Sir Julian thought the papers looked only too familiar. “Good God, I believe that’s my letter, the one from the statue of Isis! But it can’t be, for Tansy saw it destroyed!”
Martin glanced at the papers. “It is indeed a letter addressed to you, sir. From a lady by the name of Felice.”
Sir Julian was thunderstruck. “It’s impossible!” He hastened across the room to grab the papers. “By all the saints, it
is
the letter! Hermione, it’s safe after all! I have Fenworth in my palm again!”
Tansy was bewildered. “But…I definitely saw Lord Sanderby rip it up and throw it on the fire. I didn’t imagine it.”
Sir Julian went to pat her shoulder quickly. “I’m sure you saw exactly that, my dear, but clearly it wasn’t my letter that he destroyed, for here it is. Although how the cats have it, I can’t begin to imagine.”
Martin looked at him. “The letter is clearly of some importance to you, Sir Julian.”
“It is, my boy. It is. Mind you, I still do not know what to do with it for the best.” Sir Julian met Hermione’s eyes again. Again she looked away, for she shared his uncertainty. The impulse to ruin Randal was strong and justified, and Amanda certainly did not deserve consideration; but the new Lady Sanderby was still Sir Julian’s niece, and the whereabouts of the real heir remained a mystery.
Cleo had watched the letter’s progress from Martin to Sir Julian, and her ears went back disapprovingly. Calmly she followed Sir Julian and reached up to pat his leg.
“Eh? What is it?” he inquired, instinctively bending to stroke her head, but to his surprise she took the letter from his hand and carried it back to Martin, this time jumping up to deposit it in his lap. Sir Julian smiled. “I shall take that as a sign that the letter’s contents should be made known to you all. Read it aloud, my boy.”
“Me? But—”
“No, no. You read it. That is what Cleo wants, and I have no objection.” Sir Julian went to the desk, where not long before a footman had placed the tray upon which stood the glasses and decanter of sherry that preceded dinner at Chelworth. No one had changed for the evening, or indeed intended to. Tonight was not that sort of night.
“As you wish, sir.” Martin unfolded the sheets. “It’s dated Tuesday, June eleven, 1775, and was written at 16B Grosvenor Square, London.” He cleared his throat, and continued.
“My dearest, most darling beloved Julian. What I am about to tell you must never be told to another. On
that I expect your promise upon your honor. I only tell you this darkest of dark secrets because I feel I owe it to you.
“There is no easy way for either of us. I must simply say that it is now quite impossible for me to leave Sanderby and come to you. Oh, my heart breaks as I pen these words, for you are the most precious thing in my life. Well, almost the most precious thing, for I must, as a mother, put my child first. Randal is so small and defenseless, and if I were to defy Sanderby and go to you, Randal’s future would be completely destroyed.
“Maybe you have gathered from the above that Sanderby knows about us; indeed, it seems he has known for some time. He chose to inform me at the theater last night, after I had written to you on the handbill and sent it by the box keeper. He waited until the handbill had been given into your hand, which he saw well enough from our box opposite; then he informed me of his awareness. He also told me something that has brought my entire world in ruins about my ears. You see, my darling, I am not really Lady Sanderby at all. He tells me that our marriage was an act of bigamy on his part, because he was already married to the actress, Marguerite Kenny….”
Tansy sat forward with a gasp. “Oh, Martin!”
Martin met her startled eyes for a moment, then read the last two sentences to himself again. The Lord Sanderby of 1775 had been married to Marguerite Kenny? The implications were not lost upon him.
Hermione looked at them both in alarm. “What is it? Is something wrong?”
Martin cleared his throat. “I, er…don’t know. You see, Marguerite Kenny was my mother.”
Sir Julian put the decanter down with a clatter.
“Your
mother?” he repeated.
“Yes, sir.”
Hermione flapped a hand at the letter. “Read on, Lieutenant! Read on!” She already knew most of the facts from Sir Julian, but certainly not all.
Martin did as she asked. “I was left in no doubt at all that I had never been the object of Sanderby’s affections; rather, it was my fortune that lured him. He informed me that Marguerite was the great love of his life, but that he had been very foolish to go so far as to marry her. An earl cannot present an actress wife at court, or indeed take her to the grandest of houses, because she would not be acceptable. And even though he still considers her to be the most beautiful and divine creature that ever walked the earth, he cast her aside when his gambling debts grew so enormous that he needed an heiress to keep him out of jail. So Marguerite was hounded from his door, with all manner of threats should she be foolish enough to lay claim to her title, and I became, as I thought, the Countess of Sanderby. It was when I was carrying Randal that Sanderby learned Marguerite had borne him a son. He moved heaven and earth to find her, but she had disappeared, the boy with her. I know nothing of this child, except that he was born on St. Valentine’s Day.”
Martin’s mouth ran dry. St. Valentine’s Day was
his
birthday…. If this letter was genuine, and the information it contained accurate, there could not possibly be any doubt that he was the boy to whom the writer referred—any doubt that he, not Randal Fenworth, was the rightful Earl of Sanderby.
Hermione watched the expressions on his face. “It’s your birthday too, isn’t it, Lieutenant?” she said quietly.
“Yes, I fear it is.”
Sir Julian stared at him as if he had suddenly sprouted horns and a tail. “You are the missing heir?” he whispered. “Dear God in heaven, how is it possible that you should come here? To the one house in the realm where the truth about your true heritage could be learned?”
Tansy nodded at Martin. “Finish reading it, Martin.”
Somehow he managed to continue. “In due course I was brought to bed of Randal, who was treated as the rightful heir to his father’s title and fortune. I truly believed he was, because I did not know I was never married. But I know now, Julian, and Sanderby tells me that if I leave him for you, he will make this horrid tale public. It will mean ruin for me, and illegitimacy for Randal. The former I could endure, my darling, but not the latter. If I stay with Sanderby, Randal will in due course inherit all that is his father’s. I know that he is not entitled to it, because Marguerite’s son is the real heir, but she has hidden herself so well that no one knows where she is, or even if she and her son are still alive. If I thought they were, and that they could be found, I would behave honorably, but in the absence of any proof of their continued existence, it is my dearest child I must protect. And the price I have to pay to secure his future is that I must give you up.
“Oh, my darling, If there were any other way I would take it, but not where my boy is concerned. Silent tongue and still, as the old saying goes. I will hold you to keep my secret for as long as you live, and I know I can rest easy that you will do as I ask.
“I will never stop loving you, Julian, nor will I ever stop despising Sanderby. But my boy I adore beyond all reason. He is my lodestar, and for him I will sacrifice everything. And if you love me, my darling, you will sacrifice all for him as well.
“Be strong for me. Adieu. Felice.”
Numb, Martin carefully folded the letter. Surely he was asleep and dreaming, and would soon awaken. But he knew he was awake, and the facts were only too plain. He had always known that he wasn’t Martin Ballard, but until now he had not known he was really Martin Fenworth. Nor could he possibly have imagined he was the legitimate heir to a title.
Tansy swallowed. “Well, at least we now know what Lord Sanderby meant when he called you lord.” She looked at Sir Julian. “And it is now equally plain from some of the things Amanda said, that she knew the truth as well. She is fully aware that Martin is the real earl, and she is prepared to hold her tongue simply so that she could call herself a countess!”
Hermione sighed. “I fear that Amanda has no scruples, my dear.”
Tansy watched Cleo, who was seated on the floor in front of Martin, gazing up at him as if she knew exactly what the letter was and what it contained. Maybe she did. King Osorkon’s faithful cat had known too. The story from Ancient Egypt had been repeated here today. Cleo had been the retriever cat; Martin was Osorkon, the true heir denied his rights by his wicked brother.
Sir Julian continued to gaze at Martin, now seeing him with completely new eyes. “Felice always said that if Marguerite Kenny’s son was found, she would admit the truth, but you and your mother seemed to vanish from the face of the earth. Where were you, boy? How was it that all inquiries and searches led nowhere?”
“We lived in Minorca, sir.”
“Good God. Small wonder no one found you.” Sir Julian studied him. “You are very like your sire. I make no bones about loathing Esmond Fenworth, but I concede that he was a handsome devil.”
Martin smiled. “I loathe him too, sir, even though I have never met him. Throughout her life my mother declined to name him because she feared what he would do, but she did tell me how he treated her. Ballard is the name of the man with whom she lived, a kind and honorable man whose name I have been proud to carry. I regarded him as my legal stepfather, even though he was unable to marry my mother because of her previous contract. But no one in Minorca knew that.”
Sir Julian toyed with the stopper of the decanter. “I gave my word to Felice that I would keep the secret. Whatever my opinion of Randal, he is still her son, her flesh and blood. And Amanda, heaven help her, was utterly set upon marrying him. I saw no possible advantage in exposing the truth. What good would it have done? True, it would have denied Randal the privilege he has so illegally enjoyed, but that is the only advantage I could see. Would it have made Amanda happy? No, for nothing on this earth could do that! Would it have punished Randal’s miserable sire? No. Would it have harmed Felice’s memory? Yes. Would it have made me feel better? Possibly, but that would have been a very selfish approach. So I have always put Felice first, always honored her wishes, and remained staunchly loyal to her memory. But if she were here now, she would be the first to insist that the correct thing must be done. Lieutenant, your father’s title and wealth should be yours, not Randal’s, and so I gladly give you the letter, which is the only firsthand proof in existence. I have searched everywhere for proof of that first marriage, but Esmond was very thorough. His second son was not, however, and this very day his disaffected mistress brought us a note she found in his coat pocket. Unfortunately, interesting though the note is, it gives no names, and so it cannot be of use, even though I
know
it concerns Esmond Fenworth’s bigamous activities. When Esmond set about expunging all trace of what he’d done, he left nothing to chance. Even the clergyman who must have officiated seems to have vanished off the face of the earth. I’m surprised Esmond wrote an incriminating diary, but he died quite suddenly, and no doubt he would have been rid of it first if he’d realized he was soon to meet his Maker. Randal clearly saw the danger of keeping it, and destroyed it as soon as he realized its importance. Would that some use could be made of the note his
belle de null
found, but I fear not.”
Hermione looked up suddenly. “Unless we can find the fellow who wrote it. Maybe Liza knows who he is.”
“Now there’s a thought,” Sir Julian murmured, more hope quickening through him.
“Felice’s letter is important evidence,” Hermione went on, “and maybe Liza’s note, even as it is, will serve to back up what the letter says. In court, that is.”
“In court?” Martin hadn’t even begun to think of what would happen now.
“Why, yes. My boy, you
have
to take what is yours. You owe it to your mother and to any children you might have. Would you wish to deny your own son the heritage he is due? Would you want him to be set aside in favor of two people as disgraceful and undeserving as Randal Fenworth and my niece Amanda? I tell you this, sir, if you are prepared to do that, you will sink so far in my estimation that I shall regret ever learning your identity.”
Martin met Sir Julian’s eyes, and then turned to Tansy. “I must speak with you,” he said, and got up to seize her hand.
“Me? Oh, but—”
“Now,” he said, and almost pulled her from the room.
Sir Julian looked blankly after them. “What is all
that
about?”
Hermione gave him a long-suffering look. “Julian, my dear, you really can be very blind at times.”
“Eh? You mean, Tansy and the lieutenant are…?”
“In love? Yes, that’s exactly what I mean.”
Out in the candlelit atrium, Martin turned Tansy to face him. The wind could be heard moaning around the dome far above, and the pharaoh rose eerily beside them. A draft crept through the house, making the candles sway. “Tansy, I want to know what you want.”
“My wishes should not influence you in this, Martin. It’s your decision…your birthright.”
“And you are going to be my wife,” he reminded her. “Do you wish to be Countess of Sanderby?”
She stared at him. “I…I hadn’t thought….”
“No, I didn’t think you had.” He caught her close to kiss her forehead.
But she pulled away. “Perhaps it would be more to the point to ask if you still want to marry a Church Mouse? I bring you nothing at all, Martin, yet as Lord Sanderby you could attract a bride like—”
“Like Amanda?” he interposed dryly. “Do you honestly think I want such a wife? Tansy, I asked you to marry me because I love you. It doesn’t matter that you have no fortune, just that you are you. So the question remains. Do you want to be Lady Sanderby?”
She stepped away, trying to assemble her thoughts.