“And now”—Lord St. Clair motioned to Hyacinth—“you have brought your lovely betrothed with you. Un-orthodox, I must say. Does her family know she is running about after midnight?”
“What do you want?” Gareth asked in a hard voice.
But the baron only chuckled. “I believe the more pertinent question is what do you want? Unless you intend to attempt to convince me that you are just here for the fresh night air.”
Gareth stared at him, looking for signs of resemblance. They were all there—the nose, the eyes, the way they held their shoulders. It was why Gareth had never, until that fateful day in the baron’s office, thought he might be a bastard. He’d been so baffled as a child; his father had treated him with such contempt. Once he’d grown old enough to understand a bit of what went on between men and women, he had wondered about it—his mother’s infidelity would seem a likely explanation for his father’s behavior toward him.
But he’d dismissed the notion every time. There was that damned St. Clair nose, right in the middle of his face. And then the baron had looked him in the eye and said that he was not his, that he couldn’t be, that the nose was mere coincidence.
Gareth had believed him. The baron was many things, but he was not stupid, and he certainly knew how to count to nine.
Neither of them had dreamed that the nose might be something more than coincidence, that Gareth might be a St. Clair, after all.
He tried to remember—had the baron loved his brother? Had Richard and Edward St. Clair been close? Gareth couldn’t recall them in each other’s company, but then again, he’d been banished to the nursery most of the time, anyway.
“Well?” the baron demanded. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
And there it was, on the tip of his tongue. Gareth looked him in the eye—the man who had, for so many years, been the ruling force in his life—and he almost said—Nothing at all, Uncle Richard.
It would have been the best kind of direct hit, a complete surprise, designed to stagger and strike.
It would have been worth it just for the shock on the baron’s face.
It would have been perfect.
Except that Gareth didn’t want to do it. He didn’t need to.
And that took his breath away.
Before, he would have tried to guess how his father might feel. Would he be relieved to know that the barony would go to a true St. Clair, or would he instead be enraged, devastated by the knowledge that he had been cuckolded by his own brother?
Before, Gareth would have weighed his options, balanced them, then gone with his instincts and tried to deliver the mos
t crushing blow.
But now…
He didn’t care.
He would never love the man. Hell, he would never even like him. But for the first time in his life, he was reaching a point where it just didn’t matter.
And he was stunned by how good that felt.
He took Hyacinth’s hand, interlocked their fingers. “We’re just out for a stroll,” he said smoothly. It was a patently ridiculous statement, but Gareth delivered it with his usual savoir-faire, in the same tone that he always used with the baron. “Come along, Miss Bridgerton,” he added, turning his body to lead her down the street.
But Hyacinth didn’t move. Gareth turned to look at her, and she seemed frozen into place. She looked at him with questioning eyes, and he knew she couldn’t believe that he’d held silent.
Gareth looked at her, then he looked at Lord St. Clair, and then he looked within himself. And he realized that while his never-ending war with the baron might not matter, the truth did. Not because it had the power to wound, just because it was the truth, and it had to be told.
It was the secret that had defined both of their lives for so long. And it was time that they were both set free.
“I have to tell you something,” Gareth said, looking the baron in the eye. It wasn’t easy, being this direct. He had no experience speaking to this man without malice. He felt strange, stripped bare.
Lord St. Clair said nothing, but his expression changed slightly, became more watchful.
“I am in possession of Grandmother St. Clair’s diary,” Gareth said. At the baron’s startled expression, he added, “Caroline found it among George’s effects with a note instructing her to give it to me.”
“He did not know that you are not her grandson,” the baron said sharply.