“Exactly!” Pleased to have her reading of Elderby’s reaction confirmed, she eagerly continued, “So if Benjy is not Elderby’s son, then…”
To her surprise, Reggie frowned. He studied her eyes, then stated, “If you’re asking me, I wouldn’t like to guess.”
It was her turn to frown. “But that only leaves Thomas, doesn’t it? And given his reputation, it hardly seems a long bow to draw—”
“Before you get too far down that road, there’re a few points you should consider. Yes, Thomas could be Benjamin’s father, but if so, the liaison happened when Thomas was in his early twenties and hardly difficult to approach. The boy says he was living with his mother in Clerkenwell—had she told Thomas? If so, rake or not, I find it hard to believe Thomas would not have done something—it’s not as if these things are not commonplace enough. The Caverlock estates are scattered over half the country; easy enough to send the boy and his mother somewhere to live in reasonable safety.”
“That’s assuming Thomas thinks as you do.”
Reggie studied her, then replied, “Thomas and I are not that different.”
She blinked. Lord Thomas Caverlock was a gazetted rake.
“Aside from anything else,” Reggie went on, “there’s the undeniable fact you illustrated this afternoon. Caverlocks breed true. Everyone knows that. Forehead, eyebrows, nose, mouth, and chin— they’re all cast from the same mold. Thomas, and Hugh, too, if they’d known of a boy child, would know there was no hope of denying paternity.”
Anne digested that; as the carriage turned into Mount Street, she asked, “There aren’t any other branches of the family, are there?”
“No. Just the ducal line.”
She drew in a breath, focused on Reggie. “So what do you advise? I don’t intend to let the matter rest.”
The look he bent on her stated he was perfectly aware of that last. “Give Elderby a chance to consider, to take stock and determine the truth. He’s a dry stick, but he’ll do it.”
“The truth?”
“Which one of the three of them is Benjamin’s sire.”
“Three?”
The carriage rocked to a halt outside Calverton House; Reggie reached for the door. “You’ve forgotten old Portsmouth. There’s a decent possibility Benjamin’s father wears the purple.”
She honestly hadn’t considered that; it cast the potential for scandal should the Caverlocks resist in an even stronger light.
Three nights later, Anne stood in the receiving line wending up Lady Hendrick’s stairs, the possible breadth of the secret she herself had let out of its box very much in her mind.
Hugh, Lord Elderby, was married and had been for over ten years. She placed him in his late thirties. His wife, Imogen, was a woman of few smiles, and those that dawned were rather sour. Reggie had called Hugh a dry stick, but Imogen was drier, and even more sticklike. Anne doubted the child was Hugh’s, although it was possible he’d had a liaison and had never been told of Benjy’s birth, but regardless of which of the three Caverlock males proved to be Benjy’s father, Imogen was not going to be pleased.
At her mother’s heels, Anne reached their hostess and exchanged greetings, determinedly ignoring the old familiar panic welling inside. Lady Hendrick was delighted to see her; she’d eschewed large parties and balls for some years, seeing no need to feed the silly nervousness she’d never grown out of.
Tonight, however, would be different; she wasn’t here to look for a husband, to allow herself to be weighed and considered. She was here for a purpose; she had a goal to pursue. She’d dressed for the task in a gown of mulberry silk that she knew became her, as did the latest fashion of fitted waists and skirts held wide with multiple petticoats.
Leaving Lady Hendrick, she paused at the entrance to the ballroom, drew in a deep breath, lifted her head—and let her gaze take in the sea of people, let her ears hear the cacophony of voices.
To her surprise, neither sight nor sound evoked as much fear as she’d expected. As much trepidation as in the past.
Somewhat reassured, she followed her mother into the throng.
From the shadows of an archway where he stood chatting with friends, Reggie watched Anne glide after her mother, Minerva, the Dowager Lady Calverton, to a chaise by the wall. He hesitated, then, with an easy word, excused himself and moved into the crowd.
For the past two days, he’d been watching, wondering…it had surprised him how fixed his mind had become on Anne Ashford and her endeavors. Especially on her attempt to jog the collective Caverlock conscience.
Invited as he was to every major ball and party, it had been easy to guess which events Hugh, Imogen, and Thomas would attend. Anne would not attend any such affair by choice; if she hadn’t appeared, he would have concluded that Hugh had acted swiftly and the family had assured Benjamin’s future in some acceptable way.
He now knew that hadn’t happened. Yet. He had a deeper appreciation than she of the difficulties Hugh would face in raising the matter and seeing it appropriately dealt with. However, he was also acquainted with the Ashford temperament—none of them was patient.
What scheme Anne was hatching he didn’t know—he just knew there would be one.
Reaching the chaise, he bowed to Minerva; she was one of his mother’s closest friends. Lady Farwell and Mrs. Pickering sat beside her; while uttering the usual greetings and platitudes, he wondered what Minerva made of her daughter’s presence. She would know there had to be a reason, yet she was probably glad of any circumstance that brought Anne out, into the ton.