Indeed, on many occasions during the past several years, the earl had seemed at great pains to remind both St. Clare and himself that he had no use for his grandson aside from securing the title.

St. Clare had often wondered. And when Allendale had suggested accompanying him to Somerset to meet Maggie, St. Clare had wondered even more.

No. His grandfather wasn’t gone for good.

That wasn’t to say that St. Clare hadn’t experienced a minor shock when he’d woken and found Allendale gone. And it wasn’t only that he’d left without a word, but that they were expected at Beasley Park for dinner that evening. In his absence, St. Clare had but two choices: either send his regrets or attend alone.

Sending his regrets wasn’t an option. Not with Maggie depending on him.

Besides, he’d realized something last night. He wasn’t afraid of facing his past. There had been something profoundly liberating about declaring his identity to the mob of villains inside the tavern. Not only his real name, but the fact of his parentage.

Maggie’s hand tightened on his arm as they crossed the landing. The drawing room lay ahead. No sounds emerged from within. No voices, and no soft music from the pianoforte.

It was soon apparent why.

All of the guests were sitting in rigid silence. Jane Trumble was on the sofa beside her aunt, sipping a glass of sherry. Lionel and his mother were perched in twin armchairs. Fred was standing by the mantelpiece, scowling. And Sir Roderick was on a settee alone, hands folded across his thick midsection, frowning at the assembled company like a disapproving father.

He was the very image of Fred, only older, heavier, and grayer about the temples. St. Clare remembered him as a hard, unforgiving sort of man. A man who was as pitiless to poachers as he was toward his own son on occasion.

The first to see them enter, he rose to his feet, his knees creaking. The rest of the company followed suit, standing briefly to acknowledge St. Clare’s arrival. All but Mrs. Beresford, who remained stubbornly in her chair.

Lionel sketched a bow, a smug smile spreading over his face. “Do you see, Madre? I was right. He has come after all.”

Mrs. Beresford pivoted her head from Lionel to St. Clare. The long, double strand of pearls she wore at her neck made an unsettling clacking sound. “I didn’t believe it. That you would show your face here this evening. Such gall. Such effrontery. But my son said otherwise. Were it up to me—”

“It isn’t up to you, ma’am,” Maggie said. “Lord St. Clare is my honored guest.”