Mr. Cavendish, I Presume by Julia Quinn

looked at Thomas, and he knew what she was trying to tell him. Audley didn’t know. He had no idea what it meant if his birth was indeed legitimate.
    Grace looked at him with apology. Because she was also saying that they had to tell him. They could not keep it a secret, no matter what the consequences. She said, “Someone needs to explain to Mr. Audley—”

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    “Cavendish,” the dowager snapped.
    “Mr. Cavendish-Audley,” Grace amended, ever the dip-lomat. “Someone needs to tell him that . . . that . . . ”
    She looked frantically from person to person, and then her gaze finally settled upon Audley’s stunned face.
    “Your father—the man in the painting, that is—assuming he is your father—he was his grace’s father’s . . . elder brother.”
    No one said anything.
    Grace cleared her throat. “So, if . . . if your parents were indeed lawfully married—”
    “They were,” Audley bit off.
    “Yes, of course. I mean, not of course, but—”
    “What she means,” Thomas cut in sharply, because by God, he could not stand another moment of this, “is that if you are indeed the legitimate offspring of John Cavendish, then you are the Duke of Wyndham.”
    And then he waited. For what, he wasn’t sure, but he was through with this. He’d said his part. Someone else could chime in and offer their bloody opinion.
    “No,” Audley finally said, sitting down in the closest chair. “No.”
    “You will remain here,” the dowager announced,
    “until this matter can be settled to my satisfaction.”
    “No,” Audley repeated, with considerably more con-viction. “I will not.”
    “Oh, yes, you will,” she responded. “If you do not, I will turn you in to the authorities as the thief you are.”
    “You wouldn’t do that,” Grace blurted out. She turned to the man in question. “She would never do that. Not if she believes that you are her grandson.”

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    “Shut up!” the dowager growled. “I don’t know what you think you are doing, Miss Eversleigh, but you are not family, and you have no place in this room.”
    Thomas stepped forward to intercede, but before he could utter a word, Audley stood, his back ramrod straight, his eyes hard.
    And for the first time, Thomas no longer believed he’d been lying about his military service. For Audley was every inch an officer as he ordered, “Do not speak to her in that manner ever again.”
    The dowager recoiled, stunned that he would speak to her in that manner, and over someone she considered beneath notice. “I am your grandmother,” she bit off.
    Audley did not remove his eyes from her face. “That remains to be determined.”
    “What?” Thomas burst out, before he had the chance to temper his reaction.
    Audley looked at him with cool assessment.
    “Are you now trying to tell me,” Thomas said disbelievingly, “that you don’t think you are the son of John Cavendish?”
    The other man shrugged, suddenly looking more like the rogue he’d been playing earlier. “Frankly, I’m not so certain I wish to gain entry into this charming little club of yours.”
    “You don’t have a choice,” the dowager said.
    Audley glanced at her sideways. “So loving. So thoughtful. Truly, a grandmother for the ages.”
    Grace let out the choked sound that Thomas would have made—in any other circumstances. No, he would have laughed aloud, truly. But not now. Not with a po-102 Julia
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    tential usurper standing in his godforsaken drawing room.
    “Your grace,” Grace said hesitantly, but he just didn’t want to hear it right now. He didn’t want to hear anything—no one’s opinions, no one’s suggestions, nothing.
    Good God, they were all looking at him, waiting for him to make a decision, as if he were in charge.
    Oh, now, that was rich. He didn’t even know who the bloody hell he was any longer. No one, possibly. No one at all. Certainly not the head of the family.
    “Wyndham—” his grandmother