Chapter Twenty-One
Eleanor St. James came into her brother’s study without knocking, which was unusual enough to make Blackwood look up at once.
Despite their closeness, Eleanor knew to respect a closed door when her brother was working.
But not today. She entered with force, closing the door behind her loudly and stood for a moment, her hands clasped loosely before her, her expression animated beyond her usual level of exuberance.
“You have a moment?” she asked, her voice breathless.
“For you, poppet,” Blackwood said, already setting aside the papers before him, “Always.”
She smiled at that, then exhaled, a long, shaky breath that suggested she had been holding a secret in her lungs for miles.
The words followed in a dizzying torrent.
“I wanted to tell you before anyone else,” she said, leaning toward him.
“Because I trust you to know me better than I know myself sometimes.”
Blackwood leaned back, his protective instincts humming beneath his skin. Eleanor’s exuberance was usually a delight, but there was an edge to it now, a nervous energy that made his pulse quicken. “You’ve now piqued my curiosity. Tell me what’s going on.”
She settled into the chair, but the rest of her remained in motion. Her foot tapped a rhythm against the thick Persian rug, and her affect was bright, perhaps too bright.
“The musicale was exactly as dreadful and delightful as expected,” Eleanor began, her voice animated. “Miss Hargrove attempted Mozart and barely survived it. And Mr. Talbot insisted on a patriotic ballad that was far more enthusiastic than accurate.”
Blackwood’s mouth lifted, the practiced mask of an attentive brother sliding into place.
“I regret missing such refinement.” He sensed that the musicale was merely the prologue; the colorful wrapping on a much heavier gift.
He did not rush her; he knew Eleanor’s rhythms, and she was building toward a crescendo.
“You would have disapproved of nearly all of it,” she said cheerfully. “Which is why I was grateful you were not there. You have that way of looking at a room that makes everyone feel they are being graded on a scale they didn't know existed.”
“And yet, I cannot help but note that you have come home in a state of triumph,” Blackwood observed, tracking the restless movement of her hands.
She hesitated then, and the exuberant triumph softened into a more careful, more internal joy. The tapping of her foot slowed. The light on her face shifted from mere excitement to a focused, almost reverent glow.
“Yes,” she said. “Because of someone I met.”
Blackwood did not move.
“He was not meant to be there, I think,” she continued, the words now pouring out. “Or rather, he was invited out of courtesy. His name is Percy Linwood. He is a younger son. Very much the younger son.” Her mouth curved. “He has no fortune to speak of.”
Blackwood absorbed that. A younger son was not the ordinary match for the daughter of and sister to a Duke. “And you found that appealing?”
Blackwood absorbed the name, running it through the mental filters of Grantham’s ledger and the social registries of London.
A younger son with no fortune was a non-entity in the minds of the Ton, yet in the context of the Trust, such men were the perfect raw material: hungry, invisible, and looking for a purpose to replace their lack of inheritance.
“I found it honest,” she replied. “He did not pretend to be delighted when Miss Hargrove faltered. He did not flatter Lady Winthrop as all the others did.”
Blackwood watched her more closely now.
“He is different. He spoke to me about the music,” she went on. “Not about my gown. Not about the room. About the music and he asked my opinions. He said Mozart is rarely performed well in drawing rooms because drawing rooms do not reward risk.”
“That is a bold statement for a guest,” Blackwood said, returning his attention to his cup.
“Yes,” Eleanor said, a small smile returning. “And I liked that he said it quietly.”
She folded her hands in her lap, then unfolded them again.
“He lives on an allowance that barely deserves the name,” Eleanor continued.
“His father provides just enough to keep him respectable. It is a reminder more than a gift. He tutors students at the university when he can find them willing, translates political essays from French and German, and submits articles to journals that do not always trouble themselves to reply. He writes constantly, although there is no guarantee anyone will read what he has written.”
She did not sound embarrassed as she said it.
“He is clever,” she added. “Not clever in the way that wins applause at dinner, but in the way that sees through pretension. He reads everything. He remembers everything. He questions what other men accept without thought.”
“And you admire this,” Blackwood said.
“I admire,” she replied, “that he knows exactly where he stands in the world. I know it is all so sudden but he spoke of intentions,” Eleanor went on.
She hesitated, then added, “And I realized that before I could answer him, I needed to discuss his suit with you. I know it may not be an easy life but when I look at someone like Miss Seton it seems…possible.”
“I know it is only my first Season but I am tired of introductions,” she said. “I know what you think of me,” she added. “That I am easily impressed. That I chase novelty because it sparkles. Perhaps you are not wrong and I have done so.” She lifted her chin slightly.
Blackwood watched her as she spoke. He had always thought of Eleanor as a bright and impulsive child.
She was easily delighted and he delighted in accommodating her every whim.
She loved music, novelty, and light conversation.
She moved from enthusiasm to enthusiasm without lingering long enough for dullness to gather.
He had built his strategy around that version of her.
Yet as she described this man with his meager means and stubborn independence, her tone had changed. There was no girlish flutter in it. No dramatic sigh. She spoke with intention.
That was when Blackwood rose with the slow, deliberate movement of a man who understood that avoidance had reached its end. He turned back to her, his expression composed but grave.
“Sit,” he said. “Please.”
Eleanor did so at once, her earlier brightness dimming into concern. “You look like you are about to tell me something dire.”
“Yes,” Blackwood said. “I am.” He took the chair opposite her, placing his forearms on his knees, his posture unusually open. “There is something you must know before you allow this to proceed any further with Linwood,” he said. “Something that should have been told to you long ago.”
“Are we out of funds? I can cut back! I don't need half as many dresses.”
“No, poppet, it’s not that,” he chucked, thinking that for all the maturity he had just observed, she had not quite given up a zest for the finer things in life.
“We have funds for all the dresses you could want.” He paused.
“Really, I’m not quite sure where to begin,” he said hesitating again, searching for the exact words that could spare her from harm.
“Following our father’s death, I learned that our father had an affair,” Blackwood continued. “It was discreetly brief. He believed that acknowledging the baby would be enough. He possessed the idea that legitimacy could be created by custom, provided no one insisted on proof.”
Eleanor’s brow furrowed. “I do not understand.”
“You were acknowledged,” he said. “You were loved and raised openly. But you were not born within the marriage.”
Silence filled the room.
Eleanor looked down at her hands, turning the information over slowly, methodically. “You mean,” she said at last, “I am illegitimate?”
“Yes.”
She began to speak very slowly, deliberately enunciating each word. “And. you… have… known… this.”
The words left her mouth with composure.
Inside, her thoughts fractured outward. She had always been told she favored her mother.
The same hair, the same shape to the brow.
As a child she had accepted that easily.
Children rarely interrogate likeness; they accept what they are given.
Later, when acquaintances remarked that her coloring was more vivid than her mother’s had once been, she had attributed it to age, to sun, to imagination.
Her brother. Her brother was darker than she was both in hair and eye. When they stood together, no one had remarked upon difference. Siblings were permitted variation. She had never questioned it.
She thought of her mother’s embrace. It had never lacked love. That she would swear to. Her mother had held her tightly as a child, smoothing her hair back from her face, pressing kisses to her temple with habitual tenderness. There had been no reluctance in it.
But now she searched for subtler hesitations.
Had there been moments when the embrace lingered a fraction too long, as though compensating?
Moments when her mother studied her face with an expression she had once interpreted as pride but might have contained hidden complexities like resolve, perhaps. Or apology.
Her father’s presence existed in fragments.
He had lifted her high once. She remembered the sensation of height, the laugh that startled from her own throat.
She remembered the smell of leather and tobacco.
The impression of broad hands at her waist. He had called her by a name he rarely used in company. There had been affection.
There had been no visible fracture in her childhood. No whispered correction in her presence. No withdrawn hand. And yet—
“Yes.” Blackwood’s response interrupted her thoughts.
“For,” Eleanor could feel her temper rising, “just how long?”
Blackwood did not answer directly. “There are those who would use this information to do you harm. I would not allow that.”
Eleanor’s voice shook as the anger bubbled to the surface. “Why tell me now?”
The question struck harder than any accusation. “Others have become aware of the situation and have demanded payment for my silence,” he replied.
Eleanor lifted her gaze to his. “You have been paying them in order to protect me.” Blackwood nodded in reply. She absorbed that without flinching. “And you never thought to tell me.”
“I know. I thought I was sparing you,” he said.
Eleanor rose. She crossed the room slowly, stopping a few steps away from him. He did not move. “Did you think I was too fragile? Or just too foolish?” she said, not unkindly. “A fragile doll that might break if handled honestly?”
Blackwood started. “I thought you were more delicate than myself,” he admitted.
“And you were wrong,” she challenged now, daring him to see her as the little girl he had thought her.
He nodded. “I was. You deserve to know the truth, and you deserve to determine how we continue.”
She folded her arms loosely, considering him. “Would you continue to pay this blackmail?”
“Yes.” Blackwood said without hesitation, “To protect you, I would. I am not certain that the funds will ensure continued discretion, but I will pay if that is your choice.”
“You know what I find most offensive about this?” Blackwood waited.
“That you thought I would prefer comfort purchased with your diminishment,” Eleanor said.
“That I would choose a fiction that kept you bent.” He felt the truth of that land, clean and undeniable.
“You thought to protect me but you did not think that I would equally never want to cause you harm.”
Tears began to form in Eleanor’s eyes and just as quickly began to fall down her face. “I care for this man,” she continued. “But more than that, I care for you. And I will not allow my existence to be used as a chain around your neck.”
“You have never been a burden to me, but I do not think you fully understand the consequences,” he said.
“I understand them perfectly,” Eleanor replied. “If the truth becomes known, some doors will close. Others will never open. I may be spoken of with pity or disdain. I may lose prospects that were always conditional.” She met him squarely. “But you will be free.”
Blackwood’s voice tightened. “I would not trade your happiness for my freedom.”
“And I would not trade your life for my comfort,” she said. “So, we are at an impasse only if you insist on choosing for me.”
“The choice is yours,” Blackwood replied. “I was wrong to withhold it from you for so long.”
“I will announce this to no one,” Eleanor went on. “I will court no scandal. Yet I will answer truthfully if asked. I will retreat into no silence for the sake of preserving another person’s leverage.” She placed a hand over his and squeezed. “If the secret is revealed, so be it.”
The simplicity of the statement undid him.
Blackwood looked at his sister and truly saw her.
She was no longer a little girl. She had grown into a woman in her own right and her handling of the news told him he had long misjudged her.
“You are braver than I deserve,” Blackwood said, kissing her forehead.
They stood together in silence, the shape of their relationship subtly but irrevocably altered.
When Eleanor stepped back, she looked lighter. She turned toward the door, then paused. “I will tell you more about Percy later,” she said lightly. “If you wish.”
He smiled then, genuine and unguarded. “I would like that. Any man who could tolerate the Winthrop musical is worthy indeed.”
After she left, Blackwood remained where he was for a long moment, his hand resting where hers had been. The leverage was gone, but because the person it relied upon had chosen truth over silence. And for the first time in years, Blackwood felt unbound.