“The visitor, I do not doubt, is unwelcome.”
Father stood at the same time Isabella’s heart pounced the wall of her chest. It could not be. Mr. Kensley would not have come back. For what reason would he come back unless—
“He will regret this.” Father marched around the table, bumping his glass with his elbow, fumes of anger rising as quickly as spilled sherry seeped into the tablecloth.
Before he reached the door, Isabella sprang from her seat and caught his arm. “Father, wait. You must compose yourself.”
“I have listened to you regarding that blackguard one too many times.”
“All I ask is that you let him speak.”
“I have heard enough from him. I have taken enough from him.” He shrugged out of her touch. “You stay here.”
When he bounded into the hall, however, she hurried after him. Her heartbeat pattered. Why would he come back? Did he not know Father would never allow such a thing? Or would Mr. Kensley use his illegitimacy to attain what he wanted, despite Father’s wishes?
In the foyer, Mr. Kensley stood hatless before the closed door. His boots dripped small puddles beneath him, snow still spotted his hair, and his cheeks were a flaming pink. “Lord Gresham.” Steady voice, easy, smooth, uncalculating.
“Get out of here.” Father’s command boomed, echoing between the floor and the lofty ceiling.
“I came for no more than a word with you.”
“You can have nothing to say to me.”
“On the contrary. I have a great deal to say, and I believe it is a matter of consequence to you.”
“Isabella, a private audience at once.” Father flicked a hand at her, but Mr. Kensley shook his head.
“What I have to say will be said to your daughter as well as to you.”
“I will decide what is spoken before my dau—”
“I am not your son.”
A gasp caught in her throat, and she stepped forward, shock pulsing through her. What could he mean? How could that be?
“You may relinquish any fears in my regard. The child belonging to you died with Constance Kensley.”
Father’s shoulders bunched. “What scheme is this?”
“No scheme, my lord.”
“Am I to believe … am I to believe that shrew of a woman lied to me all these years?”
“Lied to both of us, it seems. I was taken from the workhouse to fulfill the role of a dead child, in the event she might secure the five thousand pounds a year.”
“This is preposterous.”
“The truth usually is.” For the first time, Mr. Kensley’s eyes moved past Father to rest on her. A tiny smile graced his lips—one that seemed more gratitude, more goodbye, than anything else. He reached for the door.
“Wait.” Father stepped closer. “How do I know you shall not be back? Or that you shall not spread this wretched story among everyone you meet?”
“Father—”
“Silence, Isabella.”
She sucked in a breath, waited for a flash of indignation or hurt to pass across Mr. Kensley’s face.
He only smiled. Faint and indifferent.
