Chapter Seventeen

Stacy gaped at the tall blond man seated across from him. "Twin brother?" he repeated for the third time.

Viscount Pendleton nodded for the third time.

Stacy laughed, but not with amusement. "You'll have to excuse me if I sound rather skeptical."

Robert Harrington, Viscount Pendleton, raised a hand. "Please, don't apologize. I did the very same thing when I heard." He ran his hand absently through his thick blond hair. "I'm afraid I rather made a mess of things. Perhaps I should start from the beginning?"

"Perhaps you should. Would you like a drink?"

"God, yes."

After they'd both taken long pulls from their glasses, Robert Harrington began his story.

"Our mother was Victoria Standish, the second wife of the Earl of Broughton—our father. The earl's first wife bore him three daughters and died when the girls were well into their early twenties. The earl remarried exactly a year after his first wife's death. Our mother was younger than the earl's daughters, only seventeen to our father's fifty-three. A year later the two of us arrived. I was born first and seventeen minutes later you came. Our mother died that night." He drained his glass and Stacy refilled it without being asked.

"I'm afraid our father is . . ." He grimaced. "Well, let's just say he is a man of narrow understanding. When he saw your, er, condition, he went to my mother's family and confronted them. Our grandfather, our mother's only surviving parent, confessed he'd known there was a possibility his daughter might bear a child with your, uh, affliction." He took another gulp. "He admitted his infant brother, who'd died before he was a year old, was like you." He frowned and stared at the floor, turning his glass round and round.

Stacy couldn't help wondering why the man was so nervous. Or perhaps it was just his face that made the viscount uncomfortable, as it did so many others?

Pendleton resumed his story. "Our father was livid. He accused our grandfather of sabotaging his lineage, jeopardizing the Harrington bloodline, and all other manner of rubbish." He gave Stacy a pained look. "I learned all this when I confronted our grandfather." He must have seen the surprise on Stacy's face. "Yes, he still lives." He snorted. "He is younger than our father. He's rather a wastrel and he bartered away his daughter to cover gambling debts—and he has accumulated even more in the last thirty odd years." He sighed heavily. "Our father's decision to banish you was appalling and I am aggrieved and angered at having missed the opportunity to know my brother, not to mention the disservice he has done to you. He's old now, nearing ninety. He stands by his decision and insists I would not have been able to marry the daughter of a duke if you were known to exist." His mouth twisted bitterly. "My wife is the daughter of the Duke of Rotherham. My father believes the illustrious connection vindicates his behavior." His bitter tone indicated he felt otherwise.

Stacy stared at the man—his brother—not sure where to begin, or even if he wanted to begin. He'd lived thirty-five years without a father; a father who'd rejected him like an ill-bred calf. Why bother with him now? He looked at the stranger across from him and saw real pain in his eyes. Robert Harrington had been hurt by their father's actions, not as badly as Stacy, perhaps, but just as deeply.

"You've not said how you finally learned all this?" Stacy asked.

He hadn't thought it was possible, but Robert looked even more miserable. "My father recently told me when he, uh. . ." he coughed, his face darkening beneath his healthy tan. "It might be easier if you would ring for Frances."

Stacy felt as if he'd been punched in the face. "How the devil do you know my aunt?"

Robert Harrington stared fixedly at the floor, as if he'd used up whatever reserves he'd brought with him. "Just summon her."

Stacy ground his teeth but pulled the bell. The men didn't have long to wait before the door opened and Frances entered, as if she'd been waiting.

"Stacy," she hurried toward him and then stopped, her worried eyes flickering to the other occupant in the room. "Have you told him everything, Robert?" She clasped her hands in a vaguely prayerful way as she looked from Pendleton to Stacy.

Stacy gave an ugly bark of laughter. "Just what the hell is going on?"

His aunt, or whoever she was, winced, whether from his tone or his unprecedented swearing, Stacy neither knew nor cared.

"I haven't told him everything, Frances."

Stacy dropped into his chair, not caring that Frances was still standing. "How do you two know each other?" He looked at the woman he had always believed to be his only living relative. "Who the hell are you?"

She rushed toward him and sank down beside his chair. "I'm so very sorry, Stacy, so very sorry. I've wanted to tell you for years, but Father forbade it. I never wanted to lie to you." Tears welled and fell and she grabbed his hand.

Stacy shot to his feet and yanked out of her grasp, equal parts confused, angered, and repelled. He gestured to the chair beside the viscount.

"Have a seat." His head was heavy and hot; his thoughts were in a jumble. Who was this woman? She'd been the bedrock of his existence all his life and she'd been lying to him for thirty-five years? Thirty-five years.

Stacy couldn't bear to look at her and turned back to his brother. "Perhaps you'd be so good as to finish this story, my lord?"

Pendleton glanced at Frances Tate—or whoever she was—and turned back to Stacy. "Frances is the earl's eldest daughter by his first wife. We have two other sisters, Mary and Constance."

Stacy's brain tried to absorb what this man—his brother—was saying. He looked at his . . . sister but she was staring at the carpet, tears falling onto her folded hands.

Something else occurred to him. "Wait. How do you know her?" He whirled on his aunt—his sister—before Robert could answer. "You've stayed in contact with them?" His voice vibrated with disbelief and growing anger. Frances covered her face and wept.

"She comes to visit us several times a year—on Father's orders—I'd always believed she lived with a widowed friend in Cornwall."

Stacy's laughed bitterly. "Ah, yes. The widowed friend you go and visit." His head throbbed. She'd lived two separate lives and he'd never known. He was a fool—a pitiful idiot.

Frances reached out, as if to touch him, and waves of rage blurred his sight as he absorbed the depth of her deception—her betrayal.

"I think it would be best if you departed with Lord Pendleton when he leaves."

She stood and took a step toward him. "Stacy, I wanted to tell you—"

"You've had almost thirty-five bloody years to tell me the truth, Frances." He stared into her familiar—once beloved—blue-gray eyes, more furious and hurt than he could ever recall being in his life. "You may start packing now."

She gave a pitiful cry and stumbled toward the door.

"You're being cruel," the viscount said when the door shut behind her. "She merely did what Father ordered. It was Frances who finally made him tell me the truth about you. She couldn't bear it any longer, now that you are married and to have a child. She was tormented—"

Stacy removed his glasses and looked at his brother. The man stopped talking, his mouth still open. Stacy felt a nasty smile twist his lips. What a powerful effect a simple pair of eyes could have.

"My God," Pendleton breathed.

"Or the devil. Perhaps now you understand why the earl banished me?"

Pendleton flinched as though Stacy had struck him. He shot to his feet, his face a cold, proud mask that looked oddly familiar.

"I knew nothing of this. I am just as much a victim as you are. I didn't need to come here today, I wanted to." He shook his head hard, as if to dislodge something. "Like a fool I could hardly wait to meet the brother I never knew I had." He realized he was still clutching his glass and lowered it to the table with a clatter. "If you'd rather I never darken your door again, I will leave."

Stacy saw himself in the other man's face for the first time: haughty, proud, and stiff. Twinges of something arrowed through his body—guilt? Curiosity? Remorse? Pendleton was right: Robert Harrington wasn't the responsible party and Stacy was behaving like a fool.

He dug deep to find the reserve of calm he needed. "I apologize for my ungracious words and behavior." Stacy paused. "Tell me, my lord, what is it you want from me?"

Pendleton frowned uncertainly but resumed his seat. "I don't know. All I know is that when I learned I had a brother I had to meet you. I know your wife is to have a child and I—" he stopped, an agonized spasm distorting his handsome features. "You are my heir; do you understand that? If I have no son—which seems likely as my wife has not been pregnant in eight years of marriage—then you will be the next earl."

Stacy gaped. No, he'd not realized that.

Indecision and insecurity flitted across his brother's proud features. "All my life I've wished for a brother. I love our sisters but they were so much older than me. When I was young, I used to rattle around Thurlstone Castle and wish I had somebody my own age to play with. Mary and Constance are mad to meet you. This has not been easy on them. None of our sisters have married and likely never will." He laughed but there was no mirth in it. "Our father is a hard man. In some ways you've been lucky to grow up away from him. He crushed the girls and I suppose he did a fair job of crushing me, too." He flushed at his words but did not explain. "I've always admired Frances because I believed she'd somehow gotten away. Now I see he used her even worse than the rest of us. She was twenty-seven when he sent her away with you. Constance told me Frances begged to be the one who raised you." He cut Stacy a hard look, his jaw taut. "You ask what I want? I want to know my brother; I want you to come to Thurlstone. I've already told our father I would ask."

Stacy could only gape; how could he share a father with this stranger—a father who'd banished Stacy at birth? What kind of man did that? The kind of man who would've thrown him over the castle walls still squalling in the Middle Ages. His lips twitched at the melodrama of the notion. Could such a father be worth knowing? He looked at his brother, who was staring at him with open curiosity. Not because of his skin or eyes, but because of who he was: his brother—his twin—his flesh and blood.

"All my life I believed there was only my aunt and myself—a tiny but close family of two. I'm sure you can guess how my appearance has mitigated against too much mixing in society. Indeed, if my wife hadn't come to me it's doubtful I ever would have married." He smiled ruefully. "We've been married a little over a month but already I understand that expanding one's family can be a very comforting thing. I will speak to Mrs. Harrington on the matter and perhaps we will make a visit one day, or perhaps you and your wife will come here. Who knows?" He picked up his spectacles.

"Is Mrs. Harrington at home? I should very much like to offer her my felicitations on both your marriage and upcoming happiness."

Stacy took out his watch. "She should have returned from town by now." He rang the bell and they waited in awkward silence until Soames opened the door.

"Ask Mrs. Harrington to join us."

"She is not in, sir." His eyes drifted to Stacy's distinguished visitor.

"She's not back from Bude? She left hours ago."

"She went out again, sir."

"In this weather?" Stacy glanced out the window he now left uncovered. The sky was an ominous gray and the rain was coming down in buckets.

"Yes, sir, she went out shortly after his lordship arrived."

"I hope Daisy prevailed on her to dress warmly," he said as he stared at the deluge.

"You could ask her, sir. Daisy came downstairs looking for Mrs. Harrington some time ago."

"She did not accompany Mrs. Harrington," Stacy repeated sharply.

"Er, no, sir."

Stacy shook his head. He'd asked her not to go out unattended and already she'd disregarded his request. "That will be all, Soames."

"Is aught amiss?" Pendleton asked, reminding Stacy he was not alone.

"I daresay I am behaving like an over-protective husband, but I wish she would not wander off without her maid."

Pendleton smiled. "You've only been married a short time. You'll soon learn it's pointless to attempt to direct one's wife. Indeed, more often than not I find that I'm the one taking direction." He was smiling, but Stacy thought the other man's voice held an edge. What was his brother's viscountess like?

"How long have you been married?"

"Eight years." He did not sound particularly happy.

There was another scratch on the door and Frances entered. She gave Stacy a slightly defiant look. "I'm only here because I wanted to say goodbye to Portia and Daisy told me she went to Nanny's," she paused, flushing under Stacy's stare. "I think something might be wrong. I came that way myself only an hour ago and I did not see Portia. I should've passed her if she was on the path."

Stacy's anger turned to fear.

"Is it a treacherous path?" Pendleton asked.

Stacy shook his head. "No, but she's been rather short of energy lately. I wonder if she stopped to rest someplace."

"Perhaps she's waiting out the storm?" Pendleton suggested. "I'm sure you're eager to go look for her. I'm not familiar with the area but an extra pair of eyes is never a bad thing."

His mind raced. "Tell Hawkins to saddle Geist and Selene. Lord Pendleton and I will take the road. Tell Baker to walk the trail to Nanny's. Have either Powell or Hawkins search the south end of the forest. She sometimes likes to sit by the stream."

Frances left without a word.

Stacy turned to his brother. "I'm sure it will turn out to be nothing but she tires so easily and—" He sounded like a hysterical fool.

Robert gave him a reassuring smile. "Come, my heavy cloak is in the coach, I'll get my man to fetch it and we can go."