Three
“Not every day a man discovers a grandson he didn’t know he had.” Portsmouth lowered himself into one of the armchairs in the drawing room to which, at his direction, they’d all retired once the furor attendant upon first Imogen and Hugh, then Thomas, all arriving in a lather, had died down.
Sizing up matters in a glance, His Grace had decreed that Benjy and Neville, Hugh and Imogen’s son, should retire to the schoolroom and tidy themselves before joining their elders for dinner—a special dispensation they were keen not to jeopardize, ensuring their eager obedience.
“No need for them to hear it all—we can tell Benjy what he should know when the time comes.”
With that, His Grace had led them all here; he waited until they’d all sat—Imogen and Anne on the sofa, Reggie beside Anne, Hugh and Thomas on chairs they drew up—before letting his gaze come to rest on Anne.
“I must thank you, my dear, for having the backbone to bring this matter to the family’s attention. Many would have quailed at the thought and found reasons enough to let such a most likely unwelcome piece of news fade from their minds. We are indebted to you.” Gravely, he inclined his head.
Anne blushed. “We strive to do the best we can for the children in our care.”
Portsmouth inclined his head again in acknowledgment; his gaze shifted to Imogen. A lilting smile touched his lips. “And you, my dear. I’m obliged that you credited me with enough sense to be able to deal with the news without any roundaboutation.” His gaze flicked to his sons, but his expression remained benign. “God knows how long it would have taken Hugh to find the right words.”
Hugh blushed, but shook his head. “All very well, but I’m still confused.”
“And me,” Thomas echoed.
When the duke’s gaze swung to Reggie, he assumed his blandest expression. “I take it Benjy really is your grandson?”
Portsmouth smiled, a trifle sadly. “Indeed, he is.”
“But”—Hugh’s brow was creased in perplexity—“who is his father?”
Portsmouth grimaced. “As to that, I can’t say. Never did know, which was half the problem.” He waited for his sons’ expressions to clear; when they didn’t, he snorted. “For heaven’s sake—he’s your sister’s boy.”
“Angela’s?” Hugh looked stunned.
“But…” Thomas blinked. “Good God. That was why she ran away?”
“Angela? But—” Now it was Imogen who was confused. She looked at Hugh. “I thought she married an American and sailed to America?”
Portsmouth grunted, his expression serious and sorrowful. “I’m sorry, my dear. That was a fiction we concocted at the time, for the family’s sake.” He looked at Reggie, then Anne. “Miss Ashford, I feel you deserve to hear the truth, and indeed, you may need to know. I’m not sure how these things operate, but I assume Benjy is presently legally in your care?”
Anne nodded. “In the care of the Foundling House, which I represent.”
Portsmouth nodded. “Exactly so.” He hesitated, then said, “I trust you will treat what I tell you with the utmost confidence. There is no one the truth can help, and Benjy’s future will be much less problematical if it remains buried as it has for the past ten years.”
Both Reggie and Anne murmured assurances.
Nodding in acceptance, Portsmouth drew a deep breath. “My daughter, Angela—she was older than Hugh here…”
Step by steady step, he told the story of a strong and determined young woman who had refused to marry any of the eager young gentlemen who had vied for her hand.
“She always said they were only after her for the money and the connection—the name.”
She’d clung to her refusal, and then quite unexpectedly fallen in love with some man in station far beneath her.
“Never told us who he was, not a hint.” Portsmouth sighed, looking back on the past. “She was afraid of what I’d do.”
After a moment, he went on, relating how his daughter had simply vanished one night, leaving a note saying she had gone off to live her life as she wished, warning them not to try following her.
They’d tried, but she’d disappeared into the teeming streets of London, and no word of her did they find.
“We put out the story of the trip to America and the shipboard romance—it wasn’t unusual. Families like ours often sent our less-obedient young ladies off for a sojourn in Boston. We kept looking, of course, but eventually we were forced to accept she’d disappeared as she’d said she would.”
He looked at Anne. “I’d always hoped that someday, especially if she had children, she’d make contact again.”