleged mother can answer this question: does Jay Truitt have any distinctive markings above his knees, but below his trousers? If no one can answer, I would apologize immediately and work very hard to dispel that rumor.” Her voice shook, but she managed each and every word.
Tears blurred her vision as she turned towards J.T. Truitt. A cloudy image of his mouth wide open sat just beneath the veil of wetness. It was done. They would all think what they would about her, but the man should have to live with how he misjudged Jay.
“I recognize that it’s quite impertinent for me to say this, but I shouldn’t have needed to prove who Jay is to you. You should know your son better. If you did, you’d have known he has been mourning the death of his wife and child-that-might-have-been these past seven years. You should’ve spoken to him instead of paying off Sophie’s relatives.”
Before anyone could say another word or, worse, they could witness the tears already snaking their way down her neck, she turned on her heels and fled with the last of her dignity.
Full streams of liquid dripped down the top of her bodice. She had to leave—had to grab Rose and hide in the carriage. She gripped the bannister so not to fall.
She could make it. She’d return to the house and Rose would draw her a bath and she could pretend the afternoon never occurred, excellent memory and hearing be damned. She’d sit in the warm water and everything would melt away.
Her feet touched the edge of the runner from the entry. Just a few more steps.
“Miss Nunes.” A female voice rang in the corridor.
If there was a God, he really didn’t care for her much, did he?
