The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(106)

“You are not to blame, Isabelle.” His eyes were troubled as he spoke, which defined the lines there and made him look every bit his age. “That plot began long before you went to that museum. It began when you were still in the schoolroom, even if he did become fixated on you in the end. Reginald Grapling is to blame for this, for all of it.” He ground out the man’s name, and her mother placed a hand on her father’s shoulder to comfort him.

Isabelle ignored her parents’ odd behavior and continued, “I shouldn’t have ever looked in that man’s direction. I’ve done so much that was wrong this season. How you must have worried over me. I should have found a way to write to you after the wedding, to let you know I was safe…and well cared for.” She sniffed, blinking away the threat of tears. It would do no good to cry over what once was. It was over, no matter what she’d overheard at the harbor. The way he’d looked at her was concern—that was all. Too much had happened. There was no turning back now.

“We knew you were in the safest place you could be,” her father reassured her.

“You did? I knew you sent a trunk with my things, but you knew…about everything?”

“I’ve—” Her father broke off, tugging at the knot of his cravat as if it had been tied too tightly. “I’ve been in communication with St. James for some time now.”

“You mean about the stolen paintings.”

“Not only that.”

“You talked to St. James about me, of course. My condition. To ask after my health.”

He sighed and sat down on the edge of her bed, looking her in the eye. “I received a note from one of his men within the hour of your arrival at headquarters. He kept me updated since then.”

“Headquarters… Then you know. You know the sort of place where I was held?”

“I do. Quite well actually.”

“There’s no sense keeping this from her,” her mother said over his shoulder. “She knows most of it already.”

“I’m confused.” She looked from her father to her mother and back again. There was more to this yet. She was caught on the notion that her father had been aware that St. James ran a secret gentlemen’s club from his home, and he had still allowed his daughter to stay there. She’d only just woken from what was apparently near death. Couldn’t they just explain things to her outright?

Her father shifted uncomfortably, drawing her full attention. “Isabelle, I didn’t always have my title, the estate, an income that would provide for your mother, your sister, and you. You were too young to recall the lean years when we had to rely on the benevolence of relatives. By the time you were old enough to notice such things, my situation had improved.”

“We always managed, though,” she cut in.

“Yes, we did. And that was because of St. James and his organization. I met him when he was just a young man—driven, cunning as they come, and with a wild idea in mind to start a secret gentlemen’s club. I followed him, as did many others. I was one of the founding members of the Spare Heirs Society. That was until three years ago, when I became Lord Knottsby. I had a title and inheritance, so I stepped down out of respect for our rules, but if not for that, I would maintain my membership today.”

“What?” She croaked out the question and stared at him. Her own father? Then the pieces of the story began to slip together in her mind.

Three years ago…his refusal to take her with him on any of his trips to London. Hardaway’s presence at their home on occasion. Last night. Father was involved with Grapling and the stolen paintings, just as Fallon had been, and for the same reason—because of this secret society. No. She was spinning fantasies again. This couldn’t be true. “I’ve never heard of your involvement with such a band of—”

“Gentlemen?” he cut in. “Men born of quality upon whom society has turned its back? Without inheritance, lands, the ability to work in trade… Not everyone is suited for a life in the military or the church. I’m proud of my former involvement with such a group. I owe St. James my life. He offers men like me—many men like me—a chance to belong, to have the funds we require to provide for our families, to right wrongs that are beyond the gaze of the authorities.”

“You’re claiming that the organization is an honorable one? That St. James leads this group like he’s some sort of Robin Hood character? Father, he may have been on the right side of that one art theft, but when I was there at headquarters, I heard things…awful things.”

“Only an honorable man would…” His words trailed off as he glanced to his wife. “I don’t think it’s my place to explain it to you. I will say this, Isabelle. There is no other man I would trust with my daughter’s life. Even you admit you were well cared for while in his home.”

“I was.” She clutched the blankets that covered her in her fists, pulling them tighter. “None of that matters anymore, though.”

“Doesn’t it?” He shot a glance to her mother that Isabelle didn’t understand.

Isabelle stared at her father. “Why would it?”

Her father looked at her for a moment, clearly considering his words carefully before speaking. “Isabelle, you have always had the gift to see the good in everything around you. That ability has helped you to keep your cheer even in the worst situations, but it’s also blinded you to the true evils that exist. The world isn’t all good.”