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Mr.—my brother for being cautious. After all, he cannot be expected to harbor affection for me when he never knew of my existence.”
“But you knew of his?”
Underneath the lap robe, Polly crossed her gloved fingers. “My mother often spoke of him with affection—and regret.”
“Regret, Miss Crump?”
Sir Aubrey clearly awaited an answer, and Polly was thankful for having had the forethought to provide herself with a family history before being called upon to answer questions which were likely to prove awkward. To be sure, she would have preferred to make this speech to Mr. Brundy in the presence of his sympathetic wife. Still, she could not deny that there was something strangely exhilerating about matching wits with the obviously suspicious baronet.
“Regret for having given him up,” she explained. “You will no doubt think it unnatural for a woman to place her son in the workhouse, but I daresay she was not the first girl to be deceived by a gentleman’s promises of marriage.”
“Then it appears your mother must have been a very slow learner, Miss Crump. Even if she were very young at the time Ethan was conceived, there are more than half a dozen years separating the two of you. Surely your mother must have gleaned some wisdom in the interim.”
“I do not know all the details, for she rarely spoke of her mistake, save for warning me not to repeat it,” Polly replied primly.
“And yet, knowing of this supposed brother’s existence, you made no effort to find him until now, after he has amassed a fortune, wed a duke’s daughter, and established a foothold in Society. Your timing is truly impeccable. Miss Crump.”
“I am sure it must appear that way, but it was not until I came to London and, by a happy coincidence, hired a room over a linen-draper’s shop that I had word of my brother through his mill. Of course, the fact that he changed his name would have made a deliberate search fruitless, even had I made the attempt earlier.”
Sir Aubrey said nothing, but Polly had the distinct impression that he was still unconvinced. “I realize it must sound like a fantastic story, sir, but it is all I have. Alas, I have no solid proof of my claims.”
“Nor is there the slightest physical resemblance between you which might lend them weight,” Sir Aubrey said with brutal frankness. “Which puts me in mind of another question. How is it, Miss Crump, that you speak like a lady, while your supposed brother has never lost his, shall we say, distinctive accent?”
“I cannot account for his speech, since I know so little of his life, but my mother never let me forget that my father was Quality. She was convinced that I should sound like a lady, and to that end, she arranged for me to take elocution lessons from the vicar every Wednesday,” Polly explained, thankful to be able to answer truthfully.
As he could find no point on which to discredit her apocryphal tale, Sir Aubrey had to be content to accept it, at least for the nonce, at face value. With a twinge of regret, he tactfully turned the subject, restricting his conversation to the most innocuous of comments regarding the pleasures to be found in Brighton, or the virtues of a high-perch phaeton as opposed to those of a curricle.
Not, he determined with a covert glance at his fair companion, that he had any intention of letting Miss Polly Crump off so easily; if anything, he was more intrigued than ever. He did not for one moment believe her to be telling the truth, and yet he felt a certain grudging admiration for her audacity. She was an enigma, and not at all what he had come to Brighton expecting to find. He had been fully prepared to discover Mr. Brundy’s house taken over by a brass-faced high-flyer looking to advance herself in the world. To be sure, no one having seen Miss Crump wield a coffee pot could ever doubt her brass. But Sir Aubrey was forced to admit that he had mistaken the girl’s previous profession. Whatever her
“But you knew of his?”
Underneath the lap robe, Polly crossed her gloved fingers. “My mother often spoke of him with affection—and regret.”
“Regret, Miss Crump?”
Sir Aubrey clearly awaited an answer, and Polly was thankful for having had the forethought to provide herself with a family history before being called upon to answer questions which were likely to prove awkward. To be sure, she would have preferred to make this speech to Mr. Brundy in the presence of his sympathetic wife. Still, she could not deny that there was something strangely exhilerating about matching wits with the obviously suspicious baronet.
“Regret for having given him up,” she explained. “You will no doubt think it unnatural for a woman to place her son in the workhouse, but I daresay she was not the first girl to be deceived by a gentleman’s promises of marriage.”
“Then it appears your mother must have been a very slow learner, Miss Crump. Even if she were very young at the time Ethan was conceived, there are more than half a dozen years separating the two of you. Surely your mother must have gleaned some wisdom in the interim.”
“I do not know all the details, for she rarely spoke of her mistake, save for warning me not to repeat it,” Polly replied primly.
“And yet, knowing of this supposed brother’s existence, you made no effort to find him until now, after he has amassed a fortune, wed a duke’s daughter, and established a foothold in Society. Your timing is truly impeccable. Miss Crump.”
“I am sure it must appear that way, but it was not until I came to London and, by a happy coincidence, hired a room over a linen-draper’s shop that I had word of my brother through his mill. Of course, the fact that he changed his name would have made a deliberate search fruitless, even had I made the attempt earlier.”
Sir Aubrey said nothing, but Polly had the distinct impression that he was still unconvinced. “I realize it must sound like a fantastic story, sir, but it is all I have. Alas, I have no solid proof of my claims.”
“Nor is there the slightest physical resemblance between you which might lend them weight,” Sir Aubrey said with brutal frankness. “Which puts me in mind of another question. How is it, Miss Crump, that you speak like a lady, while your supposed brother has never lost his, shall we say, distinctive accent?”
“I cannot account for his speech, since I know so little of his life, but my mother never let me forget that my father was Quality. She was convinced that I should sound like a lady, and to that end, she arranged for me to take elocution lessons from the vicar every Wednesday,” Polly explained, thankful to be able to answer truthfully.
As he could find no point on which to discredit her apocryphal tale, Sir Aubrey had to be content to accept it, at least for the nonce, at face value. With a twinge of regret, he tactfully turned the subject, restricting his conversation to the most innocuous of comments regarding the pleasures to be found in Brighton, or the virtues of a high-perch phaeton as opposed to those of a curricle.
Not, he determined with a covert glance at his fair companion, that he had any intention of letting Miss Polly Crump off so easily; if anything, he was more intrigued than ever. He did not for one moment believe her to be telling the truth, and yet he felt a certain grudging admiration for her audacity. She was an enigma, and not at all what he had come to Brighton expecting to find. He had been fully prepared to discover Mr. Brundy’s house taken over by a brass-faced high-flyer looking to advance herself in the world. To be sure, no one having seen Miss Crump wield a coffee pot could ever doubt her brass. But Sir Aubrey was forced to admit that he had mistaken the girl’s previous profession. Whatever her
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