She shrugged, said flippantly, “I was afraid of doing without. Of being embarrassed by reduced circumstances once more. You know I detested growing up with shopkeepers and bill collectors forever knocking on the door. My father gambled away all his money and then Mamma’s, so that I could barely outfit myself for a proper coming out.”
“You always looked well to me.”
“Much good it did me. I married a dashing naval captain, sure he would make his fortune in the war. Instead I ended a widow with no fortune, and another woman’s children to care for.”
“But Father provides for you, does he not?”
“Yes, but for how long?”
He waited for her to explain. Now that she was talking, she seemed ready to reveal all.
“I admit a part of me was loath to learn of your base birth, for it fouled my plans. I had thought you and I might marry, once my mourning was past.”
“Did you?”
She hurried on self-consciously, before he could confirm or deny having similar thoughts. “You are so fond of the children and, as a friend of Dominick’s, felt some responsibility, I think.”
“True.”
She glanced at him, but then turned away once more. “But you would pursue Miss Harrington and even Miss Keene. If you were to marry another, your wife might not be so willing to have me under her roof and support the children. But if Felix were to become heir, as my brother, he would always be obliged to provide for me, would he not?”
“I am your brother, Judith. As much as Felix is.”
She frowned. “What can you mean?”
“There is a reason Alexander resembles me. You do remember remarking how you and I favour one another more than you and Felix do? There is a reason for that.”
She gaped at him, almost fearfully, he thought.
He continued evenly, “My mother was no one you would know. But you knew my father. For he was yours as well.”
She stood perfectly still, as if holding her breath. Then her eyelids began to blink, a window shutter, opening and closing, trying to change the view or chop to pieces a hundred images of the past. But she did not try to refute it.
“Did he know?” she asked.
“Your father? I don’t think so.”
“I think he may have suspected it. . . . Perhaps that is the real reason he decided to let it lie.”
Edward sighed, sick of the whole affair. “Well, it does not matter in the end, nor does it change anything. Does it, dear sister?”
She blinked again, this time to clear the tears at his biting tone. “Do you so despise me?”
He regarded her somberly. “I could never hate you, Judith. But I am disappointed. I had thought we were friends at least. You might have simply come to Father and me with what you had learned. There was no need for all this cloak-and-dagger business.”
Edward stepped to Judith’s wardrobe and opened its door casually, like a youth searching the cupboards for a late-night repast.
She lifted her chin. “He would never have admitted it, unless forced.”
“You may be right. But I fear you may live to regret the cost of your little charade.” He pulled down the veiled hat and tossed it on the dressing table. “The veiled woman, Judith? How gothic.”
“It was Mother’s idea. She thought Lord Brightwell’s interest in Miss Keene might threaten our plans. When I showed her the notice from the seminary, she hoped we would discover something incriminating about her, which might sever their attachment.”
“Why? Even if she had been his daughter, which she is not, she would inherit nothing, save perhaps a dowry or some small settlement.”
She grimaced. “Daughter? We did not think that. We feared he might . . . that he had romantic intentions toward her.”
“Ah.” He nodded. “I confess I did as well for a brief time. But his interest in Miss Keene was of the most paternal, I assure you. However, that is not to say he will not marry another once his mourning has passed.”
She cast him an anxious glance.
“You see, Judith, the risk you run? Instead of being content with a home in Brightwell Court and everything you should ever need, you have wagered it all on the chance my father will die without a legitimate son. You are furthermore gambling on Felix’s willingness to be as generous as Father, which I doubt, but that is another matter. For if Father marries again, and his wife bears him a son . . . then you lose all. Do you not see, Judith? You turned out to be every bit the gambler your father was, though you say you despised him for it.”
Her lips trembled. And though she glared rebelliously, her façade was beginning to crack.
Edward turned and walked slowly back across the room.
“Must I leave, then?” she called after him, her voice deceptively calm.
At the door, he turned and looked back. She stood, facing away from him, the sunlight from the window enshrouding her in an unmerited halo of gold. Perhaps, he thought, that was how God saw all His children. Selfish and fallen, yes. But in the forgiving light of His Son, each wore an unmerited halo.
“My father does not ask it of you. You are his niece. He will always love you.”
Her rounded shoulders shook, but he felt no satisfaction, no victory. For whether she stayed or went, in his heart he had bid farewell to this woman he had loved since a boy, as playmate, cousin, confidante, and friend.
Three weeks later, Felix stood stiffly before them in the library, unable to meet Edward’s gaze. Instead he trained his eyes on Lord Brightwell’s cravat and pronounced as if by rote, “. . . If my uncle will publicly recognize me as his rightful heir and Edward agrees to rescind his claim and not challenge the resulting new will, then we shall take no further action and require no legal recompense for fraud.”
Lord Brightwell’s eyes blazed. “Recompense? As long as I live, you are entitled to nothing. Nothing.”
Felix visibly shrunk at his uncle’s outrage.
“Everything I have given you—your tuition and expenses, your annual allowance, all of these came out of generosity of feeling, not obligation.”
“I—” Felix chanced to meet the earl’s gaze, and any rebuttal quickly faded. Instead, he muttered, “I have always thought so, my lord.”
“Then who wrote that little monologue for you? Your mother, I suppose?”
Sheepishly, Felix nodded. “She said that what you have done for me, you have done out of guilt. Not generosity.”
“And have I taken in your widowed sister for this same reason? I am to be credited with no Christian charity?”
Felix’s chin protruded stubbornly, defensively. “I did not say I concurred with Mamma, my lord. But when I am Lord Brightwell, I shall provide for Judith myself.”
“Very proper,” the earl drawled. “But are you not putting the mourning coach before the horse? As long as I live, you would only be heir presumptive—no title, no money, no privileges. And know this, nephew—I plan to live for a very long time.”
Felix swallowed. “For my part I wish you would,” he said earnestly. “I have no great longing to be a peer. Devilish lot of responsibility that.”
“I am relieved to hear it. For who knows?” the earl said. “I may even remarry. Have a son of my own, and then he shall be my heir and you receive nothing.”
“Mamma is afraid of that. She was ever so relieved to hear Miss Keene left.”
“Was she indeed?”
“For my part, I had just as soon not be Lord anybody. Except . . . it would help me win the hand of a certain lady.”
“Miss Harrington, I presume,” Edward said.
The young man’s face burned scarlet. “I am afraid so.”
Ignoring his admission, Lord Brightwell asked, “Did you not read any law at Oxford, Felix? You must realize, my boy, that there is nothing but scandal to be gained by making this public while I live. There is nothing for Edward to rescind. He is just as much a commoner as you are. Only an eldest son can be heir apparent, and as such has use of the courtesy title through my lesser rank of Baron of Bradley, but I still hold the peerage. Do you understand? You can never be Lord Bradley. And would only become Lord Brightwell after my death.”
His nephew’s face fell.
“You will find, my boy, that not every worthy female requires a title to win her.”
Felix’s lower lip jutted forth. He was clearly unconvinced.
“Here is what I propose,” Lord Brightwell said. “I will write within my will a full confession, disclosing my deception, and accepting full blame, so that any serious consequences befall me—I shall be too dead to care—but not Edward, who is innocent of any wrongdoing in this matter. He will lose the courtesy title, and many in society will rebuff him when the true nature of his birth is revealed. But as he plans to live quietly, apart from London society, I don’t think the repercussions will be overly severe.
“After I am gone, you and the solicitors will take this proof to the Lord Chancellor.” Here he put his arm around Felix’s shoulder and said in a confidential aside, “You have no real proof at present, my boy. Save one senile old woman who would never betray us to strangers, even were she to live long enough to do so.” He removed his arm and continued in his best parliamentary voice, “The Committee for Privileges will review the case and shall, I have every certainty, acknowledge your claim to the peerage.” He gave Felix a shrewd look. “Remember, this assumes an absence of a new heir apparent. If I remarry and have a son, then such a will and confession would naturally place him in position to inherit. Do I make myself understood?”