There was a second of silence as the man’s footsteps receded down the hall. And then, once again assured of their privacy, Allendale asked, “What do you mean my son may have been married?”

“It’s nothing,” St. Clare said. “Just something Miss Honeywell has surmised from a remark made by my late mother.”

“A deathbed remark,” Maggie said, on her dignity. “And that isn’t all. There’s more.”

With that, she proceeded to tell the earl everything Jenny had said when she was in the final hours of her illness, and everything they’d since discovered about Father Tuck, including the latest bits of information gleaned from Mr. Mullens.

After she’d finished, Allendale was quiet for a long moment. When at last he spoke, it was to utter a single word: “Devonshire.”

Maggie nodded. “That’s what Mr. Mullens said. He could be no more specific.”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” St. Clare said. “Nothing but the ramblings of a dying woman and an aged former tavern keeper. It’s a false hope, at best.”

“You disagree, Miss Honeywell?” Allendale looked at her steadily, as if her opinion mattered as much to him as that of his grandson. “You think there might be something in this business about this Devonshire clergyman?”

Maggie cast a troubled glance at St. Clare. He’d lived an entirely different life since they’d parted. Had become a man of elegance and sophistication—a well-read and well-traveled gentleman, far outside the realm of her own experience.

But this reluctance of his to entertain the idea that his parents might have been married was no mystery. It was pure Nicholas. The anxiety of a boy who had been disappointed too many times in regards to his family. A boy who wouldn’t permit himself to hope.

“Yes,” she said carefully. “I think there might be something to it.”

Allendale’s brows lowered.

Maggie took a breath. “What if Father Tuck married Jenny and Gentleman Jim—that is, Jenny and your son. And what if, after they were wed—after your son left England, Jenny went into the Crossed Daggers and saw Father Tuck there, falling down drunk? The men in the tavern laughed at her for thinking he was a clergyman, which might have led her to believe it had all been a prank. That she wasn’t married to your son at all. He was known for playing pranks on people, wasn’t he?”

Allendale said nothing. Neither did St. Clare. Both men were somber and still, not moving a muscle. The tea tray sat between them, untouched. A ribbon of steam drifted from the spout of the teapot, swirling up toward the beamed ceiling.