“But you remembered it, my lord,” Mrs. Gentry said, addressing him as he supposed was right, even if it sounded utterly wrong to his ears. He saw his uncle flinch.
Rafe took a moment to study the man. He’d seemed oddly familiar when they’d met earlier, but Rafe had attributed the feeling to being at the folly. He was shorter than Rafe, with light brown hair that formed a widow’s peak on his forehead. His eyes were the same blue as his own, but without the orange mark.
That mark.
He’d cursed its oddity over the years, but now it identified him indisputably as Raphael Mallory, the Earl of bloody Stone.
“How did you know that was there?” Lady Burnhope asked with a dubious glower.
Rafe shrugged. “I just did. Just as I knew how to find the gallery and the portrait of my grandfather. Our grandfather,” he amended.
Lady Burnhope’s disgruntled gaze darted to Selina. Rafe didn’t like the woman’s animosity one bit. She was going to cause trouble.
“I don’t understand how this is possible,” Mallory said, wiping his hand back and forth across his brow. “Jerome’s children died in that fire. We buried them.”
Mrs. Gentry stepped toward him, her expression pleading. “You can’t deny they are those children. Just look at them. If the mark in his eye isn’t enough, you can surely see how closely he resembles your father in that portrait upstairs. And their names are Rafe and Selina. That is too much of a coincidence. What’s more, he knows so much about Ivy Grove, as he demonstrated with the bookcase.”
“You must accept it,” Sheffield said. He’d put his arm around Selina, who looked so stiff that Rafe feared she might break. He looked to Mrs. Gentry. “Presumably, there are others here at Ivy Grove or at Stonehaven who will testify in support of Mr. Bowles’s claim to the earldom.”
“But he doesn’t have to claim it. By law, he is dead.” The words left Mallory’s mouth in a rush. He looked at Rafe. “Do you even want to be the earl? You wouldn’t know how.”
Rafe wanted to tell the man he could learn to do anything he put his mind to, but now wasn’t the time for arrogance.
Sheffield regarded Mallory with thinly veiled contempt. “Your brother’s children are alive. Surely that should be a cause for celebration.”
Mallory scrubbed his hand over his face before weaving unsteadily to a chair. Dropping onto the seat, he dipped his chin. “Of course. This is just a shock. I can’t… I can’t fully comprehend that after all this time, they’re here.” He looked to Rafe, then to Selina. “Your father would be so happy to know you lived. How on earth did you manage to survive?” He paused to take a breath. “Do you remember the fire?”
Selina shook her head, but Rafe answered, “I remember smoke, and I remember being carried away.” That was all he wanted to say at the moment. He had too many other questions. And now he was not only desperate to visit that church in Croydon, but he fervently hoped there would be something to learn there.
“Who carried you?” Lady Burnhope—good Lord, his cousin—asked. She crossed her arms tightly across her chest, surveying Rafe and Selina as if they were frauds. Which they were. Or had been. Or…not.
Fuck, he didn’t know who he was. He couldn’t imagine Selina was faring much better. A look toward her confirmed his belief—she was pressed snug against her husband’s side, her face drawn, and her gaze icy. He followed the direction and saw that she glared at Lady Burnhope.
“Our nurse,” Rafe answered tersely. He stood on Selina’s other side and edged closer to her. “What is troubling to me is why our nurse would take us away, change our surname, and not tell anyone she saved us.” God, had that woman, whom he barely remembered, even been their nurse? Yes. That much he knew. He remembered the young woman with her nearly black hair and the small brown spot on her cheek. “She used to sing to Selina.”
“Lavender Blue,” Selina whispered.
Rafe turned his head to stare at her. “Yes.” Selina had barely spoken until she was probably four, but she’d sung. “That was your favorite song.”
A tear tracked down Selina’s cheek. She hastily brushed it away, her expression stoic even as Rafe saw the emotion quivering beneath.
“It sounds as though the nurse stole you away,” Mrs. Gentry said, her expression stricken, then softening. “What happened after she took you? You’ve certainly ended up quite well.” There was a note of pride in her voice that almost made him smile.
“Yes, they did,” Lady Burnhope said dubiously. “I always wondered how a girl who said she was from East London could possibly afford to attend Mrs. Goodwin’s Ladies’ Seminary.”
Rafe moved closer to Selina and brushed his hand against the small of her back. That’s how this shrew—their bloody cousin—knew her. And Selina had told her she was from East London?
“If you’ll excuse us,” Sheffield said, coming to the rescue. “This has been most overwhelming. There will be time to share stories and sort out the particulars. With the parliamentary session drawing to a close, my brother-in-law will wish to submit the necessary information to the Prince Regent and the attorney general so that the Committee for Privileges may recognize him as the Earl of Stone with due haste.”
Rafe had no idea how any of this worked.
“They’ll ask him to prove his birth,” Mallory said.
“The evidence will include his memory of living here and of being rescued from the fire. Mrs. Gentry and other employees here and at Stonehaven will give testimony as to his identity. You’ll agree the orange mark in his eye is singular proof.” Sheffield’s commanding tone made Rafe grateful for the man’s authority. The constable pierced Mallory with a probing stare. “Do you doubt he is your nephew and she is your niece?”
Mallory hesitated only a brief moment before shaking his head. “I do not.”
“I understand this is a shock,” Sheffield continued more gently. “Why don’t you join us for dinner in Cavendish Square on Monday evening? We’ll continue this discussion and make plans for a transition after everyone’s had a chance to process this revelation.”
“We’ll be there,” Mallory said, sounding defeated.
Sheffield inclined his head before escorting Selina from the room.
Rafe looked to Mallory. “Uncle.” He bowed his head and, turning, allowed his gaze to linger on Anne. She stood somewhat near her godfather—it suddenly permeated Rafe’s mind that this woman he couldn’t forget was tied to his family—her features taut but her eyes bright and earnest as she stared at him.
Tearing his attention from her, he thanked Mrs. Gentry and followed his sister and brother-in-law out.
The three of them said nothing until they were situated in Rafe’s coach. As soon as the vehicle started moving along the drive, Selina turned her body toward the window and looked out into the rain. “My God. This was our house.”
“Is our house,” Rafe corrected.
“Your house,” Sheffield said softly. He took Selina’s hand as she settled back against the squab.
“I can’t believe that awful Deborah Mallory is our cousin.” She made a face of disgust. “I can’t believe any of it, but that part is truly dreadful. Beatrix will be horrified.”