I wish you would tell me what this is all about,” Belle said quietly to Lady Ainsley as she nervously paced the drawing room. Around them, the house grew quiet as the guests took their leave and the last of the carriages rolled away from the front entrance, the party having ended early on the heels of her surprise announcement. “I’d very much like to retire for the evening.” To her room, where she could undress, crawl beneath the covers, and weep herself inconsolably into sleep. To put this evening behind her and find a way to go forward, without both the home and the man she loved.
“As soon as Quinton arrives,” Lady Ainsley assured her, but her normally unflappable voice held an uneasy edge to it. Although, after the spectacle she and Quinton had just made of themselves in the ballroom, Belle acknowledged that perhaps the viscountess had a right to be anxious.
And to request that Belle and Quinton join her in the drawing room.
But that didn’t explain why Mr. Bartleby was here, or why he seemed just as uneasy as Lady Ainsley. Certainly, he’d witnessed her announcement, and as the family solicitor, he would be carrying out the conveyance of the estate to the Church. But the reason why didn’t concern him.
As for Quinton…Dear heavens, he was the very last person she wanted to face!
He had been right all along about marriage and Glenarvon. This place was her home, and she’d always think of it that way. But she wasn’t willing to purchase it at the price of a lifetime’s imprisonment of marriage to a man who did not love her.
Ferguson opened the door, and Quinton strode into the room, looking just as unsettled as she felt. Right down to the wrinkles in his jacket and the haphazardly tied replacement cravat he’d donned after leaving the ballroom. For once, he was unable to muster the charming grin that he always had for her and Lady Ainsley, giving them both a sober nod instead.
“Aunt Agatha.” His gaze darkened as it landed on Belle. “Miss Greene.” Then he saw the solicitor as the man rose to his feet, and he stiffened in surprise. “Bartleby? What the devil are you doing here?”
“That’s what I’ve been attempting to discover,” Belle mumbled as she walked toward them. “Neither of them would tell me until you arrived.”
She trembled at Quinn’s presence. Why did the rascal have to look so handsome, even all mussed and aggravated? And why did he have to keep looking at her like that, as if he wanted to grab her to him and kiss her senseless?
“Please sit.” Lady Ainsley nodded toward a chair, but she remained standing and nervously wringing her hands. “You will probably want something to drink.” Then she mumbled, “God knows I do.”
Belle looked at her with alarm. To see the viscountess this upset—a warning pricked at the backs of her knees that this summons was about far more than tonight’s party.
The viscountess gestured toward the front of the room. “There’s a bottle of Bowmore inside the card table.”
“Thank you.” Quinn retrieved the bottle and a glass, pausing to refill Bartleby’s glass before sitting. But his every muscle remained tense, his spine straight. His hard gaze flicked to Belle, and finding no answers in her, he looked back to his aunt. “You wished to speak to me?”
“To both of you,” Lady Ainsley corrected.
Oh no. Belle sank onto the settee across the tea table from Quinton as her stomach roiled. Did Lady Ainsley know what happened between them tonight?
The viscountess drew in a deep breath, once more wringing her hands. “It seems that matters concerning Glenarvon—and Annabelle’s future—have now changed.”
Oh no no no no. She pressed her hand against her belly to keep from casting up her accounts and darted her eyes toward Quinn, whose face remained remarkably inscrutable. That Lady Ainsley had figured out what they’d done— She bit back a mortified groan.
“Changed how?” Quinn demanded quietly.
His aunt hesitated, then swung her gaze to Belle, who caught her breath. The last time she’d seen the viscountess so out of sorts was when Lord Ainsley died. Seeing it again now deeply worried her. “Annabelle, are you quite certain that you do not want to marry?”
“Absolutely certain,” she whispered as Quinn stared at her, saying nothing. Thank goodness that the rascal remained silent for once. She didn’t think she could have borne a second argument with him about that in front of his aunt.
“That is a disappointment.” Lady Ainsley’s face fell as she admitted quietly, “I had great hopes that you two would marry.”
Belle’s heart stopped. So did Quinn’s arm as he raised the glass of whisky to his mouth.
He drawled, “Why would you think that?”
The dowager shook her head. “Because I’ve seen the way you two have looked at each other since you were eighteen. Even then there were embers burning between you.” Belle turned away from the viscountess’s gaze, but was unable to stop the telltale blush from rising in her cheeks. Lady Ainsley pressed Quinton, “Why do you think I invited you here to Glenarvon?”
“Because you needed my help to separate the viable gentlemen from the fortune hunters,” he bit out as he continued raising the glass to his lips. He clearly hated the idea of that as much now as he had when she’d first proposed it three weeks ago. “To find Belle a suitable husband.”
She wearily breathed out a defeated sigh. “A husband in you, my dear boy.”
He choked on the whisky. Coughing, he wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and stared at her, speechless.
So did Belle.
Lord Ainsley smiled faintly, clearly regretting that her scheme hadn’t worked. “I have learned over the years that the quickest way to make a man want something is by telling him that he cannot have it. So I told you that I wanted you to find another man for her, hoping you’d realize that you wanted to marry her yourself.” She looked hopefully at Quinton. “You did offer tonight, and I’m certain that—”
“I do not wish to marry,” Belle interrupted as firmly as possible, the conversation growing unbearable. Perhaps if she said it enough times, she’d begin to believe it herself.
“Not to anyone?” the dowager pressed.
“No, my lady.” She pulled in a deep breath, refusing to meet Quinton’s stare in case he could see right through that lie. “I wish to remain in your company for as long as you’ll allow me.”
“Then it seems we have no choice.” Lady Ainsley exchanged a questioning glance with Bartleby, who nodded and pulled at his neck cloth as if it were choking him. She took another deep breath. “Your announcement this evening changed everything.”
Confusion struck her. How could that have changed anything? She didn’t have a fiancé and was set to lose Glenarvon anyway. Her announcement simply made that loss final.
A frown creased Quinton’s brow. “How so?”
“When Lord Ainsley set up his will,” the viscountess continued, “he attached the marriage stipulation because he wanted to protect you, Annabelle.”
“From my father,” she whispered.
Lady Ainsley hesitated, paling slightly. “From Marcus Greene, yes.”
Bartleby straightened in his chair, leaning forward on the edge of the seat. “Although Lord Ainsley was your guardian, if Marcus Green ever returned into your life, he would have had every legal right to assume control of your property. The only way to protect you was for the estate to become yours and your husband’s.”
“Yes, I know.” Why were they telling her this? It made not one whit of difference now.
“But Ainsley and I always thought you’d marry, that you’d make a love match,” she said a bit wistfully. “The stipulation wouldn’t have mattered then.”
“It doesn’t matter now.” Belle’s chest tightened with a sharp mix of guilt and loss. And deep grief. “Glenarvon won’t be mine after all, so my father cannot get his hands on it anyway.”
“He cannot ever now, my dear,” Lady Ainsley said somberly, “Marcus Greene is dead.”
Dead. Numbness flashed through her like an electric jolt. Her heart skipped, one painful, jarring beat. That was all. The moment passed, and she was left exactly as she was before. It wasn’t grief that struck her, but the lack of it.
Her father was dead. And she couldn’t find enough affection for him inside her to muster a single tear.
“Annabelle?” Quinn asked softly, his deep voice filled with concern.
She turned to look at him, and the worry he wore for her pierced her. That made her eyes heat with tears, far more than the news of her father’s death.
“I’m fine,” she whispered, folding her hands in her lap. She had no idea what to do with her hands…She looked up at Lady Ainsley, who was still wringing hers, and a deeper wariness gripped her. “How do you know, for certain?”
“Lord Quinton tasked me with finding your father,” Bartleby interjected.
She swung her gaze to Quinton. “You did? Why?”
“Because I didn’t want any more problems for you,” he explained gently. “I know the hell that man put you and your mother through, and I wanted to make certain he remained on the far side of England, where he couldn’t harm you.”
Her throat tightened. Drat him! Why did he have to be so thoughtful and kind? He made it impossible not to love him when he did things like this.
“I hired a runner who traced him down in Liverpool,” Bartleby added. “He’d gone there after he was released from prison and worked as a porter on the docks, until he was convicted of theft and sent back to gaol. He died there eighteen months ago. The parish records confirm it.” His face fell. “I am sorry, my dear.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, struck by how everyone’s grief for her was stronger than her own grief for her father. A man who had been in her life only long enough for her to despise him.
“When Mr. Bartleby learned of his death, he told me.” Anticipating Quinn’s question about that, Lady Ainsley explained, “Bartleby has been our family attorney for years, and he knows that if there is any issue regarding Annabelle’s security, he is to contact me immediately.”
“I appreciate that you told me.” Belle shook her head. “But his death changes nothing. He cannot get Glenarvon now, but neither can I.”
Lady Ainsley and Mr. Bartleby exchanged another look, another silent communication. Then the viscountess said quietly, “But you can.”
“No,” she said as firmly as possible, not daring to meet Quinn’s dark gaze. Dear heavens, why wouldn’t they leave her alone about this? “I am not marrying.”
Bartleby replied carefully, “There is another part of the will that might now come into consideration and make your inheritance of Glenarvon possible without having to take a husband.”
Her breath caught in her throat as a bubble of hope swelled inside her. Tonight, when she’d made her decision not to marry, to follow after Quinton into the shadows, she was certain she’d lost her home. She’d accepted it then, and coming to that decision had emboldened her, because she’d had nothing left to lose.
But now, she had a second chance. Her heart raced painfully, and she barely registered that Quinn had tensed and sat forward in his chair. She asked softly, “How?”
“As you know,” the solicitor continued, “Lord Ainsley bequeathed all unentailed properties to his daughters to be split evenly among them.”
“Yes, his daughters from his first marriage.”
Bartleby glanced at Lady Ainsley, who hesitated, then nodded her permission for him to continue. He cleared his throat and explained, “Your inheritance of Glenarvon would have equaled their shares. Lord Ainsley made certain of it.” He paused and nervously pushed his spectacles into place on his nose. “He wanted all of his daughters to be taken care of.”
She nodded, noting from the corner of her eye that Quinn had pushed himself from his chair and moved to stand behind her at the settee. “Lord Ainsley was a good man. Of course, he—”
“Including you.”
She caught her breath, stunned. Quinn’s hand went gently to her shoulder as the soft words registered inside her. No, that couldn’t be. What he was implying…impossible.
But when she looked up at Quinn and saw his sober face, she knew—
“My father was Marcus Greene,” she breathed, so softly that her own ears couldn’t hear it. Her heart leapt agonizingly, each thumping beat coming so hard that she thought it might burst free from her chest. Numbly, she reached up to cover Quinn’s hand with her own, seeking an anchor in him to keep from falling away. “My father wasn’t…my father?”
Lady Ainsley sat beside her on the settee and took Belle’s hands securely in hers. The look of sadness and grief on the viscountess’s face ripped through her, stealing her breath away and instantly forming hot tears at her lashes. When she felt the blood drain from her face and all of her began to shudder, Lady Ainsley placed her hand against Belle’s cheek. “Charles North, Lord Ainsley, was your real father, Annabelle.”
Sudden grief tore through her so fiercely that even in her stunned shock the pain was blinding. The world tilted beneath her. Only Quinn’s hand on her shoulder gave her anything solid to cling to, his strong fingers tightening to let her know he was there.
“We never meant to hurt you by keeping this from you,” Lady Ainsley whispered softly, her hand soothingly stroking Belle’s cheek and hair while the other held tight to her hand. “But it cannot be kept any longer. You need to know now.”
Squeezing her eyes shut, she gave a jerking nod.
She felt Quinn’s hand slide away. No! Stay with me! But she couldn’t speak through the terrible anguish shredding her from the inside out. Then she heard Lady Ainsley’s voice through the painful fog suffocating her—
“…lost his first wife, Ainsley was devastated. He could barely leave his bed and wouldn’t eat. Your mother was his housekeeper at the London house, and she helped him through his grief. They became very close.” The viscountess’s voice quavered, and Belle was only dimly aware through her own pain of how difficult this must be for her. “Ainsley loved your mother, very much, but he was a viscount with young children to care for and could never marry a housekeeper.”
Another jerking nod, and her eyes squeezed tighter.
“Then one day, she left. No warning, no explanation…Ainsley looked for her, but she was gone. Yet he never gave up, and nearly a decade later, he found her. That was when he learned he had a daughter in you.” She took Belle’s face between her trembling hands. “Your mother had left because she’d discovered that she was with child, and she married Marcus Greene so that you would not be illegitimate. When Ainsley found you and your mother, you were eight. You thought Marcus Greene was your father, and your mother didn’t want you to know the truth.”
Belle gave a soft sob, unable to hold back a tear as it slipped down her cheek.
“Don’t blame her, darling.” Soft hands soothed at her temples and cheeks, gently brushing away the stray tears. “She wanted only to protect you, to keep you safe. But she allowed Ainsley to meet you, remember?”
“My birthday,” she breathed out past trembling lips.
“He gave you a new coat and shoes, and a pretty doll, just like the ones he gave his other daughters when they were little.” She paused, her own voice trembling with emotion. “It broke his heart to leave you behind.”
Belle was certain it did. But dear God! Hearing the truth now stirred so much pain inside her that it hurt to take each breath.
“When Marcus Greene was arrested, Ainsley made certain that you and your mother had a safe place to live, food, clothes—everything you needed.” The viscountess drew a deep breath. “Then your mother fell ill.”
“And I came here,” she whispered. She opened her eyes, and Lady Ainsley’s concerned face blurred beneath her tears.
“He promised your mother on her deathbed that he would treat you as well as his other daughters, that he would always care for you.” Her eyes glistened. “He was at her side when she passed. The last words your mother heard were of how much he loved her.”
Unable to choke down the flow of tears any longer, Belle collapsed into Lady Ainsley’s arms. The viscountess held her tenderly and cooed soothingly to her as she rocked her in her arms.
Belle had no idea how long she lay there in Lady Ainsley’s lap while she cried, but long enough that when she finally sat up and wiped away her last tears, Quinn had moved away to stand in front of the window, staring blankly outside at the night, his back toward them and his hand rubbing at his nape.
“Why?” Belle whispered, her hands tightly clutching the viscountess’s. “Why didn’t you tell me before now?”
“Life was hard enough for you as it was, having lost your mother to fever and the man you thought was your father to prison. Ainsley knew what happened to illegitimate children born to members of society when their father’s true identity was made known, and he didn’t want you to be hurt any more than you already were. He thought it was for the best to keep it secret and to give you the best life we could despite that.” She squeezed Belle’s hands. “We both did.”
All those years…she’d never once suspected that Lord Ainsley was anything more to her than the kind and generous man who had taken her in as a favor to her mother. But he’d loved her, Belle had always known that. As much as any father could have.
“We treated you exactly as we did his other daughters, and he made certain you had everything you should, right down to a good education and a London debut.” Lady Ainsley smiled sadly. “He was always so proud of you, most of all whenever he found you in the library, lost in a book. You were his little bluestocking, and he constantly bragged about how smart you were, what new language you’d learned, what play or novel you’d forced poor Ferguson to act out with you in the gardens. He couldn’t have loved you more if you were his legitimate daughter.”
Belle nodded and lowered her face as she wiped at her eyes. And she’d loved him. The grief filling her heart now was not for Lord Ainsley but for herself, for never having the chance to know him as a father.
“He wanted to protect you, and so we agreed never to tell you. What good would it have brought?” She sadly shook her head. “But now, with circumstances as they are…”
When her voice trailed off, Bartleby interjected gently, “You can now receive Glenarvon as your share of the inheritance that he left to all his daughters.”
Quinn glanced over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing angrily on Bartleby. “Tell her the rest,” he ordered.
The two men stared at each other, and the silent communication that passed between them brought an icy frost over the room. A tension Belle couldn’t fathom.
“Tell her what she has to do to claim it. That she can only gain her inheritance that way if she lets herself be recognized as Ainsley’s illegitimate daughter.” Quinn bit out distastefully, “His bastard.”
“Quinton, please,” Lady Ainsley chastised.
The harshness in his voice and face could have cut glass. But when he looked at Belle, his expression softened. “You’ll never be accepted into society. They’ll never let you forget who you are and where you came from. They’ll cut you directly to your face—worse, they’ll do everything they can to embarrass you, spread vicious and untrue stories about you, ruin what’s left of your reputation.”
She held his gaze for a long moment, each passing second marked by her pounding heartbeat. And by the increasing anguish in her heart, that he could care this much about her to once more attempt to protect her by warning her…but not love her.
She smiled faintly, a soft curl to her lips as she lifted her chin. “Let them. I haven’t needed them in the past twenty-five years, and I won’t need them going forward.”
“You know what it means to be ostracized by society, how hard it can be,” he pressed. “Are you certain you want this?”
“What do I care what society thinks of me?” She squeezed Lady Ainsley’s hand. “I will have Glenarvon and my tenants, the workmen, the villagers…all the people I love, and all the people who love me.” She saw the concern that darkened his face, but she also saw the flicker of admiration deep in his sapphire eyes. “I now get to tell the world that Lord Ainsley was my father, and I will make him so very proud of me. The way a daughter should.”
His eyes never left hers as he murmured, “That’s my Bluebell.”
A warmth blossomed in her chest, even as her heart tore as she thought about her new future. One she wouldn’t be able to share with him.
“If that is your decision,” Bartleby interjected, “then first thing in the morning, I’ll file to have the courts reopen the will. The magistrates will certainly want to question all of us, but I am confident that they’ll grant you Glenarvon, especially after I show them the letters I have in my office, in which Lord Ainsley and your mother acknowledged your true paternity.” He smiled at her. “Congratulations, Miss Greene. You are the new owner of Castle Glenarvon.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. Belle glanced at Quinn. She wanted to share the bittersweet joy of this moment with him, but he’d turned away, once again staring thoughtfully out the window.
Bartleby smiled proudly at Quinn. His chest puffed out beneath his waistcoat. “You asked me to find a legal loophole, Lord Quinton. It seems that’s exactly what we’ve done!”
But Quinn only grunted to acknowledge the solicitor’s comment, his eyes and attention still focused out the window, where he could surely see nothing but the inky blackness of the dark countryside.
Lady Ainsley rose to her feet, gently pulling Belle up with her. “I think we should go to your room now.” She placed a motherly hand against Belle’s cheek and smiled reassuringly at her. “You’ve had a long evening. I’m certain you could use some peace and rest. And I know that while I can never replace your mother”—she paused, her eyes glistening—“I hope you still hold affection for me, the kind a daughter would.”
Unable to speak for fear of crying, Belle tightly hugged Lady Ainsley. Then the viscountess linked her arm around Belle’s waist and led her from the room.
Belle looked back in time to see Quinn turn away from the window and slap Bartleby on the back.
“Bartleby, if you don’t mind lingering a bit. I have a proposition for you…” Quinn’s deep voice drifted away as Belle passed into the hall with the dowager.