Allendale glared at Lionel from under ominously lowered brows. “Curious, are you? Damn your impudence. What right do you have to be curious about my heir?”

“We are family, Uncle.”

“Uncle, is it!” Allendale exploded. “I’m no uncle of yours, you encroaching young jackanapes!”

“Oh,” Mrs. Beresford tittered again, this time at St. Clare. “How coolly you look at us, my lord. What you must think. That I would cast aspersions on your parentage! I daresay your mother was an excellent sort of woman, if not, perhaps, as gently bred as one might like. And as for your father, well, he was always wild. Up to all manner of pranks, I’m told. And what he did, dueling with that poor feebleminded boy of Penworthy’s was—as many still say—dishonorable—” She stopped and tittered once more at her own tactlessness. “But I shall say no more on the subject. The past is such a delicate subject for us Beresfords, is it not? And yet,”—she paused, smiling—“one cannot help unearthing it at every turn.”

“Can’t they?” Allendale growled. “If you’ve come up to town to dig up some sort of a scandal, Lavinia—”

“Scandal? But surely you don’t expect anything like a scandal? People may talk, naturally. But you must rest assured, Lionel and I shall do our parts to put down any doubts—that is to say any rumors—about Lord St. Clare’s legitimacy. Won’t we, Lionel?”

Lionel paused in the act of perusing a valuable-looking curio to pronounce himself at St. Clare’s service. “I stand ready to assist you on every front. We Beresfords must stick together.”

“You? A Beresford?” Allendale gave a crack of laughter. “Your distant ancestor was a Beresford, I grant you, but what you are, my boy, is the descendant of four generations of tradesmen. You’re no more a Beresford than Jessup here.”

The elderly butler, who had just entered the drawing room, graced his employer with a deferential bow. He then proceeded to announce the arrival of Lord Vickers and Lord Mattingly.

“Show them in, Jessup,” Allendale said. “The only thing this farce lacks is an audience.”

“Tradesmen?” Mrs. Beresford echoed when Jessup had withdrawn. “It is true that my late husband’s great grandsire married an heiress, but—”

“A cit’s daughter.”

“Oh no,” Mrs. Beresford protested. “Her father was a wealthy gentleman, yes, but he was no cit. He might have dabbled a bit in trade, but—”

“He owned a manufactory in Leeds,” Allendale said.

St. Clare had heard the story frequently. There had been four Beresford brothers all those generations ago. Charles, the eldest, had inherited the earldom. Harold, the youngest, had married a cit’s daughter. Harold’s own sons had prospered in trade and their sons too, thus supplying the fortune on which subsequent descendants of Harold’s line had lived.