Page 36 of Worth Any Price
“No one knows that.”
“That,” Sir Ross said calmly, “is about to change.”
Gentry went very still as he absorbed the statement. “What the hell does that mean?”
“After a great deal of deliberation, I decided to begin the process of dignification on your behalf. Recently I explained the particulars of your situation to the offices of the Crown and the Lord Chancellor. Not only did I assure them that you are indeed the long-lost Lord Sydney, I also confirmed that you are financially equipped to manage the title. In approximately a fortnight, the Clerk of the Crown will issue a Writ of Summons, calling you to the House of Lords. At which time I will introduce you publicly as Lord Sydney, at a ball that will be given in your honor.”
Gentry shot up from the table, his chair falling back and clattering to the floor. “Go to hell, Cannon!”
Lottie started at the burst of hostility. Gentry reacted as if his very life were being threatened. However, the danger he faced was not the physical peril he was accustomed to... it was intangible,insidious... the one prison he could not escape. Lottie sensed the thoughts that writhed behind his set expression, the way his clever mind analyzed the sudden predicament and considered various ways to evade it.
“I’ll deny everything,” Gentry said.
Sir Ross made a temple of his hands, regarding him steadily. “If you do, I will respond with depositions from myself, Sir Grant, your sister, and even your wife, testifying to the fact that you have privately confessed yourself to be Lord Sydney. Those, combined with circumstantial oddities such as missing burial records and inconsistent reports of your death, form what is known in English law as afecundatio ab extra—a rare but not impossible occurrence.”
Gentry looked as if he wanted to murder the former Bow Street magistrate. “I’ll petition the House of Lords to be allowed to renounce the title. God knows they’ll be overjoyed to get rid of me.”
“Don’t be a fool. Do you really believe they would ever allow you to disclaim your title? To their minds, such a renunciation would challenge the very institution of the peerage. They would fear that the distinctions between the classes—no, the monarchy itself—would be threatened.”
“You don’t believe in privilege based on birth,” Gentry shot back. “Why force a damned title on me?I don’t want it.”
“This has nothing to do with my political beliefs. This is a matter of simple fact. You are Sydney, no matter what you call yourself. You are not going to be able to overturn seven hundred years of hereditary principle, nor will you be able to avoid your obligations as Lord Sydney any longer.”
“Obligations to what?” Gentry sneered. “To an estate that has been held in abeyance for fourteen years?”
“You have a responsibility to the tenants who are trying to eke out a living on ramshackle government-managed lands. To the House of Lords, where your seat has gone vacant for two decades. To your sister, who is obligated to keep her relationship with her own brother a secret. To your wife, who will enjoy far more respect and social advantage as Lady Sydney than she ever would as Mrs. Gentry. To the memory of your parents. And to yourself. For half of your life you’ve been hiding behind a false name. It is time for you to acknowledge who you are.”
Gentry’s hands clenched. “That’s not for you to decide.”
“If I don’t force the issue, you’ll spend the rest of your life avoiding it.”
“That is my right!”
“Perhaps. But regardless, you will find it impossible to remain a runner. Sir Grant concurs with my opinion, and therefore he will no longer require your services at Bow Street.”
A wash of color spread over Gentry’s face. His throat worked violently as he realized that his days as a runner had just come to an end. “Then I’ll spend my time taking private commissions.”
“That would be a novelty, wouldn’t it?” Sir Ross asked sardonically. “The crime-solving viscount.”
“Nick,” Sophia broke in softly, “you know what Papa and Mama would have wanted.”
He appeared bitter and miserable, and above all, outraged. “I’ve been Nick Gentry too long to change.”
Sophia replied with great care, seeming to understand why he would consider it impossible. “It will be difficult. No one would deny that. But you have Lottie to assist you.”
Nick did not spare Lottie a glance but made a scornful sound.
“Lottie, dear,” Sophia said with a gentle inflexibility that betrayed the strong will beneath her delicate facade. “How many years did you attend Maidstone’s?”
“Six,” Lottie said, casting a wary glance at her husband’s hard profile.
“If Maidstone’s reputation holds true, those six years were filled with an education that included rigorous training in deportment, grace, the art of polite entertaining, the skills of household budgeting and management, the elements of style and good taste, the rituals of morning calls and after-dinner assemblies... the thousands of little points of etiquette that separate the first tier from the other layers of society. I suspect you could easily regulate a household of any size, no matter how large. No doubt you were also taught how to dance, ride, play a musical instrument, speak French and perhaps a smattering of German... am I mistaken?”
“You are correct,” Lottie said shortly, hating the sudden feeling that she was part of the trapthat was closing around Gentry. He was being forced to become something he had no desire to be, and she understood his feelings all too well.
Nodding in satisfaction, Sophia turned to her glowering brother. “Lottie is a great asset to you. She will prove invaluable in helping you adjust to your new life—”
“I’m not going to adjust to a damned thing,” he growled and threw a commanding glance to Lottie. “Come, we’re leaving. Now.”
