Scarlett knew little to nothing of the Rathbones’ family history. Had Lord Rathbone’s father or grandfather lost money at The Jewell? Was that behind their contempt? Then another thought struck her. One that had plagued her mind for years. Had Jack Jewell done something monstrous, something that gave him a reason to take his own life?
“My father owned the gaming hell. You cannot blame him for other men’s weaknesses.” Every fibre of her being told her to push out of the chair and leave. But the stubborn streak she’d developed in her marriage urged her to stay, to get to the real reason behind Lady Rathbone’s fake facade.
“We are not talking about the man who raised you,” Lord Rathbone said in a voice weak with nerves.
“No!” Lady Rathbone said. “We are talking about the father who confessed to his sin on his deathbed. The fool who was too blind to see that one silly transaction would see the Rathbone name ruined.”
Scarlett’s head ached. Her temples throbbed.
They were speaking different languages.
She stared at the untouched food on her plate and tried to make sense of the conversation.
Lady Rathbone continued mumbling as if involved in a secret argument with an invisible opponent. The candlelight cast sinister shadows on her face. Who was this strange woman? Scarlett hardly knew.
Lord Rathbone cleared his throat. “Had my father known you were sold like common goods to Jack Jewell, he would have found you and brought you home.” Pity flashed in his eyes. “By birth we are cousins, but my father would have approved a marriage. You must understand we thought you were dead.”
“Dead?” The word tumbled from her lips as she sat there, trance-like, lost in a thick cloud of confusion.
“This can all be solved if you agree to marry me.” The lord’s mouth curled into a weak smile. “We could be happy. We will move from town to my estate in Herefordshire and—”
“No! It is too late for sentimental nonsense.” Lady Rathbone surged from her seat. “You cannot take a mongrel’s mi
stress to your bed. She might be with child. I’ll not have Wycliff’s whoreson raised as a Rathbone.”
They began arguing amongst themselves.
But one thought rang loudly in Scarlett’s ears.
Jack Jewell was not her father.
Disbelief rendered her speechless. These people were mistaken. And yet in her heart she had always known something was amiss. Did that mean the sweet woman who raised her until the age of ten was not her mother, either?
Of course it did.
The sudden lump in her throat made it almost impossible to breathe. Tears sprang to her eyes—hot, burning evidence of her pain. Salty rivulets trickled down her face. The loss left an unbearable hole in her chest.
“Are you saying that m-my father was a Rathbone?” How she found the strength to form the words, she would never know.
“A Rathbone and my uncle,” Lord Rathbone clarified.
“I see.”
She did not want to see.
The man who struggled to love her had paid for the best education. Jack Jewell had seen to it that she had something to call her own, even if it was ownership of a gaming hell. But what of the man whose blood flowed in her veins? He had discarded her as if she were a stone in his shoe.
Did no one want her?
Was she a burden to everyone she met?
A wracking sob caught in her throat and she knew she must leave. She pushed out of the chair, her mind disconnected to everyone and everything. The matron and grandson continued to disagree, but their raised voices sounded muffled now.
“I must go.” With an unsteady gait, she navigated the dining table. Through the chaotic haze, she focused on the door.
But Lady Rathbone grabbed Scarlett’s sleeve and tugged hard. “You’re not going anywhere, dear. You’re the only person alive who knows the truth.”
The action took Scarlett by surprise. When the matron yanked harder, Scarlett lost her footing. Arms flailing, she tumbled back. The thud as she hit her head on the corner of the table reverberated through her body. A scream burst from her throat and then her world faded into darkness.