Maryann got to her feet. Hands clenched, she advanced on Tammadge.
Rivington set up a roar, ordering her to sit down.
“Quiet, Rivington!” Tammadge barely raised his voice, yet the unmistakable command was instantly obeyed.
“I find that, after all, a rebellious spirit appeals to me more than meekness. If your daughter wants to slap me, she may do so with my goodwill.”
“Blackmailer!” Shaking with revulsion and anger, Maryann shoved her hands behind her back. “I would not touch you did I wear gloves.”
He did not move a muscle, his casual pose by the fireplace portraying infinite boredom. Only a sudden icy glint in the pale eyes betrayed that he was not as indifferent as he’d like to pretend.
“Aren’t you just a trifle overdramatic?” he drawled. “Blackmail—what a distasteful word—does not enter into the picture. I clearly remember that you assured me neither Rivington nor I need fear you’d break the engagement.”
She gritted her teeth. It seemed that everything she had said and done since Tammadge offered for her hand was coming back to haunt her.
Tammadge raised one pointed brow. “Am I wrong?”
“No.”
She had told him she would not cry off. But how different the situation looked then. There had been no threat of having her mother turned out into the streets. She had not known then of a sullen youth—a half brother—dependent on Rivington’s support.
Maryann felt trapped. The image of hounds closing in took possession of her mind, as once before, when she believed herself rejected by the one man who could help her find the proof of Tammadge’s misdeeds.
Stephen.
She looked at her mother, who had assured her that Tammadge’s presence and Rivington’s disclosures had nothing to do with Stephen.
How wrong! He was committed to destroy Tammadge.
Yet, how could she let him do it—or continue herself to work toward that end? Tammadge’s destruction would bring about her father’s ruin, which, in turn, would mean impoverishment for her mother.
But she must not think of that now. And she must put Stephen from her mind until she was out of Tammadge’s sight—lest she betray her fear for Stephen’s safety.
Irene’s eyes met hers with a silent plea. Her mother was at the end of her strength.
Summoning a smile, Maryann said, “If we want to give dinner to that hungry young man, we had best go and change.”
Rivington thrust back his chair. “Not until I have your word—”
“Rivington!” Irene interrupted. “Don’t harass Maryann. You will just have to trust her to do what is right.”
To do what is right. The words burned in Maryann’s mind.
Drawing Maryann with her, Irene swept out the door held open by Tammadge. The burst of energy lasted until they reached the half landing on the stairs and Irene knew herself unobserved from the study. Leaning on Maryann’s arm, she finished the climb to the third floor much more slowly.
“Thank you for your championship,” Maryann said when she had made her mother comfortable on the day bed. “I never doubted you had pluck, but it takes a special strength to face down Father and Tammadge. I know the appearance of the boy must have been a shock to you.”
Irene clasped her hand and pressed it.
“Now it’s up to you, child. You must do your part.”
Maryann nodded. She had been tempted to share her troubled thoughts, to ask her mother’s advice. But no longer. She had always fought her own battles, made her own decisions.
She understood now what Irene had meant when she said, “This has nothing to do with Mr. Farrell. It concerns you alone. Your life. Your future.” Irene might have added, “Neither has it anything to do with me or with young Reginald.”
For it was Maryann who had to live with the consequences of whatever decision she made.
To do what is right.
But what was right?
“Mama, before you fetched me to the study, did you learn anything about that boy—about Reginald?”
Irene was reluctant to speak about Rivington’s son, but Maryann persisted. She did not wish to distress her mother, but she must have all the facts before making a decision. And she would not go to her father if she could help it.
After a while, it became evident that Irene was not so much upset or embarrassed as she was afraid to rouse pity in Maryann’s breast for her half brother.
The boy’s mother, she finally admitted, had died when he was still in leading strings. He had been fostered by various women of respectable background, and by no means had he been mistreated or neglected! By some lucky chance, Rivington had contrived to enter his “ward” at Harrow when Reginald was about eleven or twelve years old, and then, later, at Christ Church in Oxford.
Reginald Makepiece was a very fortunate young man, Irene assured Maryann, his future taken care of if he applied himself to his studies and learned to nurture friendships with those of his fellows who might, later on, assist him in procuring a lucrative post.
Maryann agreed absently.
Reginald Makepiece. Not Reginald Rivington. She remembered the sullen look on his face, the choke—half sob, half laughter—when he said, “I am your brother. Your father’s bastard.”
“How old is he, Mama?”
“He told me he’ll turn eighteen in October.”
Born ten months after Irene had presented Rivington with his fifth daughter … Maryann.
Her thoughts churning, Maryann remained only a few minutes longer, then sought refuge in her own room.
The lamps had been lit. No matter that both Hedwig and Irene called Jane a flibbertigibbet, the girl never forgot to light the lamps well before evening shadows in the room might remind her mistress of dark cellars. Maryann appreciated the gesture, but this evening she thought not of her own fear of the dark, but of Hannah Moss’s.
She had promised Hannah another visit, and even though she could not be certain that the girl had listened, she must keep that promise—no matter what her decision about Tammadge would be.
First, however, she must see Stephen.
A drawer fitted behind the ornate front of a console table held everything she required: ink and pens in a leather case designed for travelers, and a stack of writing paper.
Her hand shook a little as she wrote, and when she finished and looked at her handiwork, she was tempted to do it over. But even eight words—Dear Stephen. I must see you. Yours, Maryann—were too much effort to copy.
Resolutely, she folded and sealed the missive. At least she had not let the stupid, self-pitying tear that got away smudge the ink.
Harv would take the note to Stephen’s lodgings in Ryder Street. He might, she thought with a surge of hope, bring back a reply.
But hope would not achieve as much as action. Her hand steadier, she pulled out a second sheet of paper and addressed it to both Meg and Fletcher at the Fighting Cock. Rush must deliver that one. And if neither was at the tavern, he must take it to Sir Nathaniel Conant in Bow Street. Somehow or other she would find out what happened the night before.
Anticipation of hearing from either Stephen or Meg carried her through dinner. She had been half-afraid Tammadge would insist on taking his potluck with them and was relieved to see that he had not. Even so, the meal was a horrid affair such as she prayed she’d never have to endure again.
Her mother looked far from well and hardly spoke at all, but Maryann knew better than to suggest she retire. A certain glint in the shadowed eyes when they rested on Rivington told Maryann that Irene would not leave.
Rivington, who never dined at home unless they were giving a formal dinner, had canceled an engagement at White’s in honor of his son’s presence and harped on the shortcomings of daughters in general, and Maryann in particular.
Reginald, when addressed, was either sullen and taciturn to the point of rudeness, or he lashed out with cynical, snide remarks. He indicated that he expected an invitation to stay in town for a few days and, in the same breath, professed a burning desire to escape all Rivingtons and return posthaste to Oxford.
Maryann did not know how she felt about the moody young man. She imagined herself in his place … Rivington’s son, but no right to the name or the advantages and privileges that went with it … and was torn between pity and exasperation.
But those were superficial emotions. What she felt deep in her heart was less easily defined, and at the moment, until she had news from or about Stephen, she did not even want to try to examine her feelings.
When she and Irene finally withdrew from the dining room, Harv was waiting in the hallway. Maryann’s blood quickened with excitement. To ignore Harv was harder than sitting through the dinner had been, but she accompanied Irene and deposited her in Hedwig’s tender care before flying down the stairs again and pelting the footman with questions.
“What did Mr. Farrell say, Harv? When is he coming to see me?”