He did not have Clara Deverill backed into any sort of corner.
Rex drew a deep breath and put the paper on her desk. She may have called his bluff, but he’d be damned before he’d show his cards. “Thank you for your offer, Miss Deverill, but despite what appears in the newspapers, I have neither the desire nor the need to accept employment.”
Her expression did not change, but he wasn’t fooled, for he saw the dismay in those expressive eyes.
“Then there’s nothing more to be said.” She swallowed hard and lowered her gaze to her desk. “I shall expect the news of Lady Truelove’s identity to begin appearing in the gossip columns of our competitors within a day or two.” She stood up, and as he followed suit, she looked at him, squaring her shoulders. “The reports will be gleeful, I’m sure.”
Rex noted the proud lift of her chin and felt the sudden, inconvenient prick of guilt. She’d precipitated all this, he reminded himself, trying to ignore the bleakness in her eyes and the whispers of his conscience. Because of her, he was in a fine mess, damn it all, and he’d have the devil of a time getting out of it. Served her right to dance in the wind for a bit, to spend the next few days poring anxiously over the newspapers before she realized the truth.
“Good day, Miss Deverill,” he said, bowed, and turned to leave.
He got as far as the door. His hand on the knob, he stopped, gave an aggravated sigh, and looked at her over one shoulder. “Despite what you think of me, I am not the sort of man who would blackmail a woman—with knowledge of her secrets, or anything else. I have no intention of telling anyone about Lady Truelove, and never did have.”
She stared, her pale pink lips parting in astonishment. “You were bluffing?”
“Yes. To no avail, it seems.” He turned away and yanked open the door. “What the hell I’ll tell my aunt and my friend,” he added under his breath as he walked out, “I have absolutely no idea.”
Upon leaving Clara Deverill’s offices, Rex instructed his driver take him to Petunia’s house in Park Lane, and as his carriage carried him back across town, he considered how he might be restored to Auntie’s good graces. He’d have to offer an apology for his conduct, of course, something he’d intended to do anyway. He’d also have to promise future good behavior, and that, he knew could be problematic. And though he didn’t think she would seriously hold an income over his head to force him to marry, he knew he’d be required to at least put himself fully at her disposal for the remainder of the season, accepting whatever social engagements she deemed suitable as she shoved marriageable girls in his face.
By the time his carriage reached his aunt’s residence, Rex had reconciled himself to three months of balls and dinner parties and countless conversations with young debutantes, but he was given no opportunity to make that sacrifice, for upon inquiry of Auntie’s butler, he was informed that she was not receiving.
Rex feared he knew what that meant. “Not receiving any callers, Bledsoe?” he asked with a wink, smiling on the outside, bracing himself on the inside. “Or just misbehaving great-nephews?”
Auntie’s butler was the stuffy, old-fashioned sort who gave nothing away. His countenance remained coldly impassive. Fortunately for Rex, Bledsoe’s unwillingness to part with information didn’t matter too much, for he knew where Auntie would be this evening. Adding abject groveling to the list of what would be required of him, Rex handed over his card to the butler and departed for home to change into evening clothes.
He’d barely stepped across his own threshold, however, before he was presented by his footman with a new and far more serious problem than anything he’d faced yet today.
“The Countess of Leyland has called, my lord.”
Rex froze in the act of handing over his hat, staring at the servant in horror. “My mother called here?”
“Yes, my lord. She’s in the drawing room.”
“Good God!” He shoved his hat into the footman’s arms. “Mama, in my drawing room?”
“Yes, my lord. She said it was most urgent she speak with you at once, and Mr. Whistler showed her into the drawing room to await your return.”
“Damn Whistler for a fool,” he muttered as he smoothed his tie and gave his waistcoat a tug. “That man has always had a soft spot for Mama. But then,” he added as he passed the footman and started for the stairs, “most men do.”
Making a mental note to reiterate to all his servants who was and who was not allowed to cross his threshold and that his dear mama was most decidedly in the latter category, Rex ascended the stairs to the first floor. With a quick raking of his hands through his hair, he entered the drawing room.
As he watched his mother turn from the window, it struck him anew that no one who ever saw them together could ever doubt that they were mother and son. Their coloring and features were strikingly similar, a fact which explained, he had no doubt, his father’s resentful temper whenever he was in the old man’s vicinity.
“Mama, what the devil are you doing here?”
She came toward him, hands outstretched. “Rex, my dear,” she began, then stopped, her hands falling to her sides, staring at him in horror. “Good heavens, your eye!”
“It’s nothing.”
“A black eye?” She came closer and gave a cry of dismay as she saw the violent red gash on his temple. “My darling boy, what has happened to you?”
“It looks worse than it is.” He waved aside this show of motherly concern with an impatient motion of his hand. “Why have you come here, Mama? The last time you were here, if you recall, I told you quite clearly that you could never come again.”
“I know, I know. But I really didn’t see any alternative, since you refuse to answer my letters.”
“I cannot correspond with you. You know that.”
“Just so.” She made a self-evident gesture. “Which means that if I wish to see my son, I really have no choice but to come in person.”
