Page 78 of Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

“Is to determine his legitimacy,” Thomas said. “It’s going to be quite a party. Even my grandmother is going.”

Amelia stared at him in horror. He was not himself. This was wrong. This was all wrong.

It could not be happening. She shut her eyes. Tight.

Please, someone say that this was not happening.

And then came her father’s grim voice. “We will join you.”

Her eyes flew open. “Father?”

“Stay out of this, Amelia,” he said. He didn’t even look at her when he said it.

“But—”

“I assure you,” Thomas put in, and he wasn’t looking at her, either, “we will make our determinations with all possible haste and report back to you immediately.”

“My daughter’s future hangs in the balance,” her father returned hotly. “I will be there to examine the papers.”

Thomas’s voice turned to ice. “Do you think we try to deceive you?”

Amelia took a step toward them. Why wasn’t anyone acknowledging her? Did they think her invisible? Meaningless in this horrible tableau?

“I only look out for my daughter’s rights.”

“Father, please.” Amelia placed her hand on his arm. Someone had to talk to her. Someone had to listen. “Please, just a moment.”

“I said stay out of this!” her father roared, and he threw back his arm. Amelia had not expected this rejection and she stumbled back, crashing into an end table.

Thomas was immediately at her side, taking her arm and helping her back to her feet. “Apologize to your daughter,” he said, his tone deadly.

Her father looked stunned. “What the devil are you talking about?”

“Apologize to her!” Thomas roared.

“Your grace,” Amelia said quickly, “please, do not judge my father too harshly. These are exceptional circumstances.”

“No one knows that more clearly than I.” As Thomas said this to her, his eyes never left her father’s face. “Apologize to Amelia,” he said, “or I will have you removed from the estate.”

Amelia held her breath. They were all holding their breath, it seemed, except perhaps Thomas, who looked like an ancient warrior, demanding his due.

“I’m sorry,” her father said, blinking in confusion. “Amelia”—he turned, finally looking at her—“you know I—”

“I know,” she said, cutting him off. It was enough. She knew her father, knew his normally benign ways.

“Who is this man?” her father asked, motioning to Mr. Audley.

“He is the son of my father’s elder brother.”

“Charles?” Amelia gasped in dismay. The man her mother was to have married?

“John.”

The one who’d died at sea. The dowager’s favorite.

Her father nodded, pale and shaken. “Are you certain of this?”

Thomas only shrugged. “You may look at the portrait yourself.”

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