“Stop this, nephew,” Warrister growled, struggling to rise from the settee where he’d been sitting and talking with the marchioness. “You’re only going to make a fool of yourself.”
“Oh, but I have proof that casts more than a shadow of doubt on this pretender’s legitimacy.”
“Let him speak,” Raven said, affecting a tone of boredom. “He can’t say anything I haven’t already heard.”
But beside him, he felt Jane grow still and heard the subtle intake of her breath. And it might have been his imagination or the shifting of candlelight, but her complexion appeared somewhat paler.
He curled his hand comfortingly over the one she had resting on his sleeve, trying to warm the gloved fingers that had gone unnaturally cold.
“Challenge accepted.” Herrington sketched a bow, sloshing his drink. Then he moved away from the orchestra and went down the steps to the ballroom floor, speaking to the crowd along the way. “What my uncle doesn’t know is that there was a maid who worked for my cousin, and she gave birth to a child that January, just days before the fire. So, you see, there were two infants in the house that night.” The crowd gasped and Herrington ate it up with a gloating grin. “Yes, indeed, two infants.”
Surprised by this news, Raven sought Jane’s gaze. But her stark attention was fixed on Herrington and her hand slipped out from beneath his.
A cold chill slithered into Raven’s stomach, turning it to stone. Could she have known about the other child?
No. It wasn’t possible. He trusted Jane and knew that she would never keep anything from him.
Herrington held up two fingers and waved them around as he started to amble toward Raven. “Some of you might ask why that could be important. Well, that is the most important part of all. And it has something to do with Miss Pickerington’s uncle.”
He paused to empty his glass before he continued. “It just so happens that Mr. John Pickerington worked as a tutor in my cousin’s house, teaching his French wife to speak English. During that time, a maid arrived in a delicate condition, having left her husband. She’d begged for a post and a home for herself and her unborn child. Yet, all the while, she was hoping to trap some man into taking her away, wanting him to claim her husband’s child as his own. She attempted this with me as well. Of course, I—as a gentleman—put her in her place,” he said smugly with his hand splayed over his chest. “Mr. Pickerington, however, was fully ensnared. He gave her money. Bought her baubles. Promised her the world. He would have done anything for her. Anything. Even, I dare say, try to pass off her son as the lost heir.”
Raven absorbed this information, and felt the click of damning puzzle pieces sliding together. It made sense, albeit in a strange, twisted way. But it accounted for the missing information.
“Nephew,” Warrister warned again, but his voice had gone weaker, hoarse.
Herrington ignored him, stopping behind Jane. He peered around to look at her as if playing a game of hide and seek. “Ah, Miss Pickerington, you don’t appear surprised by this tale. Perhaps it is some great family secret.”
She looked up at Raven, eyes wide and the clear mark of guilt written in her unblinking stare. “Raven, I was going to tell . . .”
He looked away, sickened. Duped. And agonizingly tired of being used by nearly everyone he had ever known.
He’d thought she was different from the others. After all, what could she have to gain by any of this?
But he knew it had to be something. It always was.
For her, it likely started out with her study of scoundrels. A book. He’d been her research project. Then she found the mark and decided to make a gentleman out of him. Coincidentally, the bluestocking required a gentleman to marry, in order to have the life she wanted. Never mind the fact that she’d destroyed the life he’d wanted.
And he’d played perfectly into her hand. He’d forgotten all his rules.
“And what about you, Mr. Raven—whatever your name actually is? What secrets do you have?”
“I’m hiding nothing,” Raven said harshly.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw tears roll down Jane’s cheeks. Disgusted by the sight, he jerked a handkerchief from his pocket and pushed it into her grasp. Then he looked to his grandfather.
Color was rising from Warrister’s neckcloth as he glared at Lord Herrington. Raven tried to go to him but Herrington blocked his path, arm extended to press that goblet-clenching fist to his chest.
Rage simmered in Raven’s blood. Instead of unleashing it, he drew in a breath, refusing to make a further spectacle that would injure the heart of a kind old man.
So he signaled the footman to help the earl back to the settee.
Herrington tsked. “Such concern. How sweet, indeed. You play your part well. But what do you think my uncle will do once he realizes he was manipulated from the start?”
“There was never any deception on my part.”
“Of course, you would say that,” Herrington continued, clucking his tongue. “You and the Pickerington family are thick as thieves. Here you are courting Miss Pickerington so that one day she’ll become a countess. All the while you’re paying off her uncle’s debts so that he can be free of prison. It certainly seems that such a tremendous display of gratitude wouldn’t be necessary if you were, indeed, legitimate.” He scoffed, his voice rising to a bellow. “The truth is, you’re a complete fraud, trying to pass yourself off as the heir and take advantage of a senile old man.”
“That is enough.” Raven pushed aside the bracing hand and stepped toe to toe with Herrington, seething. “You’ve made your points perfectly clear, and have made it equally impossible to believe anything other than your truth. But leave the earl out of this.”
Before Raven left, he looked to Warrister one last time. “For what it is worth, I never wanted the title. I only wanted a name. A family.”
* * *
All eyes in the room watched Raven leave, including Jane’s. Then every eye descended on her.
She looked to her parents, who were—of course—already bowing to popular opinion. Ellie had tears in her eyes, but she was all the way across the ballroom. And Herrington was smiling.
He held the goblet out to her. “Your prize cup, madam.”
Furious and heartsick, she slapped it away, glad that it fell from his hand and shattered on the floor. “Isn’t it enough that you’ve tried to kill him several times? Did you have to murder his spirit as well?”
She didn’t wait for an answer, just dashed out of the ballroom and after Raven.
He was already across the lamplit street, eating up the pavement toward Covent Garden with prowling, long-legged strides. There was no way she could catch him on foot.
She hailed a hackney and, once she was beside him, she called out, “Please get in. Let me explain.”
To her surprise, he didn’t hesitate. Leaping inside before the carriage had stopped, he sat across from her, his cold stare boring into hers, in the light of the carriage lanterns.
“I made a mistake in not telling you.”
“A mistake?” He arched a brow. “No, Jane. A mistake happens by accident. You chose not to tell me something monumental. You broke your word. You promised that you would tell me everything. You, who always needs to be prepared for every situation, left me in the dark. I can never forgive you. Not for this.”