My Once and Future Duke (The Wagers of Sin #1)(83)

“There’s someone to see you, ma’am.” The maid handed her the calling card.

Sophie inhaled sharply at the name on it: Viscount Makepeace. She thrust it back at Colleen. “Throw him out.”

The girl blinked. “Ma’am?”

“Throw that hateful old man out of my house,” she repeated in a low voice. She never wanted to see Makepeace again. What could he want? She’d changed her name to sever any remaining connection to him.

“But he’s not that old,” protested Colleen. “He was quite civil to me, as well. Are you certain?”

She paused. “Not old?” Her grandfather must be nearly eighty. Colleen shook her head, wide--eyed in amazement. “And civil?” Her maid nodded. Sophie didn’t think her grandfather had it in him to be civil, and certainly not to servants.

She laid one hand on her throat. It could only be her father’s older brother George—-her uncle. Papa hadn’t spoken fondly of him, saying he was just as cold as their father. Sophie had never met him, as he’d been away during the horrible spring when her father’s solicitor had brought her to Makepeace Manor after her parents died. If her uncle were styling himself Lord Makepeace, that must mean the heartless ogre of Sophie’s memory had died.

But . . . what could he want?

Warily she walked to the parlor. He might be just as cruel and spiteful as his father, come to call her an abomination and worse. He’d never showed any interest in her before. When Papa was banished from Makepeace Manor, he had left nearly everything about it in the past. He rarely spoke of his family, who hadn’t been a warm or loving lot. The main thing she remembered Papa telling her, in fact, was that he’d named his father her guardian in his will. He’d been so desperately ill, coughing up blood until she feared he had none left in his veins, but he’d wanted to explain to her why he did it. Makepeace had money; Makepeace knew his duty to his family, and he could see that she was provided for when Papa was dead.

Her mother had already died, a week earlier, and Sophie had sobbed that if Papa died, she wanted to die, too, to be with him and Mama. She would never forget how he squeezed her hand and told her never to say that again. “You must live for her now,” he’d whispered, his rich tenor voice destroyed by the consumption. “And for me. Makepeace is not a gentle man, but you’re stronger than he. Don’t let him cow you. You’re a Graham, and Makepeace will see that you’re treated as one.”

Well. Her mouth flattened to a thin line at the thought of her grandfather, glowering and growling that he had no desire to raise a granddaughter. The only indisputably good turn he’d done her was to abandon her at Mrs. Upton’s Academy. If her uncle was anything like him, she would throw him out, no matter how civil he’d been to Colleen. Girding herself for confrontation, she turned the knob on the parlor door and went in.

The man waiting inside looked up at her entrance. He rose to his feet, tall like Papa but portly, although he looked far too young to be her uncle. His hair was sandy brown, not fair like her father’s had been, but his eyes were Papa’s—-and they were kind. She stopped cold, suddenly unsure.

“Mrs. Campbell.” He bowed and gave her a small, tentative smile. “I am Lord Makepeace. I—-I rather think I’m your uncle.”

She wet her lips. “What makes you think so, sir?”

“Were your parents Thomas Graham, of Yorkshire, and his wife, Cecile?” he asked, adding apologetically, “Cecile was French, but I’ve forgotten her surname entirely.”

The air seemed to grow thin for a moment. He knew her parents. “Yes,” she managed to say.

A smile creased his face. “Then I most certainly am your uncle. Well, I knew it as soon as I saw you! You’ve got Tom’s look. I met Cecile only once, but you’ve got her coloring.”

“Why are you here?” she asked unsteadily. “I’ve had no contact with your family since the viscount stopped paying my tuition at school several years ago.”

Embarrassment flicked in his eyes. “Yes, that. My father was a stubborn man. When he died, I discovered a thick stack of letters from Tom in his papers. All neatly boxed, and I don’t think he replied to one of them.”

Her heart was about to pound out of her chest. What had Papa written to his father? When had he written? He’d always sworn never to speak to Makepeace again unless the viscount welcomed and accepted his wife and daughter. Sophie had presumed that never happened. “Not that I ever knew,” she murmured.

The new Lord Makepeace nodded. “He and Tom went at it hammer and tongs more than once. I’m not so keen on that m’self, and, why, Tom was a good brother to me. I knew he had a child, but my father never would say anything about you. The last time I asked, he said you’d been at school but had run away.” He squinted at her uncertainly. “I came to see that you’re well, ma’am. You’re the only family I have left now.”

Slowly she came into the room. Her knees were about to give way; he was nothing like she had expected. She gestured at the sofa and sank into a chair as her uncle resumed his seat. “Forgive me, sir—-I know almost nothing of my father’s family. Lord Makepeace was the only person I ever met, and it was not a warm and tender reunion. My father hardly spoke of his family at all.”

He chuckled. “I don’t doubt why! An old tartar he was, my father. George was the same, but Tom and I . . .” He shook his head. “I hope I can do better.”