“Until my father died, I did not know that the Esteban of whom I had heard so much was related to me. You see, I did not know Don Francisco was my true father until Tynedale died. Tynedale. It seems so cold to refer to him that way, when I always thought of him as my father. You do know, do you not, why it was that Don Francisco was my father? It was not an impetuous affair, as you seem to believe. My father asked him to produce an heir. He had been badly injured in a riding accident after my sister Helena was born, and without an heir, his title would pass to another. He could not bear the thought of it. Don Francisco was always such a wonderful friend, and it was to him that he turned for this most special of requests.”

The taste of the dry sherry on his tongue was heavy, and Steve did not refuse the offer of another glass to wash it away, to drown the distaste he felt. If it had been any other man, he would have left by now. But for some reason, he could not bring himself to reject Avery’s explanation. Had he been waiting for this, wondering, without admitting it even to himself?

“My mother,” Avery continued in the same soft monotone, “was a beautiful woman. She still is. Don Francisco, being the gallant gentleman that he is, agreed to my father’s request. Once successful, he left Cuba. It would have been too awkward to remain, to visit often, you see. So, I’m Lord Tynedale now, heir to title and lands as my father wished, but grateful to Don Francisco for the gift of life, and for nothing more.”

“Do you think I’m concerned with my inheritance? My grandfather has disowned me so many times that it’s never been something that worried me. It doesn’t now, either.”

“No, it would not. You are a millionaire several times over, I’ve heard, from careful investments. It is partially because of that ability that I wanted to meet you, to bring this out into the open between us. I know you will care for your wife as she should be cared for, and I want you to know that it was always you she wanted—”

Steve set his empty glass on the table between them and rose to his feet. “How long do you intend to be in London?”

Tynedale understood. He stood up, smiling slightly. “The prince desires to travel to Russia, and has asked me to accompany him. He made the acquaintance of the tsar on his last tour of France, and has accepted his invitation to the summer palace. It is beautiful, I understand, named for Catherine the Great, and very opulent. I expect to be most intrigued. It should take my mind off the recent death of my wife.”