“He’s a wolf in lamb’s clothing is what he is,” Mrs. Beresford said.

“A fox, more like. Isn’t that the animal that graces the Allendale coat of arms? The trickster?” Lionel’s mouth curled. “I don’t have a mind to be tricked, Uncle. Not out of my title.”

“Your title!” Allendale stalked to Lionel, only stopping when they were nose to nose. “I’m not dead yet, my boy. And when I go, make no mistake, it’s my grandson who will inherent my title, no matter how much hissing you and your mother do.”

St. Clare stood silent, his blood pumping hard in his veins. He didn’t dare say a word. His grandfather wouldn’t thank him for interfering. Not at this stage.

“I’ve been to see my solicitor this morning,” Allendale said. “He leaves for Italy tomorrow to collect proof of my son’s marriage, and of my grandson’s birth—proof that he’ll return with directly. In the meanwhile, if I hear so much as a single whispered word shared with a scandal sheet, I’ll ruin the pair of you. And don’t doubt that I have the power to do it. My name still counts for something in this country.”

Mrs. Beresford’s lips thinned. She’d long given up any pretense of civility. “You expect us to keep mute until you produce evidence of Lord St. Clare’s legitimacy? To say nothing of the scheme you’re perpetrating against my son, your true heir?”

Allendale regarded her with unvarnished contempt.

“For how long must we wait?” Lionel asked.

“My solicitor will return within a month’s time,” Allendale said.

“A month?” Mrs. Beresford’s gaze shot to her son. “Lionel—”

“It’s all right, my dear. We’ll be well occupied elsewhere.” Lionel looked to St. Clare. “Madre and I are going away for a time. A visit to the country. Someplace you might be familiar with.”

A flicker of foreboding put St. Clare on his guard.

“Mr. Burton-Smythe has invited us to Beasley Park as his very special guests,” Lionel said. “We leave for Somerset tomorrow.”

It was all St. Clare could do to keep his countenance. The fact that Lionel and his mother were traveling to Somerset—the very place St. Clare had been born and raised—was bad enough. But there was something even worse. Something that chilled St. Clare to his heart.

Fred would never go to Beasley Park without Maggie. Which meant…

She was leaving, too. Not in a week or a month. But tomorrow.

Tomorrow.

“Your travel plans are of no interest to us, boy.” Allendale’s hand closed around St. Clare’s uninjured arm in an iron grip, steering him to the door. “Mind well what I’ve said.”

They didn’t take their leave of Lionel or his mother, not by so much as a bow of acknowledgment. Allendale was in no mood for pleasantries.