St. Clare had yet to examine the document in his hands. He glanced at Fred, but his response—when he gave it—was directed at Allendale. “I find myself at a loss for words.”

“Understandable,” Allendale said.

Maggie nodded. “It’s a great deal to take in. Indeed, you must be quite overcome.”

St. Clare looked at her. There was a roguish gleam in his eyes. “Too right, Miss Honeywell.”

“If all of this is true,” Sir Roderick said, “why did this scullery maid let everyone believe she was unmarried? That her child was a product of sin? Was she not right in the head, this woman?”

“She was young and ignorant,” Maggie replied, a trifle defensive. Jenny hadn’t been perfect. Far from it. But she was still St. Clare’s mother. “After her wedding, when she encountered Mr. Tuck in the tavern, drunk beyond all decency, she must have thought she’d been hoaxed.”

“For that, we can only surmise. But…” The earl’s forehead creased. “I suspect it’s as you say. Miss Seaton had reason to think that Tuck was no clergyman, but only a nefarious associate of my son’s. She left Market Barrow, pregnant with my son’s child, believing herself to be unmarried.”

“Young Jim did enjoy his little jokes,” Aunt Harriet said.

“What’s that, Aunt?” Jane asked.

“Wagers in the betting books. That kind of thing.” Aunt Harriet smiled. “You know what fashionable young gentlemen are like.”

“This was no joke, madam,” Sir Roderick said. “This was a sacred event. A marriage. And this man’s life blighted by the confusion of it.” He looked at St. Clare. “You are to be pitied, sir.”

Fred gaped. “You don’t believe any of this? Surely, Father, you can’t—”

“Pitied, I said.” Sir Roderick mouth compressed in an unforgiving line. “But that doesn’t excuse his other crimes.” He looked at St. Clare. “To steal from the daughter of your benefactor—”

“Really, Sir Roderick,” Maggie objected. “I’ve told you countless times—”

“I’ve no desire to rewrite history, Miss Honeywell,” Sir Roderick said. “We’ve had quite enough in the way of revisions for one evening. I confess, I’m not fond of surprises.”

“Regrettable,” Allendale said. “For I have more news to come.” Reaching back into the inner recesses of his coat, he withdrew another paper. “While I was in Exeter, the bishop was good enough to provide me with a license.”

“A license for what?” Maggie asked.

Allendale handed the paper to her. The gleam in his eyes was very much like the one in St. Clare’s. “A license for you and my grandson to be married.”

Thus far, St. Clare had been singularly unmoved by his grandfather’s revelations. He knew when the old earl was putting on a show. Everything, from the manner of his arrival to the dramatic fashion in which he’d produced his proof, had reeked of the theater. But this…