“You carry the stain of Trent’s paternity,” Miranda sneered. “You have the blond hair, the green eyes. You resemble him in every way.”
Stewart blanched and yanked away, an indication that she recognized Charles Sinclair to be her sire, but she quickly shielded her reaction.
“I have no idea what you mean,” she claimed.
“Don’t you? By your very existence, you insult Tristan and James, yet you dare to beg them for assistance. Have you no shame?”
“What are you talking about?”
“James’s mother left her husband and two young sons and fled to Paris with her lover, and you can’t fathom why we view your conduct as outrageous?”
“Who was her lover?”
“Your father, Charles Sinclair.”
“That’s not true,” Stewart said. “You’re lying.”
“Ask anyone in the city. They’ll be happy to tell you all about it.” Miranda grabbed the doorknob and wrenched open the door. “So you see, Miss Stewart, every time we gaze upon your pathetic face, we see your father’s green eyes, and we are reminded of what he did to our family.”
“I have to wait for Captain Harcourt,” Stewart mutinously declared.
“You are Trent’s child!” Miranda shouted. “All those months, you thought James adored you, that he might wed you, but he knew who you were.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“Who do you imagine told me about your father? James has spent years trying to revenge himself on Trent, and you were dropped into his lap like a gift.”
“What are you saying?”
“At this very moment, James is arranging a card game with Trent where he intends to brag about how he ruined you.”
“What?”
“He will announce that it was in retaliation for Trent’s affair with James’s mother.”
Miranda had wrangled Stewart into the threshold and pushed her onto the stoop.
“Helen Stewart—bastard daughter of Charles Sinclair—you are not wanted here. Now go away and don’t come back.”
Miranda slammed the door in Stewart’s stunned face.
Tristan leapt off his horse and raced up the steps to Struthers’s door. He kicked at it, and it swung open and banged against the inside wall.
A shocked, elderly butler gaped at him.
“Where is Bentley?” Tristan demanded.
The butler gulped. “Captain Harcourt?”
Tristan flew by him and down the hall, glancing into each salon as he passed and finding Bentley seated in a chair in the one at the end.
A rough-looking man was over by the window.
As Tristan marched in, Bentley scowled.
“Harcourt? What the devil are you doing here? Was that you making a ruckus in my foyer?”
Tristan approached until they were toe to toe.
“Where is Harriet Stewart?”
“Harriet...Stewart?”
“If you pretend you don’t know her, I’ll kill you.”
“You must mean the little tart who stole my mother’s jewelry, then attacked me when I caught her in the act.”
“No, I don’t mean that Harriet Stewart. I mean the Harriet Stewart who is about to be my wife.”
“Your...wife?”
Bentley chortled with glee.
“What’s so funny?” Tristan queried.
“You—marrying Harriet Stewart. She’s a whore.”
On the ride over, Tristan had been hoping Bentley would be stupidly offensive. It gave Tristan an excuse to be violent.
“What did you call her?” he asked very quietly.
“She’s a whore. Everybody knows—”
Fast as a snake, Tristan pulled a pistol out of his boot and stuck it under Bentley’s chin, wedging it into his jowls.
“Where is she?”
“My God, Harcourt,” Bentley screeched, “have you gone mad?”
“Where is she?” Tristan bellowed.
“Radley,” Bentley whined to the other man, “don’t just stand there. Do something.”
“Take it easy, Captain Harcourt,” Radley said. “I can see you’re in a state, and I wouldn’t want your trigger finger to get twitchy.”
As if by magic, a second gun appeared in Tristan’s other hand, so Tristan had a weapon pointed at both of them.
“What’s your opinion, Radley?” Tristan inquired. “Would you like to try and best me? Perhaps I should explain about my being a decorated marksman.”
In a gesture of surrender, Radley held up his palms. “No need to prove anything, Captain. I’m sure you’re a fine shot.”
Tristan jerked the pistol from under Bentley’s chin and shoved it between his legs, ramming it into his privates.
“Last chance, Bentley. Where is she?”
“How would I know?” Bentley whimpered, his voice an octave too high.
Tristan cold-cocked him, knocking him from his chair, and he tumbled onto the rug with a muted thud.
Before he landed, Tristan was across the floor, and he had Radley in a death grip, a gun pressed to his temple.
“Where is she?” Tristan hissed. “I’m only asking once. Were I you, I would consider my answer very carefully.”
“Newgate Prison,” Radley said. “Delivered her there myself.”
Tristan pushed him away and stomped over to where Bentley lay, moaning. Tristan grabbed him by his shirt and drew him close.
“If you’ve harmed so much as a hair on her head,” Tristan warned, “you’re a dead man.”
He hit Bentley in the face, hit him again and again, then threw him down and hurried out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Helen stood in the drive outside Lord Trent’s mansion.
She didn’t know why she’d come to his house or what she was hoping to achieve. Once she’d left Westwood’s home, her feet had taken charge of her destination.
After Miranda’s revelation, Helen couldn’t get Trent out of her mind. Miss Peabody had initially raised the possibility of Trent being Helen’s father. Nigel had mentioned it too, and Miranda had simply confirmed what Helen had always denied but had secretly suspected to be true.
There was no reason for her family to have been so cruel unless her mother had incurred their wrath, so a terrible scandal—such as a liaison with Trent—seemed likely.
With Helen having been apprised that James Harcourt was seeking a card game with Lord Trent, she felt she should do something, but what?
Who was Trent? What sort of person was he? Had he run off with Westwood’s mother? And what about Helen’s mother? Had Trent loved her? Or had their relationship merely been a brief fling?
Though she shouldn’t have been concerned about either man, she was disturbed at the idea of Westwood talking about her to Trent. She didn’t want them discussing her. Nor did she want to be a pawn in any rivalry.
What would happen if she marched up and banged on Trent’s door? What would happen if she asked for him?
There was only one way to find out. She opened the gate and slipped through.
She didn’t have anywhere to go, and she’d spent the last of her money on the coach to town. She needed assistance, and she had to learn if Trent would provide it.
If she was rebuffed, she’d be no worse off than before. But what if she was allowed to see him? What if he aided her?
She knocked, then nearly bolted in panic as the butler answered. He looked curious and not at all surprised by her arrival.
“May I help you?”
“I realize it’s presumptuous of me, but I was wondering if I could speak with the Earl of Trent. I don’t have a card to present, but my name is Helen Stewart.”
“Has he been introduced to you? Is he aware of your existence?”
Helen frowned. “No.”
“So this is your first attempt at a meeting?”
“Well...yes.”
“Might I see your wrist?” As soon as he posed the question, he stopped and chuckled. “No, don’t bother. I don’t need to verify the mark. I can tell by your hair and eyes.”
“Tell what?”
“You know what or you wouldn’t be here.” He sighed. “I can’t let you in.”
“Oh...”
She hadn’t actually expected any other reply, but nonetheless, it was a devastating blow. While she hated to admit it, she’d been foolishly hoping to be welcomed inside. She’d been hoping Trent would advise her of what to do, where to live, how to support herself. She’d been hoping for rescue—again!
When would she accept that no male would ever save her? She had to save herself.
With any luck, Captain Harcourt would locate Harriet, so Helen and Harriet could be reunited. But Harriet’s return would bring more burdens for Helen, more responsibility to care for a sister who had a devil of a time caring for herself.
It all seemed too much. She was only twenty years old, yet she felt that the weight of the world was resting on her shoulders.
“I apologize for disturbing you,” she mumbled, “and I most humbly beg your pardon. I’ll just be going.”
She’d spun away as he reached out and laid a gentle hand on her arm. He sneaked out, quietly pulling the door closed, and he peeked around as if to be sure no one was watching.
“I didn’t mean that I couldn’t help you,” he said. “At the moment, I simply can’t invite you in. You see, Lady Trent—your father’s wife—is in residence, and she doesn’t take kindly to being visited by his...ah...”