Morgana swallowed nervously and muttered, “Jane Fowler.”
“High-flyer that had all the bucks atwitter twenty-five, thirty years ago? Striking gel—tall, bosomy creature with a head full of chestnut curls and china blue eyes?”
“Yes,” Morgana answered reluctantly.
George reached again for his quizzing glass. “You don’t have the look of her—you’re a little slip of a thing, don’t look at all like her! Not a bit.”
Morgana bit her lip. “She always told me that I took after my father’s side of the family.”
George snorted. “Oh, you’ve the look of the Devlins, I’ll grant you that, but there is something about the shape of your face and ...” He looked a little uncomfortable, and clearing his throat, said gruffly, “Something about your small size and the slender build of you that reminds me of someone I met over twenty years ago in London.” He glanced at Royce. “Remember it because she was the only female I ever felt the slightest inclination to marry. Remember a lot of things. Got an excellent memory. Remember things everyone has forgotten.” When Royce would have impatiently interrupted him, George added hastily, “Thing is, I was only nineteen and she was already married. New bride in fact, on her honeymoon.”
Royce was frowning. “And? What does all this have to do with my wife and her resemblance to the Devlins?”
George stood in the middle of the room, and it was apparent that he was grappling with a great problem. Finally, his expression extremely thoughtful, he said, “Think I should tell you a story.”
Standing behind Morgana’s chair, one hand resting possessively on her shoulder, Royce said grimly, “Tell your damn story, but get to the point of it.”
George nodded and, with surprising succinctness, related a series of fascinating events, starting with Stephen Devlin’s marriage to Lucinda and their subsequent, indefinite, removal to the continent, where Julian had been born. He touched briefly on Andrew Devlin’s whirlwind courtship and marriage to the lovely little heiress of Bath and ended with an explanation of Andrew’s death as well as those of his wife and infant daughter. His audience had listened raptly, their eyes locked in various degrees of astonishment and consternation on his face.
When he finished speaking, there was utter silence until Royce said slowly, “George, I’ve heard that tale before—perhaps not all of it, but Zachary mentioned something about it weeks ago in London. And while it is a very sad and affecting tale, will you please explain what the devil it has to do with Morgana!”
After taking a deep, fortifying sip of his wine, George replied evenly, “Well, there are still some things that I know that you don’t, but one thing should be apparent from my story—Stephen can’t have been her father; he was in Venice or some such place when she was conceived!” George thought a moment, then added fairly, “At least, he was supposed to be; didn’t appear in England until Andrew had been dead for over a fortnight.”
Royce was now staring very hard at George, a curious feeling of premonition stealing through his body.
Morgana had listened to the story so far in a state of curiosity, impatience, and growing bewilderment. What did these people, one of whom was named Andrew, have to do with her? She understood from George’s exchange with Royce that it would seem that Andrew Devlin, not Stephen Devlin, was her father, which would explain his earlier statement about being Julian’s cousin, and she was conscious of a curious feeling of relief that the icily arrogant man she had seen that day was her uncle and not her father! Andrew sounded much nicer! And it was comforting to know that he hadn’t just abandoned her, that he had been dead by the time she was born—he might not even have known that Jane was pregnant when he died. Her voice soft with a mixture of wonder and pleasure, she said, “So Julian is my cousin and not my brother.”
George nodded, but fixed a stern, considering gaze on her. “Is your name really Morgana ... or did you just choose it to give yourself airs?”
Morgana stiffened furiously in her seat, her lovely eyes darkening with outrage. Her chin lifted haughtily, and through clenched teeth she got out, “It is my name! My mother gave it to me! And how dare you imply otherwise!”
George looked at her flushed, angry features a long time, and then, giving her a twisted smile, he bowed and said softly, “When you’re angry, you resemble your mother to an astonishing degree.” A tenderly reminiscent smile curved his mouth and he muttered, “She was a gentle soul, wanting to please everyone, but if you made her angry ...” He shook himself as if brushing away a ghostly memory, and then, glancing back to Morgana, asked quietly, “You’re certain of your birth date?”
Not the least mollified by anything he had said so far, the black curls fairly bristling with dislike, she snapped, “Yes! Just as I’m certain my name is Morgana, I know that I was born on May ninth, in the year 1796!”
“Interesting!” George said to the room at large, a peculiar expression crossing his usually amiable features. He glanced at Julian and, meeting Julian’s intent gaze, muttered, “Don’t think you’re going to like what I’m going to imply next, and before you fly up into the boughs and decide to call me out, I’ll tell you right now, I ain’t meeting you—no matter how much you think I’ve insulted you!”
Looking across at Royce, George took a deep breath and said in a rush, “Think you should know something about that infant girl that died... .” He risked another wary glance at Julian before continuing reluctantly, “Everyone knew that the Devlins were poor as church mice. Oh, it’s true St. Audries Hall was once a fine place, but that was before Andrew and Stephen’s father had played ducks and drakes with the family fortune. Everyone knew that if Andrew married, it would have to be for money, and no one was very surprised that when he was finally leg-shackled, it was to an heiress.” He hesitated, and appearing more and more uncomfortable, he went on doggedly, “When Andrew died, Stephen inherited the title and the little of the estate that was covered by the entail, but the money belonged to Hester ... or her child if she died.”
George cleared his throat nervously and took a sip of wine. “Everyone knew it—great many wagers in London about what Stephen was going to do if Hester and/or the child lived. Lot of speculation and rumor that spring about what was happening at St. Audries Hall. Everyone knew that the little widow was ill, that she hadn’t wanted to live after Andrew was murdered, and no one was surprised when she died.” Shooting an assessing glance at Julian’s set features, he said bluntly, “People were surprised when the infant died. Lots of gossip about that! All sorts of ugly things were whispered—that Stephen had smothered the baby at birth, that Lucinda had drowned the infant.... Someone even said they had sold the baby to a band of gypsies as soon as Hester died. Lots of gossip.”
Morgana stared at George in growing horror, her eyes huge in her face, and she wondered if he was mad. She sent Julian an apologetic look, but it was obvious that Julian had reached the end of his forbearance.
His fists curled menacingly at his sides, he stood aggressively in front of George and demanded furiously, “Are you implying that my parents committed such a despicable act?”
Appearing not the least bit ruffled by Julian’s actions, George met his angry gaze and said calmly, “Ain’t implied anything yet—just repeated gossip! But before you work yourself into a rage, think you should know two very interesting things—the child that died was named Morgana, which isn’t a very common name, and she was born on May ninth, 1796!”
Royce’s hand involuntarily tightened on Morgana’s shoulder at George’s words, but she was not aware of his movement as she sat there stunned. Julian went white at his words, and he looked dazedly from Morgana’s face to George’s. His eyes dark with horror and disbelief, he demanded thickly, “Are you saying that she is my legitimate cousin? That my parents gave the baby to this Jane Fowler and then claimed that the infant had died?”
Reluctantly George nodded his head. “That’s what I think!”
“That’s monstrous!” Julian spat out explosiv
ely. “I know that my father is a cold man, but even he is not capable of such an atrocious deed!”
Pity in his gaze, George murmured gently, “Well, it could be a great coincidence—a young woman, clearly bearing the features of the Devlin family, same name as the dead infant, and having the same date of birth. But consider this—common knowledge that your father’s pockets were let, everyone knew he wanted money, knew that half the reason he married your mother was because he thought she was going to inherit a fortune from some old aunt of hers!”
“That’s a lie!” Julian shouted hotly. “A damned lie! I never thought I’d hear such ugly gossip from you!”
George shrugged. “Ain’t a lie—everyone knew, knew your father was furious when the old tabby died and left everything to some distant cousin no one even knew existed. He and Lucinda were in London. Hadn’t been married more than three weeks, and it was after that they left for the continent—he couldn’t afford to live in England. Said so! Went around town snarling and grumbling about the unfairness of it all! Remember it!”
There was such simple, unvarnished honesty in George’s face and tone that even Julian, outraged and infuriated though he was, had to give some credence to his words. His young features pale and set, he looked over at Royce and said with icy politeness, “If you will excuse me, I find that I must leave immediately. My father is staying at Martin Wetherly’s home, which I understand is not very far away, and I must speak to him at once!” He threw George a challenging look. “I’m positive that he will be able to explain everything and that the truth bears no resemblance to the lies that have been spoken here this afternoon!”
Spinning on his heels, he stalked swiftly from the room.
Jack had not uttered a sound since he had first laid eyes on Julian Devlin, but now he asked simply, “Sir, do you honestly believe that Morgana really is this Morgana Devlin?”
George sent him a thoughtful glance, actually becoming aware of him for the first time. “One of Jane Fowler’s get, ain’t you?” he said finally. “You’ve got the look of her about you—something the young lady sitting over there doesn’t! What’s your name?”
Jack smiled crookedly. “Yes, Jane was my mother, and my name is Jacko ... Jack.”
George nodded and said politely, “Happy to meet you, Jack. Since no one has done the business, might as well introduce myself—I’m George Ponteby, a cousin of sorts to Royce.” Having satisfied himself with the social niceties, George added, “And yes, I do believe that she is Morgana Devlin—young Julian didn’t let me explain my most compelling reason for believing in her identity.” He looked across the room, where Morgana sat like a frozen little statue. His voice soft, George muttered, “Said she looked like her mother when she was angry—I wasn’t talking about Jane Fowler, I was talking about little Hester Devlin, Andrew’s bride that I met and fell in love with twenty years ago.”
Morgana’s eyes flew to his, and George nodded. “It could be a coincidence, your name and birth date being the same as the legitimate child, and you could be a byblow of Andrews’s ... but Jane Fowler was never in Andrew’s keeping, and if you were their child, I wouldn’t see flashes of Hester in you.”
Morgana took a deep, shuddering breath, her thoughts numb and bewildered. She didn’t know what she felt. There was relief that Stephen wasn’t her father, but she wasn’t so certain that she was ready to relinquish Jane as her mother—Jane had raised her, and Jane had been the only mother she had ever known, but if Jane wasn’t her mother ... In a very small voice, she asked, “You mean Jack and Ben aren’t my brothers?” Being an heiress, or even discovering that she was not the bastard child of some aristocrat, didn’t seem as important as the bond she had shared with Jack and Ben ever since she could remember.
Dismay evident in his eyes, Jack swiftly crossed the room and knelt before her. Taking her hands in his, he said fiercely, “It doesn’t matter if it turns out that Jane was not your mother—you’ll always be my sister!” He gave her a twisted smile. “You may wear fine clothes these days and live in a fine house and answer to Morgana, but you’re always going to be ‘Pip’ to me, and nothing will ever change that!” A thought occurred to him and he grinned at her. “Besides ... nothing can be proven, so while it makes a fascinating tale, I’m afraid that you’re just going to have to put up with me and Ben as your brothers—we won’t let you disown us!”
“I wouldn’t be so certain that there is not any proof,” Royce said obliquely as he left his position behind her chair and walked over to the center of the room.
“What do you mean by that?” Morgana demanded, her heart twisting with sudden suspicion. “Do you know something that we don’t?”
“Not exactly,” Royce answered easily enough. Looking at George, he asked quietly, “Are you familiar with the coat of arms of the St. Audries family? Could you describe their crest?”
If George was puzzled by Royce’s question, he gave no sign; he merely appeared thoughtful for a moment and then said, “Believe it’s a pair of crossed sabers below and a rose above.”
Morgana’s breath caught painfully in her chest, and her eyes met Royce’s. In bitter anguish she stared across the room at him, the painful certainty that he had known all along who she was coursing through her—why else had he married her? If he had known that she was the legitimate daughter of an Earl, heiress to a great fortune, it would explain everything! Dully she said, “I have a mark on my hip that depicts precisely those symbols ... except that in the middle, there are the initials HD inscribed.”
It was Zachary, standing riveted by the fireplace, who voiced the thought uppermost in everyone’s mind. “Hester Devlin!”
“I’m afraid so,” Royce replied carefully, puzzled by the expression in Morgana’s eyes. She looked ... disillusioned, as if he had failed her somehow. Watching her closely, his confusion growing as, all-unknowingly, he confirmed her worst fears, he muttered slowly, “When I first noticed the scar, I wondered if it wasn’t a family crest, and I have to admit that it had already occurred to me, impossible though it seemed, that you might be the dead heiress. I didn’t know then about the identical names and birth dates.”
“Well, what are we going to do about it?” George asked dryly. “Going to cause a devil of a scandal!”
Morgana caught sight of the ormolu clock on the mantel, and her chest tightened painfully. It was after four-thirty! She had to leave now if she was to meet the one-eyed man! Her emotions shredded, her thoughts scrambled and irrational, she instantly rose to her feet. Whether she really was the legitimate daughter of an Earl, heiress to a fortune or not, wasn’t very important to her at the moment—Royce’s life was in danger, and that knowledge took precedence over everything else ... even her pain at his conniving. She glanced at him, and her heart lurched as she met his golden-eyed stare. She loved him most dreadfully, and it hurt unbearably to think that he had married her simply because he believed that she was this supposedly dead Morgana Devlin, and therefore the inheritor of great wealth. But his duplicity didn’t change her feelings, nor did it make unnecessary her coming meeting with the one-eyed man.
Frighteningly aware that the seconds were ticking away, she gathered up her skirts and said distractedly, “Excuse me, I want to be alone for a while. I have to think!”
When Royce would have escorted her from the room, she shook her black, curly head vehemently and, jerking her arm from his grasp, exclaimed sharply, “No! Don’t you understand? I need to be alone!” With painful intensity, her gray eyes searched his. “I wondered why someone like you,” she said at last, “with your wealth and well-connected background, wanted to marry me—a little nobody, a thieving pickpocket from one of the most notorious areas of London!” Her voice shook as she added, “Now I know.” She gave a bitter little laugh. “I knew you didn’t love me, but I hoped that you at least had some affection for me! It seems that I was wrong!”
Tears blinding her, deaf to Royce’s anguished cry, she swept regally from the room. There was a pai
nful silence in the wake of her departure, all three of the other gentlemen carefully avoiding looking at Royce’s white, stricken features as he remained frozen in the center of the room, one arm outstretched as if to stop her.
“I do love her! More than anything else in the world!” Royce finally muttered in a fierce low tone, the expression in the golden eyes bleak and wounded. “I just never told her that I do!”
George walked over to him, and clasping him on the shoulder, he comforted gently, “Strange creatures, women. Give her time. Let her think about what has been said here this afternoon and she’ll come to her senses. She’s had a shock—we all have!”
Everyone had had a shock, but none had felt it as deeply as Julian Devlin. Even Morgana had been more forewarned than he—she at least had seen Stephen Devlin and knew of the startling resemblance, but Julian had been caught totally off guard. Even as his horses ate up the distance that separated Lime Tree Cottage from Wetherly’s estate, Julian was still stunned, hardly able to believe what he had seen and heard. That Royce’s bride was a Devlin was undeniable, but Morgana Devlin? He could not give credence to such an outlandish idea, and yet ... and yet he could not entirely push the notion out of his mind.
Father will know, he thought grimly as his horses swept around the wide, circular driveway in front of Wetherly’s house. Flipping his reins in the direction of the groom who had come running up at the sound of his arrival, Julian jumped down lithely and strode hurriedly up the broad steps to the door.
His knock on the door was answered by a butler in green and black livery. Upon identifying himself and requesting to see his father, Julian was politely invited into the house, and the butler explained that he believed Lord Devlin had last been seen in the master’s study at the rear of the house. When the butler would have gone in search of Lord Devlin, Julian forestalled him with a charming smile and offered to find him himself if the butler would just be so kind as to give him directions to the study ... and would he mind informing Lady Devlin that her son had come to call and where he would be? He would pay his respects to Mr. Wetherly once he had seen his parents.
Whisper To Me of Love Page 48