Chapter 8
“Garrett,” Sam shouted as she flew down the stairs, trailing her brother’s long strides. “Do slow down. This gown makes it impossible for me to take more than one stair at a time.”
“We’ve kept Marce waiting long enough.” His severe words were at odds with his normal carefree demeanor. “Now, do hurry up.”
“Heavens, what is so important?” Samantha took the final step to the main floor and sped up, grasping Garrett’s arm to slow him down. “Is Marce upset I did not arrive in the breakfast parlor in a timely manner?”
Sam walked a fine line with her eldest sister.
She and Payton had been lectured the entire journey from London about putting forth a positive impression and in no way were they to cause Jude any embarrassment before Cartwright’s family and friends.
They’d been paraded around as if they were a normal family, entertaining as if they belonged among the upper crust of society.
With Jude’s marriage to Lord Cartwright, Sam supposed her sister did belong among them now, but where, exactly, did that leave her other siblings?
Were they to remain in the shadows, receiving invitations out of a sense of obligation?
Sam would not stand for such a thing.
“You did not attend breakfast?” Garrett asked. “I would have foregone the first meal if I had known it was an option.”
He threw her a smug grin as they reached the closed door of Cummings’study.
There were several raised voices inside—she knew Marce’s well, and the lighter tone of Jude’s, but the loudest voice in the room was unfamiliar. It could be the heavy door distorted his words.
“I am not going to relish what lies on the other side of that door, am I?”
He stared at the closed door, his smirk vanishing. “All I ask is that you listen to Marce—and do not overreact.”
“As if I ever overreact!”
“As if you do anything but overreact, Samantha Olivia.”
Sam and Jude had never been apart. Much like the connection between Marce and Garrett—who shared a father—she and her twin had each other; always had at least one person they could depend on. And Jude was, at this very moment, preparing to leave Sam behind to marry Simon and start her own family.
Sam stood still, not reaching for the door nor having the energy to flee. There was nothing Samantha could do to change the situation besides beg Jude not to marry; however, Simon was a good, kind man who would take care of his wife and the family to come.
How could Sam do anything to jeopardize that future, even though it left her adrift without a stable person to anchor her to shore?
It was a childish way of thinking, especially with regards to her twin’s marriage, but no matter how hard Sam tried to suppress her feelings of resentment and abandonment, they were still there. Always lurking just under the surface, threatening her control.
Garrett pushed the door wide to reveal Jude perched on the edge of the chaise, Marce in a high-backed chair close to the desk, dominating the room, and a man she’d never lain eyes upon pacing before the hearth.
The room appeared different from the night before without the low light and the crackle of the fire.
Sam stepped into the room, and Garrett retreated, closing the door—leaving her and her sisters alone with the man.
Something about the set of Jude’s shoulders had Sam rushing to her twin’s side.
“Jude?” She lowered herself to the chaise and reached for Jude’s face, turning it toward her. “Have you been crying? Has someone hurt you?” Sam would not stand for that…ever. “And you are pale as a ghost.”
Jude clasped her hands in reassurance. They were freezing—the tips of each finger held a blue tint.
“Samantha.” Marce’s voice pulled Sam’s scrutinizing stare from Jude’s hands to where their eldest sister sat. “Do stand. I have someone here to make your acquaintance.”
Sam risked another look at her twin, whose gaze had settled on the stranger pacing before the fire, but Sam hadn’t time to inspect the man when her sister was so obviously hurting.
The room was alight with tension—Marce sat ramrod straight, and the man strode with solid, heavy steps back and forth from the corner of the desk, to before the hearth and then to the far windows, only to pivot and retrace his path.
Heavy footfalls drew her attention; the sure stride and pattern very familiar to her. It was the same as her own pacing.
Heel. Toe. Heel. Toe.
Marce had complained for years that it sounded as if a herd of elephants was stampeding above her office, which lay directly below Sam and Jude’s bedchamber.
The man’s dark copper hair was cut precisely above his collar, and his eyes avoided hers.
She didn’t need to see their color. They would be sage green.
The same as Jude’s moss-colored eyes—which were the mirror image of her own.
“What is going on, Marce?” Sam moved to stand before her eldest sister, hands on her hips.
Her sister responded by standing to face Sam, her petite height almost a foot shorter than her twin sisters, affording Sam a view of her golden curls pinned to her crown.
The man cleared his throat and stopped pacing to halt with his back to the fire.
Perspiration had broken out across his forehead. He was nervous, as well he should be.
Fiery red hair came with a matching temper. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end as the man, his height several inches taller than hers, moved to stand before her as Marce retook her seat.
She understood now. Her sister was only there to keep Sam’s temper at bay. To remind her of her status as a proper lady—no thanks to the man before her.
“As I live and breathe,” Sam seethed. Jude’s gasp filled the room. “The prodigal father has returned.”
He shifted from one foot to the other and frowned, betraying his unease at the situation.
“Lord Beauchamp,” Marce began a proper introduction. An introduction that should not be necessary between father and daughter. “This is Miss Samantha Pengarden, your daughter.”
Sam assessed him, her eyes narrowing to mimic his.
Upon closer inspection, Beauchamp’s red hair was shot through with grey, his shoulders slender to match his lean frame, and his face was etched with age lines.
His wrinkles showed a man who’d experienced much in his life, though not all of it positive.
They’d been told since they were old enough to notice other children had a mother and a father, while she and her siblings only had a mother, that Madame Sasha—their mother—had been Beauchamp’s mistress. It hadn’t turned sour until the elder Beauchamp demanded his son marry, and marry well.
Their mother and Beauchamp had parted ways, and he’d married quickly, without ceremony.
However, not before he’d left Sasha with a parting gift—his twin daughters in her womb.
Dexter Pengarden, Viscount Beauchamp, stared between them, as if unconvinced that two such identical women existed.
“What are you doing here?” Sam bit out through clenched teeth.
“I was invited—“
“You must be mistaken.” She cackled at the ludicrous insinuation.
To prove her wrong, he pulled the invitation from his coat pocket and held it out to her.
Sam unfolded the invitation she knew all too well.
She and Payton had spent several days hand-writing thirty identical slips to be delivered to all of their family and friends, inviting them to join Jude and Cart in Derbyshire for a festive garden wedding.
This particular letter had been crafted by Payton, her tight, heavy handwriting unmistakable.
But who had sent it to him? Surely not Jude.
Her sister would have asked her permission.
Payton and Lord Cartwright were unaware of who’d fathered Sam and Jude.
Even Garrett had never shown the least bit of interest in locating any of their sires.
That only left one person—one woman with hair of spun gold and eyes that were wise beyond their years.
The person they could all rely on to care for them—make sure they always had shelter, food, and shoes with warm stockings.
“Marce?” Sam challenged, turning to her eldest sibling.
A sob wrenched from Jude’s throat, and her face lowered into her hands, her shoulders shaking with silent cries.
“I thought it was long past time for the pair of you to become better acquainted with Lord Beauchamp.”
“What would bring that insane notion to mind?” Sam turned back to Beauchamp, who’d wisely remained silent but continued to inspect his offspring.
“You and Jude are taking your place among society.” Marce shrugged as if her actions were not life-altering to her siblings.
“It was not something I thought to happen, but it has; therefore, it would only be a matter of time before the pair of you crossed paths with Lord Beauchamp. I thought it best for it to happen here, among family and friends, as opposed to a crowded ballroom. Besides, the ton is bound to recognize the resemblance quickly enough—and rumors will spread. Your name will be linked to his, and the connection shared in every salon in London. I will not risk the pair of you being fodder for all the gossipmongers.”
“That is not our concern.” Sam cared naught if her father’s name were embroiled in ill repute—or if she were linked to unsubstantiated rumors.
Her entire life had been a scandal, from birth to present day.
She’d grown up the bastard child of a viscount.
The chanting of her schoolmates could still be heard—and it had been years since anyone dared speak of her less than honorable birth.
“I—as well as Jude—do not care if disgrace lands squarely on his head. The scandal would be well-deserved. Jude and I will persevere.”