Whisper To Me of Love (51 page)

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Authors: Shirlee Busbee

BOOK: Whisper To Me of Love
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Reluctantly George nodded his head. “That's what
I
think!”
“That's
monstrous!”
Julian spat out explosively. “I know that my father is a cold man, but even he is not capable of such an atrocious deed!”
Pity in his gaze, George murmured gently, “Well, it could be a great coincidence—a young woman, clearly bearing the features of the Devlin family, same name as the dead infant, and having the same date of birth. But consider this—common knowledge that your father's pockets were let, everyone knew he wanted money, knew that half the reason he married your mother was because he thought she was going to inherit a fortune from some old aunt of hers!”
“That's a lie!” Julian shouted hotly. “A damned lie! I never thought I'd hear such ugly gossip from
you!”
George shrugged. “Ain't a lie—everyone knew, knew your father was furious when the old tabby died and left everything to some distant cousin no one even knew existed. He and Lucinda were in London. Hadn't been married more than three weeks, and it was after that they left for the continent—he couldn't afford to live in England. Said so! Went around town snarling and grumbling about the unfairness of it all! Remember it!”
There was such simple, unvarnished honesty in George's face and tone that even Julian, outraged and infuriated though he was, had to give some credence to his words. His young features pale and set, he looked over at Royce and said with icy politeness, “If you will excuse me, I find that I must leave immediately. My father is staying at Martin Wetherly's home, which I understand is not very far away, and I must speak to him at once!” He threw George a challenging look. “I'm positive that he will be able to explain everything and that the
truth
bears no resemblance to the lies that have been spoken here this afternoon!”
Spinning on his heels, he stalked swiftly from the room.
Jack had not uttered a sound since he had first laid eyes on Julian Devlin, but now he asked simply, “Sir, do you honestly believe that Morgana really is this Morgana Devlin?”
George sent him a thoughtful glance, actually becoming aware of him for the first time. “One of Jane Fowler's get, ain't you?” he said finally. “You've got the look of her about you—something the young lady sitting over there doesn't! What's your name?”
Jack smiled crookedly. “Yes, Jane was my mother, and my name is Jacko ... Jack.”
George nodded and said politely, “Happy to meet you, Jack. Since no one has done the business, might as well introduce myself—I'm George Ponteby, a cousin of sorts to Royce.” Having satisfied himself with the social niceties, George added, “And yes, I do believe that she is Morgana Devlin—young Julian didn't let me explain my most compelling reason for believing in her identity.” He looked across the room, where Morgana sat like a frozen little statue. His voice soft, George muttered, “Said she looked like her mother when she was angry—I wasn't talking about Jane Fowler, I was talking about little Hester Devlin, Andrew's bride that I met and fell in love with twenty years ago.”
Morgana's eyes flew to his, and George nodded. “It could be a coincidence, your name and birth date being the same as the legitimate child, and you could be a byblow of Andrews's ... but Jane Fowler was never in Andrew's keeping, and
if
you were
their
child, I wouldn't see flashes of Hester in you.”
Morgana took a deep, shuddering breath, her thoughts numb and bewildered. She didn't know
what
she felt. There was relief that Stephen wasn't her father, but she wasn't so certain that she was ready to relinquish Jane as her mother—Jane had raised her, and Jane had been the only mother she had ever known, but if Jane wasn't her mother ... In a very small voice, she asked, “You mean Jack and Ben aren't my brothers?” Being an heiress, or even discovering that she was not the bastard child of some aristocrat, didn't seem as important as the bond she had shared with Jack and Ben ever since she could remember.
Dismay evident in his eyes, Jack swiftly crossed the room and knelt before her. Taking her hands in his, he said fiercely, “It doesn't matter if it turns out that Jane was not your mother—you'll always be my sister!” He gave her a twisted smile. “You may wear fine clothes these days and live in a fine house and answer to Morgana, but you're always going to be ‘Pip' to me, and
nothing
will ever change that!” A thought occurred to him and he grinned at her. “Besides ... nothing can be proven, so while it makes a fascinating tale, I'm afraid that you're just going to have to put up with me and Ben as your brothers—we won't let you disown us!”
“I wouldn't be so certain that there is not any proof,” Royce said obliquely as he left his position behind her chair and walked over to the center of the room.
“What do you mean by that?” Morgana demanded, her heart twisting with sudden suspicion. “Do you know something that we don't?”
“Not exactly,” Royce answered easily enough. Looking at George, he asked quietly, “Are you familiar with the coat of arms of the St. Audries family? Could you describe their crest?”
If George was puzzled by Royce's question, he gave no sign; he merely appeared thoughtful for a moment and then said, “Believe it's a pair of crossed sabers below and a rose above.”
Morgana's breath caught painfully in her chest, and her eyes met Royce's. In bitter anguish she stared across the room at him, the painful certainty that he had known all along who she was coursing through her—why else had he married her? If he had known that she was the legitimate daughter of an Earl, heiress to a great fortune, it would explain everything! Dully she said, “I have a mark on my hip that depicts precisely those symbols ... except that in the middle, there are the initials HD inscribed.”
It was Zachary, standing riveted by the fireplace, who voiced the thought uppermost in everyone's mind.
“Hester Devlin!”
“I'm afraid so,” Royce replied carefully, puzzled by the expression in Morgana's eyes. She looked ... disillusioned, as if he had failed her somehow. Watching her closely, his confusion growing as, all-unknowingly, he confirmed her worst fears, he muttered slowly, “When I first noticed the scar, I wondered if it wasn't a family crest, and I have to admit that it had already occurred to me, impossible though it seemed, that you might be the dead heiress. I didn't know then about the identical names and birth dates.”
“Well, what are we going to do about it?” George asked dryly. “Going to cause a devil of a scandal!”
Morgana caught sight of the ormolu clock on the mantel, and her chest tightened painfully. It was after four-thirty! She had to leave
now
if she was to meet the one-eyed man! Her emotions shredded, her thoughts scrambled and irrational, she instantly rose to her feet. Whether she really was the legitimate daughter of an Earl, heiress to a fortune or not, wasn't very important to her at the moment—Royce's life was in danger, and that knowledge took precedence over everything else ... even her pain at his conniving. She glanced at him, and her heart lurched as she met his golden-eyed stare. She loved him most dreadfully, and it hurt unbearably to think that he had married her simply because he believed that she was this supposedly dead Morgana Devlin, and therefore the inheritor of great wealth. But his duplicity didn't change her feelings, nor did it make unnecessary her coming meeting with the one-eyed man.
Frighteningly aware that the seconds were ticking away, she gathered up her skirts and said distractedly, “Excuse me, I want to be alone for a while. I have to think!”
When Royce would have escorted her from the room, she shook her black, curly head vehemently and, jerking her arm from his grasp, exclaimed sharply, “No! Don't you understand? I need to be
alone!”
With painful intensity, her gray eyes searched his. “I wondered why someone like you,” she said at last, “with your wealth and well-connected background, wanted to marry me—a little nobody, a thieving pickpocket from one of the most notorious areas of London!” Her voice shook as she added, “Now I know.” She gave a bitter little laugh. “I knew you didn't love me, but I hoped that you at least had
some
affection for me! It seems that I was wrong!”
Tears blinding her, deaf to Royce's anguished cry, she swept regally from the room. There was a painful silence in the wake of her departure, all three of the other gentlemen carefully avoiding looking at Royce's white, stricken features as he remained frozen in the center of the room, one arm outstretched as if to stop her.
“I
do
love her! More than anything else in the world!” Royce finally muttered in a fierce low tone, the expression in the golden eyes bleak and wounded. “I just never told
her
that I do!”
George walked over to him, and clasping him on the shoulder, he comforted gently, “Strange creatures, women. Give her time. Let her think about what has been said here this afternoon and she'll come to her senses. She's had a shock—we all have!”
Everyone
had
had a shock, but none had felt it as deeply as Julian Devlin. Even Morgana had been more forewarned than he—she at least had seen Stephen Devlin and knew of the startling resemblance, but Julian had been caught totally off guard. Even as his horses ate up the distance that separated Lime Tree Cottage from Wetherly's estate, Julian was still stunned, hardly able to believe what he had seen and heard. That Royce's bride was a Devlin was undeniable, but
Morgana
Devlin? He could not give credence to such an outlandish idea, and yet ... and yet he could not entirely push the notion out of his mind.
Father will know, he thought grimly as his horses swept around the wide, circular driveway in front of Wetherly's house. Flipping his reins in the direction of the groom who had come running up at the sound of his arrival, Julian jumped down lithely and strode hurriedly up the broad steps to the door.
His knock on the door was answered by a butler in green and black livery. Upon identifying himself and requesting to see his father, Julian was politely invited into the house, and the butler explained that he believed Lord Devlin had last been seen in the master's study at the rear of the house. When the butler would have gone in search of Lord Devlin, Julian forestalled him with a charming smile and offered to find him himself if the butler would just be so kind as to give him directions to the study ... and would he mind informing Lady Devlin that her son had come to call and where he would be? He would pay his respects to Mr. Wetherly once he had seen his parents.
The butler agreed, and a few seconds later, Julian was knocking on the door to Wetherly's study. He was hoping to see his father alone, and his hopes were rewarded when, upon being told to enter, he walked into the study and discovered the elegant room empty except for Stephen.
The Earl was sitting behind a narrow desk, a handsome pair of dueling pistols lying in the opened case in front of him. If he was surprised to see Julian, he gave no sign, merely remarking nastily, “Oh dear! Never tell me that Wetherly was so stupid as to invite
you
to the same house party that I am attending? One of us will have to leave, and since I am already here, I suspect that it will have to be you.” Insincerity dripping from every word, he added, “I do hope that it will not inconvenience you in any way.”
Julian flushed, his fists clenching at his sides. He and Stephen had been at each other's throats ever since he could remember, and there were times that he actively hated his father, but swallowing back his temper, he said levelly, “Wetherly did not invite me—I came to see you on a matter of the utmost importance.”
“Oh? A new horse you wish to purchase? Or some new opera dancer that you want to set up in a tidy little house?”
Stephen was being deliberately provoking, since Julian never came to him for anything so trivial. Actually, he came to him for nothing these days, and hadn't from the moment he had turned eighteen, when his mother had, miraculously as far as Julian was concerned, convinced his father to settle a sum of money on him. The amount had not been particularly generous, but it
did
enable him to live independently from his father, and since he and Stephen only fought whenever they were in each other's company, they were seldom in each other's company.
Swallowing back the hot words that rose in his throat, he stared grimly at his father and said bluntly, “I have just come from Royce Manchester's house, where I met his bride.” He hesitated only a second before blurting out, “She claims that her name is Morgana, and I tell you she bears a striking resemblance to me!”
There had been a curious stillness about Stephen when Julian had first mentioned Royce's name, but now he seemed to settle back comfortably against the leather chair in which he sat, a hand almost caressing the smooth wood of the pistol grip of one of the pistols in front of him. It was obvious that the truth was going to come out very soon, and since he didn't plan on being around when the horrendous scandal broke, Stephen saw no reason to deny himself the pleasure of getting a little revenge, of devastating Julian. A malevolent gleam in the gray eyes as he stared at the tall young man before him, Stephen fairly purred, “Oh, is that so? Why should you be surprised? She is your sister, after all.”

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