Page 48 of My Devoted Viscount (Brazen Bluestockings #2)

Aside from paintings displayed in various parts of the house, Aunt Gert supported Agnes’s artistic endeavors by encouraging her to hang one of her paintings in the prominent spot above the fireplace, regularly changing which masterpiece was on public display.

The subjects were often exotic landscapes where she had lived with her Army officer husband—grandfather’s youngest brother—or portraits of people she had met.

Startled, he recognized his grandparents and a very young Aunt Gert.

A wedding portrait, apparently. Aunt Agnes had shown him a few sketches of them over the years, and of course a portrait of his grandparents hung in the long gallery at Hobart Hall.

But that portrait had been commissioned only a few years before Grandfather’s death, when their faces bore evidence of full lives well-lived.

But this couple…

In the blush of youth, his grandmother Vincenza stared at him through the decades, her aquiline nose, high cheekbones, olive skin, and straight black hair nearly identical to the features that gazed back at him in the mirror, on the rare occasion he looked in one.

So different from the curly light brown hair, blue eyes, and fair skin of his grandfather, father, and middle brother.

So striking was the resemblance that were they the same age, Vincenza would have appeared like Vincent’s twin sister.

Vincent couldn’t breathe. His lungs refused to work as his brain struggled to process the vision before him.

For most of his life he’d fought feelings that he didn’t belong. That Father recognized Vincent as his heir only because of his pride, in not wanting to admit his wife had betrayed him.

How many times had Vincent acquiesced to Father’s demands, simply because Vincent feared his father would change his mind? That he would disown him and declare Wallace to be the obvious heir. That Father would prove Wallace and his sneering accusations to be correct.

His heart thundering in his chest, Vincent clutched the arm of the sofa. He would have staggered if he’d been standing. Only the cushions kept him upright.

“Wallace,” Miss Walden called without taking her eyes off the painting, speaking so softly she was audible only to someone paying close attention.

Wallace straightened from where he’d squatted down to pet Henry, and joined her at the fireplace. “Yes, Miss Walden?” he said, wearing an expectant grin that Vincent wanted to smack off his brother’s face.

“Earlier today you told me that you resemble your father, and that Xavier resembles your mother.” She shifted her gaze from the painting to Wallace, her expression thoughtful. “Have you noticed how much Vincenzo resembles your grandmother?”

Wallace’s smile turned brittle.

The age-old hurt from being accused of not belonging in the family warred with Vincent’s ridiculous joy at hearing her speak his name. His intimate, given name. His first name as written in the parish baptismal registry.

His chest froze. He wasn’t ready for someone else to discuss this dark, family secret. And how dare Wallace spread his dirty accusations to someone outside the circle of the three brothers?

“No,” Wallace quietly insisted with a defiant tilt of his chin. “He looks like Father’s Greek friend who used to visit.”

“Mr. Pop-a-Dop?” Xavier strolled over from the pianoforte. “He always brought the best sweets. Couldn’t get them anywhere else. Nurse said so.” He studied the painting, then glanced at Vincent, still frozen on the sofa, and back up to the painting, tapping his chin with one finger.

“Did you notice he never visited after Mother died?” Wallace clipped his words.

Between one heartbeat and the next, Vincent thawed and boiled over. He jumped to his feet. “Because he died, you ignorant ass!”

Xavier’s jaw dropped open. Wallace glared at Vincent, all polite pretense gone despite still standing next to Miss Walden.

“Cosmo Papadopolous was lost at sea when his ship sank in a storm,” Aunt Gert inserted, drawing everyone’s attention.

“Your father was still mourning the death of his wife and newborn child when a few months later his dearest friend died, too. Lloyd’s of London covered the loss of his investment, but could hardly help with his overwhelming grief.

That’s why I came to visit for a few months. ”

“I remember that,” Xavier said softly. “I was about three. You would come to the nursery and tuck us in at night, like Mother used to do.”

Gert gave him a tender smile.

“Mother didn’t tuck us in when Cosmo visited,” Wallace persisted. “She was too busy paying attention to—”

Vincent lunged at him, fists already curled, could almost feel the satisfying sting in his knuckles he’d get from breaking Wallace’s nose again… but he hauled up short when Miss Walden blithely stepped in his path.

“You were how old at the time?” she calmly asked.

“Five,” Wallace bit out.

“Almost of an age to transition from a nurse to governess or tutor,” she said slowly, thoughtfully. “Hardly an age, though, to discern what one’s parents were doing downstairs after one had been sent up to bed.”

Wallace’s jaw worked but no words came out.

“And Vincent,” Xavier added. “Once he turned eight, they let him stay in the drawing room after we were sent upstairs.”

Trying to calm his breathing, Vincent took a step back. “Because they wanted a soprano for balance. Mother sang alto.”

“Sophia,” Aunt Gert called. “Would you be a dear and fetch me the journal we were working from today?”

Miss Walden left.

Feeling too much blood racing through his veins to sit, Vincent stalked over to the far side of the pianoforte where Matthew sat on the bench, pretending to be absorbed in choosing music and not the unfolding family drama.

With Vincent’s arrival, Matthew gave up any pretense, set the folder aside, and began playing from memory.

A Beethoven sonata. Number 14 in C Minor, also known as Moonlight Sonata , a slow and soothing composition that Matthew often played when someone nearby was overwrought.

Not Vincent. He felt fine. Did not need to be soothed in the least. He forced his fists to uncurl and pressed his palms to his thighs, his attention focused on Matthew’s hands as they danced over the keys.

“Thank you,” Aunt Gert said before Matthew got through the first movement.

Vincent looked up in surprise, and noticed Miss Walden had returned and handed Aunt Gert a worn leather book. Gert thumbed through the pages, Miss Walden unabashedly reading over her shoulder.

“Here we are. March 15, 1784. ‘We are in London while Digby recovers from his foot injury. I am delighted to be squired about by my brother and his wife Vincenza to all the society activities the Season has to offer. They have been anxious for some time for their eldest son, Edgar, to choose a suitable bride. Showing no inclination to do so for himself, they have reached an agreement with another family of exceptional lineage who has a daughter of marriageable age. She is comely in appearance, with the blond hair and blue eyes of a proper British lass, and has the polished manners one expects of someone who has been raised correctly. Perhaps the factor most important for Edgar’s future marital satisfaction is that she is not only accomplished at playing the pianoforte, she sings with the voice of an angel.”

Gert lifted her eyes from the book to make sure she had everyone’s attention before continuing.

“‘Had Edgar and Miss Lily Porchester managed to make each other’s acquaintance on their own, I’m sure their delight in being betrothed could not have been greater.

I have never seen such a look of adoration on Edgar’s face at first sight, except perhaps when my brother gifted him a Stradivarius violin upon his graduation from university.

Miss Porchester seemed equally enamored of Edgar by the time he finished his solo at the musicale where their introduction was accomplished. ’”

She thumbed through a few more pages. “‘April 26, 1784. Today I served as one of the witnesses at the marriage of my nephew Edgar and his bride Lily. The looks of adoration they bestowed upon one another were of such sweetness it could have been nauseating, except I recall Digby and I looking at each other in a similar manner. The duet they sang at their wedding breakfast was of such beauty they left not a dry eye in the room. I have never seen a couple so devoted to each other, except perhaps myself and my beloved Digby.’”

She looked directly at Wallace as she closed the journal.

“I consider myself a good judge of character, young man, and have been vindicated in my beliefs and intuition time after time in my seventy-five years on this earth. Therefore I feel quite confident in stating that there is no way in hell your mother cuckolded your father with anyone, let alone his friend and business partner Cosmo Papadopoulos.”

Gert glanced at Xavier, then fixed her stare on Wallace. “If she was too busy or distracted to tuck you boys in at night when Cosmo visited, it was because she was temporarily lost in the pleasure of singing and playing with someone of equal musical talent, a rarity in their life.”

No one dared breathe. Except Henry, who let out a snore on Gert’s lap.

Wallace was the first to blink and break eye contact with Gert. As if in a daze, he walked out of the room.

After a moment’s consideration, Xavier followed him.

Matthew resumed playing, right where he’d left off. Aunt Agnes stared up at the wedding portrait. Aunt Gert set aside her journal and calmly stroked the top of Henry’s head as if she hadn’t just fired a cannon in her drawing room.

Vincent couldn’t move.

A moment later he felt a nudge. Sophia took his hand in hers, silently standing close beside him, their joined hands held down at their sides. As she watched Matthew play, she stroked her thumb over the back of Vincent’s hand.