The Irresistible Miss Peppiwell(56)
He straightened his shoulders, climbed the steps with measured steps, and rapped on the door. The butler opened immediately, and Anthony could see the knowledge in his eyes. No surprise. Servants always knew everything before the masters of the house.
“No need to announce me,” Anthony said. The clock in the foyer struck one o’clock as he stepped inside and handed him his things.
The haunting strains of a violin filtered through the air, and he followed them to Constance in the music room. She sat on a bench facing the windows with her back turned to him as she played. Her taut spine and the stiff manner in which she cradled the violin to her left cheek bespoke her emotions. She wore a plain blue day gown, with her mass of blond hair tumbling unfettered to her waist. He glanced down and saw her stockinged feet peeking out from under the hem of her dress.
“Constance.” Anthony did not know how to face her. What to say to her.
She stiffened even further, but she did not pause. The violin cried with notes of such beauty his heart ached. He had never heard her play so poignantly before. When the last note dwindled he was regretful it ended. With reverent care, she stood and walked to its spindle and rested the violin and stick. She turned to him. Her tear-streaked face gutted him. Her gaze roamed his face as if she had never seen him before. He desperately wished he had never been so stupid as to wish for her to hold onto her childlike trust of the world. He should have told her at once. She should never have found out through cruel whispers.
“So, it is true.” Her voice was hoarse and he knew that only happened after a long bout of crying.
“Yes.”
She flinched as if struck, but he would give her nothing but the truth.
Where was their mother? Why was she not here comforting her daughter?
“You knew?” Constance asked.
“I learned a couple weeks ago. I was stupid not to tell you right away. I never dreamed it would come to this so quickly.”
She nodded, tears trickling down her face. She hugged herself tightly, hunching into herself. “Why do you think mother never told us? Fath— The old duke hated me…hated us. And she made us think we were his children, Anthony.”
He was not sure how to respond. He had asked himself the same question. He realized how different they would have seen themselves if they had known they were bastards. But still, they would not have been nearly as hurt by the old man’s disdain had they understood the reason. And perhaps…they might have had a closer relationship with their real father.
“I do not excuse Mother’s actions, Connie. And I know it may take time to forgive her and the viscount. But I think, in the end, she kept the knowledge to herself to protect us. To protect you from situations like the one you experienced today.”
She wiped her face. “But how is it even possible? She was married!”
Good Lord. The girl was a true innocent. Realizing just how much so, he walked over and pulled her into his arms. Soft sobs shook her.
“Our mother made decisions we may never understand, Connie, but we must accept, and somehow live with them. I’m not saying it will be easy, but you mustn’t be afraid. We will get through it. Together.”
He led her from the music room toward the parlor. He saw his mother sitting on the staircase, her face in her hands, tears streaming down her cheeks. She glanced up and gave him a tremulous look.
He sighed, and managed a smile of reassurance.
Their mother had not been comforting Constance because she needed comforting herself. His heart warmed when he saw the viscount behind her, his arm around her shoulders in support.
Their eyes met, and Anthony wondered how he could have been so damned blind. They shared the same emerald-green eyes. The viscount’s hair was turning lighter with age, but it was easy to see remnants of the golden blond it had once been, just like his own.
It struck Anthony that perhaps he had chosen to be blind all his life.
His mother rose, and they all entered the parlor and sank into the sofas. The viscount called for tea.
“You missed Miss Peppiwell’s birthday celebration,” Constance managed, though her voice was soft and hoarse. “Mother— Mother and I like her very much. Why weren’t you there?”
He glanced at her, startled at the choice of subject. The last person he wanted to be thinking about was Phillipa. But Constance’s lips were pinched, and he saw the need in her eyes to talk about something else.
“I… I had other things to attend to. I saw her afterward, at Lady Prescott’s soiree.”
“You got her a gift, then?”
“Yes. Last week.” When he hadn’t been able to stop thinking about her.
“What did you give her? Diamonds, pearls, rubies? I think rubies would be marvelous with her red hair.”