His father said nothing, just stood there, gripping the edge of his desk until his knuckles grew white. And Gareth could do nothing but stare, somehow transfixed by the ordinary sight of his father’s hands. “I’m your son,” he whispered, still unable to move his gaze from his father’s hands to his face. “Your son. How could you do this to your own son?”
And then his father, who was the master of the cutting retort, whose anger always came dressed in ice rather than fire, exploded. His hands flew from the table, and his voice roared through the room like a demon.
“By God, how could you not have figured it out by now? You are not my son! You have never been my son! You are nothing but a by-blow, some mangy whelp your mother got off another man while I was away.”
Rage poured forth like some hot, desperate thing, too long held captive and repressed. It hit Gareth like a wave, swirling around him, squeezing and choking until he could barely breathe. “No,” he said, desperately shaking his head. It was nothing he hadn’t considered, nothing he hadn’t even hoped for, but it couldn’t be true. He looked like his father. They had the same nose, didn’t they? And—
“I have fed you,” the baron said, his voice low and hard. “I have clothed you and presented you to the world as my son. I have supported you when another man would have tossed you into the street, and it is well past time that you returned the favor.”
“No,” Gareth said again. “It can’t be. I look like you. I—”
For a moment Lord St. Clair remained silent. Then he said, bitterly, “An unhappy coincidence, I assure you.”
“But—”
“I could have turned you out at your birth,” Lord St. Clair cut in, “sent your mother packing, tossed you both into the street. But I did not.” He closed the distance between them and put his face very close to Gareth’s. “You have been acknowledged, and you are legitimate.” And then, in a voice furious and low: “You owe me.”
“No,” Gareth said, his voice finally finding the conviction he was going to need to last him through the rest of his days. “No. I won’t do it.”
“I will cut you off,” the baron warned. “You won’t see another penny from me. You can forget your dreams of Cambridge, your—”
“No,” Gareth said again, and he sounded different. He felt changed. This was the end, he realized. The end of his childhood, the end of his innocence, and the beginning of—
God only knew what it was the beginning of.
“I am through with you,” his father—no, not his father—hissed. “Through.”
“So be it,” Gareth said.
And he walked away.
Chapter 1
Ten years have passed, and we meet our heroine, who, it must be said, has never been known as a shy and retiring flower. The scene is the annual Smythe-Smith musicale, about ten minutes before Mr. Mozart begins to rotate in his grave.
“Why do we do this to ourselves?” Hyacinth Bridgerton wondered aloud.
“Because we are good, kind people,” her sister-in-law replied, sitting in—God help them—a front-row seat.
“One would think,” Hyacinth persisted, regarding the empty chair next to Penelope with the same excitement she might show a sea urchin, “that we would have learned our lesson last year. Or perhaps the year before that. Or maybe even—”
“Hyacinth?” Penelope said.
Hyacinth swung her gaze to Penelope, lifting one brow in question.
“Sit.”
Hyacinth sighed. But she sat.
The Smythe-Smith musicale. Thankfully, it came around just once per year, because Hyacinth was quite certain it would take a full twelve months for her ears to recover.
Hyacinth let out another sigh, this one louder than the last. “I’m not entirely certain that I’m either good or kind.”
“I’m not certain, either,” Penelope said, “but I have decided to have faith in you nevertheless.”
“Rather sporting of you,” Hyacinth said.
“I thought so.”
Hyacinth glanced at her sideways. “Of course you did not have any choice in the matter.”
Penelope turned in her seat, her eyes narrowing. “Meaning?”
“Colin refused to accompany you, didn’t he?” Hyacinth said with a sly look. Colin was Hyacinth’s brother, and he’d married Penelope a year earlier.
Penelope clamped her mouth into a firm line.
“I do love it when I am right,” Hyacinth said triumphantly. “Which is fortunate, since I so often am.”
Penelope just looked at her. “You do know that you are insufferable.”
“Of course.” Hyacinth leaned toward Penelope with a devilish smile. “But you love me, anyway, admit it.”
“I admit nothing until the end of the evening.”
“After we have both gone deaf?”
“After we see if you behave yourself.”
Hyacinth laughed. “You married into the family. You have to love me. It’s a contractual obligation.”
“Funny how I don’t recall that in the wedding vows.”
“Funny,” Hyacinth returned, “I remember it perfectly.”
Penelope looked at her and laughed. “I don’t know how you do it, Hyacinth,” she said, “but exasperating as you are, you somehow always manage to be charming.”
“It’s my greatest gift,” Hyacinth said demurely.
“Well, you do receive extra points for coming with me tonight,” Penelope said, patting her on the hand.
“Of course,” Hyacinth replied. “For all my insufferable ways, I am in truth the soul of kindness and amiability.” And she’d have to be, she thought, as she watched the scene unfolding on the small, makeshift stage. Another year, another Smythe-Smith musicale. Another opportunity to learn just how many ways one could ruin a perfectly good piece of music. Every year Hyacinth swore she wouldn’t attend, then every year she somehow found herself at the event, smiling encouragingly at the four girls on the stage.
“At least last year I got to sit in the back,” Hyacinth said.
“Yes, you did,” Penelope replied, turning on her with suspicious eyes. “How did you manage that? Felicity, Eloise, and I were all up front.”
Hyacinth shrugged. “A well-timed visit to the ladies’ retiring room. In fact—”
“Don’t you dare try that tonight,” Penelope warned. “If you leave me up here by myself . . .”
“Don’t worry,” Hyacinth said with a sigh. “I am here for the duration. But,” she added, pointing her finger in what her mother would surely have termed a most unladylike manner, “I want my devotion to you to be duly noted.”
“Why is it,” Penelope asked, “that I am left with the feeling that you are keeping score of something, and when I least expect it, you will jump out in front of me, demanding a favor?”
Hyacinth looked at her and blinked. “Why would I need to jump?”
“Ah, look,” Penelope said, after staring at her sister-in-law as if she were a lunatic, “here comes Lady Danbury.”
“Mrs. Bridgerton,” Lady Danbury said, or rather barked. “Miss Bridgerton.”