“
But why me?” she asked.
Her uncle chuckled bitterly. “Because you will be the perfect upstanding, obedient bride. You will make up for Haselby’s deficiencies. Davenport had to get the boy married to someone, and he needed a family that would not talk.” He gave her a level stare. “Which we will not. We cannot. And he knows it.”
She shook her head in agreement. She would never speak of such things, whether she was Haselby’s wife or not. She liked Haselby. She did not wish to make life difficult for him. But neither did she wish to be his wife.
“If you do not marry him,” her uncle said slowly, “the entire Abernathy family will be ruined. Do you understand?”
Lucy stood frozen.
“We are not speaking of a childhood transgression, a Gypsy in the family tree. Your father committed high treason. He sold state secrets to the French, passed them off to agents posing as smugglers on the coast.”
“But why?” Lucy whispered. “We didn’t need the money.”
“How do you think we got the money?” her uncle returned caustically. “And your father—” He swore under his breath. “He always had a taste for danger. He probably did it for the thrill of it. Isn’t that a joke upon us all? The very earldom is in danger, and all because your father wanted a spot of adventure.”
“Father wasn’t like that,” Lucy said, but inside she wasn’t so sure. She had been just eight when he had been killed by a footpad in London. She had been told that he had come to the defense of a lady, but what if that, too, was a lie? Had he been killed because of his traitorous actions? He was her father, but how much did she truly know of him?
But Uncle Robert didn’t appear to have heard her comment. “If you do not marry Haselby,” he said, his words low and precise, “Lord Davenport will reveal the truth about your father, and you will bring shame upon the entire house of Fennsworth.”
Lucy shook her head. Surely there was another way. This couldn’t rest all upon her shoulders.
“You think not?” Uncle Robert laughed scornfully. “Who do you think will suffer, Lucinda? You? Well, yes, I suppose you will suffer, but we can always pack you off to some school and let you moulder away as an instructor. You’d probably enjoy it.”
He took a few steps in her direction, his eyes never leaving her face. “But do think of your brother,” he said. “How will he fare as the son of a known traitor? The king will almost certainly strip him of his title. And most of his fortune as well.”
“No,” Lucy said. No. She didn’t want to believe it. Richard had done nothing wrong. Surely he couldn’t be blamed for his father’s sins.
She sank into a chair, desperately trying to sort through her thoughts and emotions.
Treason. How could her father have done such a thing? It went against everything she’d been brought up to believe in. Hadn’t her father loved England? Hadn’t he told her that the Abernathys had a sacred duty to all Britain?
Or had that been Uncle Robert? Lucy shut her eyes tightly, trying to remember. Someone had said that to her. She was sure of it. She could remember where she’d stood, in front of the portrait of the first earl. She remembered the smell of the air, and the exact words, and—blast it all, she remembered everything save the person who’d spoken them.
She opened her eyes and looked at her uncle. It had probably been he. It sounded like something he would say. He did not choose to speak with her very often, but when he did, duty was always a popular topic.
“Oh, Father,” she whispered. How could he have done this? To sell secrets to Napoleon—he’d jeopardized the lives of thousands of British soldiers. Or even—
Her stomach churned. Dear God, he may have been responsible for their deaths. Who knew what he had revealed to the enemy, how many lives had been lost because of his actions?
“It is up to you, Lucinda,” her uncle said. “It is the only way to end it.”
She shook her head, uncomprehending. “What do you mean?”
“Once you are a Davenport, there can be no more blackmail. Any shame they bring upon us would fall on their shoulders as well.” He walked to the window, leaning heavily on the sill as he looked out. “After ten years, I will finally—We will finally be free.”
Lucy said nothing. There was nothing to say. Uncle Robert peered at her over his shoulder, then turned and walked toward her, watching her closely the entire way. “I see you finally grasp the gravity of the situation,” he said.
She looked at him with haunted eyes. There was no compassion in his face, no sympathy or affection. Just a cold mask of duty. He had done what was expected of him, and she would have to do the same.
She thought of Gregory, of his face when he had asked her to marry him. He loved her. She did not know what manner of miracle had brought it about, but he loved her.
And she loved him.
God above, it was almost funny. She, who had always mocked romantic love, had fallen. Completely and hopelessly, she’d fallen in love—enough to throw aside everything she’d thought she believed in. For Gregory she was willing to step into scandal and chaos. For Gregory she would brave the gossip and the whispers and the innuendo.
She, who went mad when her shoes were out of order in her wardrobe, was prepared to jilt the son of an earl four days before the wedding! If that wasn’t love, she did not know what was.