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“Tell us, tell us!” Amelia cried, bouncing in her seat.
“If I may be allowed,” drawled Mr. Bartholomew.
“Please,” said Lila.
Mr. Bartholomew walked to the center of the room, spread his arms wide as if testing the space, then began the reenactment of his performance at the public house. He acted all the different characters, pausing to explain to his audience who was who. He paused for a dramatic setting of the scene for when Mr. Simpson arrived, explaining he was as red-faced as if he’d been burned, and accusing him, Mr. Bartholomew, in the role of Robert Barstow—Justine was never really very clear on who, exactly, Robert Barstow was meant to be—of being a fraudster and a cheat. He further accused Mr. Barstow of wanting to extort money from the Duke of Hamilton in exchange for covering the sins of the duke’s son, the marquess.
“And there, it very nearly fell apart,” Lila said. “Douglas’s father, the Duke of Hamilton, said Mr. Simpson had done the very same. Mr. Simpson first denied it, then said it was owed to him, as the marquess was the father of his grandchild, and then, who should arrive like a knight come to save the village, but the marquess himself, in the company of Mr. Ross.” She laughed and looked at William. “I thought you’d never come!”
“I thought I’d never come. We’d no’ considered that Mr. Ross would have heard the rumor about me and no’ believe me innocent of the charges. Why would he, aye? The last he heard from Miss Simpson was that she would meet him. She never did, and the last person who saw her was me. What was the man to think?”
“How did you convince him?” Amelia asked.
“I donna rightly know. I’m no’ ashamed to say I begged him, cajoled him, nearly hit him.” He chuckled. “And then I asked him if he could bear to live another day knowing he hadn’t done everything to be with the woman he loved.” He looked at Justine and smiled. “Because if it were me, I could no’ bear it.”
Her heart very nearly fluttered out of her chest.
“Ahem,” Mr. Bartholomew said, not wishing to relinquish his stage.
“Please,” William said, gesturing for him to continue.
Mr. Bartholomew resumed his dramatic reenactment of the moment William told the crowd—which had grown by the hour, Lord Aleksander interjected, everyone coming from near and far to watch the scene unfolding at the Cock and Sparrow—that he never intended but to help Miss Simpson reach the man she loved. And then, to vouch for him, his sister arrived with Miss Simpson and her newborn son, Graeme.
“Named for the father, of course,” said Lila, beaming. “The moment Mr. Ross saw her and his son, he very nearly fell to his knees. He asked her then and there to marry him.”
“I beg your pardon.Imeant to tell that,” Mr. Bartholomew said.
“Oh. Do go on.”
“She said yes, or aye, or something like it, and her father tried to intervene but was put off from it by the crowd,” he said and acted out the brawl that followed the dramatic ending of his play.
Mr. Simpson then showed his true colors by banishing his daughter and her new son from his house. It was clear to all assembled that she and Mr. Ross were very much in love and had been made to suffer by the selfishness and greediness of her father.
“There was nothing to be done for it,” William said. “There we were, with two unmarried people very much in love, with a bairn. We took them posthaste to Gretna Green to see them married as they ought to have been. Althea Simpson will never be forced into her father’s house again.”
“But...but is the scandal done and dusted? Is it well and truly over?” Justine asked.
“Oh no,” Lila said. “The story is everywhere. I’ve no doubt it has already reached London. But the scandal has taken a turn and now the marquess has emerged as a veritable saint, and I daresay for the first time in his life.”
William laughed. “I’ve no doubt of it.”
“He is hailed for the kindness shown Miss Simpson when he could have easily turned a blind eye,” Lila continued. “He is applauded for devising a scheme to trick the truth from Mr. Simpson before he could extort the duke again, and then finding the father of Miss Simpson’s child and putting him with the woman he loves. There will not be a word said against him now.”
“Good Lord, it’s a miracle,” Amelia mused.
“And your performance, Mr. Bartholomew! It couldn’t have happened without you,” Lila said.
The gentleman smiled coquettishly. “I should like it to be mentioned in the London papers, if at all possible.”
“I think we can arrange it,” Lila said.
“I’d just like to be entirely clear,” Justine said, before someone began pouring champagne. “There is no longer a scandal involving the marquess?”
“That’s right.” Lila said.
It was true, then. Justine’s heart quickened. Her palms were damp. She was suddenly reminded of the time she had gone to Astasia Castle and had stood on a parapet, looking out at the valley. She had felt the pull of her ancestry, of her destiny that day. She felt it now. She was about to do something terribly bold, but she could feel the destiny in it. This was right.
She stood up and turned to face William. “Will you rise?” Her voice cracked slightly, and she noticed that Amelia looked a bit alarmed. Well, Justine was a bit alarmed, too. She could feel that internal quake, but she swallowed it down.
