“Honored.” Fred practically spat the word. His face was black and blue, one of his eyes swollen shut, and his nose—which St. Clare suspected had been broken during their brawl—looked as though it had recently been reset by the surgeon. “And what do you mean by addressing him so? He’s no viscount.”

“What’s that?” Miss Trumble’s aunt asked as she resumed her seat. “He’s no what?” She was wearing a plumed turban over her white hair. The lone ostrich feather trembled as she tilted her ear to Miss Trumble’s lips.

“A viscount,” Miss Trumble said loudly. She gave St. Clare a rueful smile. “It’s a pleasure to see you again, my lord.”

“And you, Miss Trumble,” St. Clare said. “Lord Mattingly requested that I convey his respects.”

Miss Trumble’s cheeks turned pink. “Did he? How very kind.”

Sir Roderick surveyed St. Clare with a steely-eyed glare. “Miss Honeywell, you may entertain who you like while you are mistress here, but pray do not expect us to participate in this charade. This man is a former servant of your father’s, is he not? The scullery maid’s son?”

“A bastard,” Fred said.

“A what?” Aunt Harriet turned to Miss Trumble again, who whispered something back to her in her ear. “Ah. But surely…?”

“He’s Lord Allendale’s grandson,” Maggie said. “It’s an indisputable fact.”

Lionel laughed. “That’s doing it a bit too brown, Miss Honeywell. The game, as they say, is up. You may as well admit he’s this Seaton fellow. He admitted it himself when we met at the tavern.”

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive, sir.” Maggie motioned for St. Clare to sit down. “Would you care for a glass of sherry, my lord?”

“No thank you.” St. Clare waited for Maggie to sit before taking a seat himself in a chair next to Miss Trumble and her aunt.

“Your face,” the old lady said, looking at his bruises in dismay. “You weren’t engaging in fisticuffs again?”

Again?

St. Clare recalled Maggie saying that Jane’s aunt was often confused. “I’m afraid I was, ma’am.”

“In my day, a man in such execrable condition wouldn’t have forced his company on a party of ladies.” Sir Roderick shot a withering glance at Fred. “He’d have spared them the pain of looking at him.”

Fred’s shoulders stiffened under the weight of his father’s censure.

“And you, Miss Honeywell,” Sir Roderick said. “Your part in this affair hasn’t escaped me. Had I not believed the Earl of Allendale would be in attendance this evening, I’d have foregone dinner in favor of a private interview with you. A discussion about your behavior is long overdue.”