Chapter Eighteen
Michael should have known something was up the moment he sat down for afternoon tea.
“Michael Chance,” said his mother sternly.
“Mother,” he said with a forced smile.
It was forced because Michael was fairly certain he would never smile again. Not properly. Not for the sake of it, for the joy of something that would bring his spirits up.
Because there was nothing left in the world that could bring him the wonder he had now known. Nothing could compare to the soaring highs he had experienced with Captain Phylis Seaton, and that meant he would never know true rapture again.
At least, those were the thoughts that had roared through his mind at about two o’clock that morning.
Michael rubbed his eyes and smiled at Mrs. Kinley wearily as she handed him a cup of tea. “Thank you.”
“Where is everyone?” his mother asked sternly, as though it were his fault his sisters were not there.
Which it wasn’t.
Was it? Was he supposed to have been chaperoning them?
“Ah, here they are,” the Viscountess Pernrith said with a smile as her two younger daughters entered the drawing room. “Gwen—”
“Do not even talk to me about it. I don’t want to talk about it,” said Gwen sternly as she dropped onto the sofa opposite Michael and glared.
As though he’d done anything wrong.
“You are running away from a life most of us would dream of, and you have no regard, no respect for the hard work of others.”
Michael winced. At least he had not done anything wrong with his sisters. At least not that he could remember.
The argument he had suffered with Phylis…that was quite a different matter, and one he was struggling to put behind him. It was mortifying, indeed, to think he had been so foolish as to hope that she would stay for him.
Or take him with her.
Michael sipped his scalding tea as Gwen and Teddy sat bickering in undertones on the sofa opposite him. Their mother sat beside him, glancing at the door repeatedly as though expecting someone.
Which was odd. Oh, the Pernrith Chances often had afternoon tea together, but there was no expectation that all of them would always be there. His father undoubtedly had important things with which to concern himself.
Like passing over his title and estate to his only son.
Michael’s stomach lurched, nausea roiling in his gut. Do not think about it. Do not think about the pressure, the duty, the unbelievable stress that will overcome your life—
Damn it. He was thinking about it.
“Where is he?” his mother was muttering to her daughters.
For some reason, Michael now noticed, both of his sisters looked…serious. Far more serious than normal.
Teddy was looking at her hands with flushed cheeks, the same old wallflower she had ever been, and Gwen was shooting him dark looks as though he had mortally offended her.
Michael was aware he had dreadfully offended one woman in the last few days, but he hadn’t been aware of a second misdemeanor.
Oh, dear.
“He should be here,” their mother was saying quietly.
Gwen snorted. “I don’t see why. I’ve got more than enough to say without him.”
Michael stared between his younger sister and his mother. What on earth are they talking about?
“I know, but it’s probably best if it comes from all of us,” the viscountess said with a sigh. “To think it has come to this.”
“We all knew it would happen eventually,” said Teddy softly. For some reason, she was not quite meeting Michael’s eye.
“Yes, but it will be so much easier with—ah, there you are.” Their mother beamed.
The door had opened and in stepped his father, who was scowling.
Scowling?
“We’re all here, then?” the Viscount Pernrith said abruptly, glancing about the room.
Michael followed suit, looking around the elegantly appointed room in some confusion. What on earth was going on? Had he missed something—was there about to be a family announcement?
No one had told him about a family announcement.
“Right,” said his father brusquely, striding over and sitting in an armchair, his wife and son on one side, his two youngest daughters on the other. “It’s time.”
“‘Time’?” Michael repeated, utterly befuddled.
The viscount ignored him. “Is everyone ready?”
Now at a complete loss, Michael glanced at his sisters, who were nodding sagely, and his mother, who appeared to be steeling herself for a most unpleasant conversation.
Oh, dear. Well, he had known that it would happen eventually. All the women Chance cousins seemed to have a distaste for chaperones; Michael had known it for years. Plainly, Gwen or Teddy had been indiscreet, and now there had to be a family conversation about it.
Michael leaned back in his seat and sipped his tea. It was unfortunate, of course, and he would rather not bear witness to such a dressing down—
“Michael Chance,” his father said sternly. “When exactly were you planning on telling us that you are immigrating?”
Michael spilled his tea.
“Oh, and that’s a new waistcoat, too,” fussed his mother, immediately dabbing at him with her handkerchief.
This only served to jolt his arm and cause more tea to spill from his cup, though Michael was hardly aware of this as his mind reeled from his father’s statement.
He… He knew?
Of course, Irene knew and she wasn’t the type to keep quiet about anything, but so many days had passed since she’d confronted him, he’d thought this was one topic she’d chosen to keep to herself, if only to spare their parents the pain.
He’d never gotten an answer as to how she’d known in the first place, though.
Every throb of his pulse was burning in his ears. His stomach lurched, his jaw tight, as Michael looked at his family.
His father, stern and clearly hurt by the fact Michael had never told them.
His mother, blinking back—oh, hell, tears.
Gwen, silently furious as she so often was.
Teddy, staring down at her hands with palpable sadness.
Michael’s lungs tightened. It was awful, far worse than he could have ever imagined. This was why he had never planned to tell them! To face them, to see in their eyes the hurt that he had absolutely no interest in staying here in England, that adventure called him on, and without them…
Really, he should be grateful his other two sisters weren’t—
“The blaggard!” Irene said dramatically as she threw the door back with a crash.
Their mother started, and his sister’s husband, the Duke of Aynor, said apologetically behind her, “Sorry about this. Reeny, I said we should take things gently—”
“How he thinks he can just sit there and calmly tell us all that he’s abandoning us all forever!” Irene huffed, storming across the room and kissing her father’s cheek. “Good afternoon, Pa. The outrage!”
Michael almost smiled as their father winced at Irene’s loud pronouncement.
“Reeny,” said their mother smoothly, “why don’t you—”
The door to the hall opened again, but this time with the timidness Michael knew could only have been—
“Are we late?” His eldest sister, Jessy, smiled nervously as her pale eyes gazed about the room, her well-attired husband, Baron Llyne, on her heels. “Oh, good. Have we let him have it yet?”
Michael dropped his head into his hands.
This was a nightmare. A literal nightmare.
What the hell was he supposed to do now? Sit here like a good little boy and have his morals chewed out because he wanted more for himself than just sitting around, attending Lady Romeril’s card parties and simpering at ladies he had no intention of marrying?
Couldn’t they see how mind-numbingly boring the whole affair was?
Couldn’t they understand that real life was out—out there?
“What have you got to say for yourself?” snapped Irene as she dropped onto a chair with her husband’s barely tempering hand on her shoulder.
“Come now, Irene, you’re not his mother,” said the viscountess fondly, her voice sweet and affectionate. She turned to look at Michael, and a steely tone entered her words. “What have you got to say for yourself?”
“I—” began Michael helplessly.
“Because you’ve broken your mother’s heart!” interrupted the viscount, glaring.
“And mine,” added Gwen darkly. “Not that anyone cares.”
“The whole family is talking about it,” said Jessica quietly. She’d found a place by the window seat, her husband standing beside her, and seemed only half aware of the conversation. “All of them.”
Michael groaned, dropping his head into his hands once again.
The whole family. Excellent. Just when he had hoped he could slope off onto an interesting ship and make his way—
Wait a moment. All of them.
Wait a moment. They knew.
The family knew. How on earth—
Michael looked up sharply, his gaze falling on Irene—who, fair play to her, seemed to know exactly what he was irritated about.
“I didn’t tell everyone,” she said, raising her hands in the internationally recognized don’t shoot position. “But honestly, Michael, did you think you could keep such a thing a secret?”
“We’ve known for months,” said his mother, her voice more gentle now as she picked up her teacup and examined him over it. “Why do you think we went to Stanphrey Lacey weeks ago, that time before Lucy’s wedding?”
Michael stared.
It… Well, it had never occurred to him. Why wouldn’t his parents, and his aunts and uncles go to Stanphrey Lacey in the summer? It was far nicer than London.
Why should he think about such a thing?
“It was to talk about you,” his father said quietly. “About whether we could persuade you to stay…and not immigrate.”
It was a good thing Michael was already seated at that point, for he would surely have fallen to the ground to hear such a thing.
They all knew. Had known for weeks.
All this time, he had thought he was being so circumspect. He had thought he’d been so clever, keeping his plans from them all. Carefully buying up language phrase books, packing his own trunk, and ensuring he said subtly goodbye to each branch of the Chance family when he saw them…
And all the while, they had known?
He swallowed, his throat dry. “You knew.”
It was not a question. It did not need to be.
The viscount nodded. “Yes.”
“And you weren’t going to say anything?” Michael asked, turning to his mother.