“Her father is a Venetian merchant with plenty of money, all of which he left to her.” The solicitor paused, adjusting his spectacles, warily eyeing Ralston. “My lord, he had no reason to lie about her birth. Indeed, by all accounts, it appears that he would prefer not to have alerted you to her existence.”
“Then why do so?”
“She has no other family to speak of although I am told that friends were willing to take her in. According to the documents that were sent to my offices, however, this is your mother’s doing. She requested that her”—he paused, uncertain—“husband…send your…sister…here in the event of his death. Your mother felt certain that you would…” He cleared his throat. “Do right by your family.”
Ralston’s smile held no humor. “Ironic, is it not, that our mother has called upon our sense of familial obligation?”
The solicitor did not pretend to misunderstand the comment. “Indeed, my lord. But, if I may, the girl is here and very sweet. I’m not certain what to do with her.” He spoke no more, but his meaning was understood. I’m not certain I should leave her in your hands.
“Of course, she must stay here,” Nick finally spoke, drawing the grateful attention of the solicitor and an irritated look from his brother. “We shall take her in. She must be rather in shock, I’d imagine.”
“Indeed, my lord.” The solicitor readily agreed, latching onto the kindness in Nick’s eyes.
“I had not realized that you were able to make such decisions in this house, brother,” Ralston drawled, his gaze not wavering from the solicitor.
“I’m simply shortening Wingate’s agony,” Nick replied, with a nod to the lawyer. “You won’t turn away blood.”
Nick was, of course, correct. Gabriel St. John, seventh Marquess of Ralston would not deny his sister, regardless of his deep-seated desire to do so. Raking a hand through his black hair, Ralston wondered at the anger that still flared at the thought of his mother, whom he hadn’t seen in decades.
She had been married at a young age—barely sixteen—and had borne twin sons within a year. She was gone a decade later, escaped to the Continent, leaving her sons and their father in despair. For any other woman, Gabriel would have felt sympathy, would have understood her fear and forgiven her desertion. But he had witnessed his father’s sorrow, felt the pain that the loss of a mother had caused. And he had replaced sadness with anger. It had been years before he was able to speak of her without a knot of fury rising in his throat.
And now, to discover that she had destroyed another family, the wound was refreshed. That she would bear another child—a girl no less—and leave her to a life without a mother infuriated him. Of course, his mother had been correct; he would do right by his family. He would do what he could to atone for her sins. And perhaps that was the most maddening part of this whole situation—that his mother still understood him. That they might still be connected.
He set his glass down, resuming his place behind the wide mahogany desk. “Where is the girl, Wingate?”
“I believe she’s been placed in the green room, my lord.”
“Well, we might as well fetch her.” Nick moved to the door, opening it and sending an unseen servant to retrieve the girl.
In the ensuing, pregnant silence, Wingate stood, smoothing down his waistcoat nervously. “Indeed. If I may, sir?”
Gabriel fixed him with an irritated look.
“She is a good girl. Very sweet.”
“Yes. You’ve mentioned as much. Contrary to your clear opinion of me, Wingate, I am not an ogre with a taste for young girls.” He paused, one side of his mouth kicking up. “At least not young girls to whom I am related.”
The arrival of their sister prevented Gabriel from taking pleasure in the solicitor’s disapproval. Instead, he stood as the door opened, his eyes narrowing as he met the eerily familiar blue gaze leveled at him from across the room.
“Good Lord.” Nick’s words mirrored Gabriel’s thoughts.
There was no question that the girl was their sister. Aside from her eyes, the same rich blue as her brothers’, she shared the twins’ strong jaw and dark, curling hair. She was the image of their mother—tall and lithe and lovely, with an undeniable fire in her gaze. Gabriel cursed beneath his breath.
Nick regained his composure first, bowing deeply, “Enchantée, Miss Juliana. I am your brother Nicholas St. John. And this”—he gestured to Ralston—“is our brother Gabriel, Marquess of Ralston.”
She curtsied gracefully, rising and indicating herself with a delicate hand, “I am Juliana Fiori. I confess, I was not expecting—” She paused, searching for the word, “I gemelli. My apologies. I do not know the word in English.”
Nick smiled. “Twins. No, I imagine that our mother did not expect i gemelli either.”
The dimple in Juliana’s cheek was a perfect match for Nick’s. “As you say. It is quite striking.”
“Well.” Wingate cleared his throat, drawing the attention of the rest, “I shall take my leave, then, if my lords have no further need of me.” The little man looked from Nick to Ralston, eager to be set free.
“You are free to go, Wingate,” Ralston said, his tone icy. “Indeed, I look forward to it.”
The lawyer exited, bowing quickly, as if afraid that he might never escape if he tarried too long. Once he had left the room, Nick consoled Juliana, “Don’t let yourself be fooled by Gabriel. He’s not as wicked as he seems. Some days, he simply likes to play the lord of the manor.”