The old man banged his clenched fists on the arms of his chair. “Then why did he not send for the lad, eh? Why be content to leave the boy in India, if he believed him to be his true heir?”
“It makes no odds what he believed, Saunderton, as well you know. Giffard was born in wedlock and he is the legal heir to the earldom.”
“Yes, and all he is lacking is proof of his identity, sir,” chimed in Delia. “Even if you’ve destroyed those letters, I am convinced you could help him if you chose.”
“I don’t choose, wench! I want nothing to do with the cub. Let him go back where he came from, for he ain’t welcome here.”
Beginning to despair of making any impression on him, Delia hunted her mind for an argument to use and recalled what he’d said earlier. “Why did you think he was dead?”
“A good point, Delia. Favell wrote only of Flora’s death, but I know for a fact he wrote to Henry more than once.”
Excitement rose in Delia. “You said letters, in the plural, did you not? What was in the others?”
“How the devil should I know? D’ye think I memorised every word?”
“But did Giff’s father tell you he was dead?”
“Don’t be a ninny, why should he?”
“Then why did you think so?”
The old man’s face worked for a moment. Then it burst from him as if torn out of his heart. “Because Piers told me so!” He breathed deeply, recovering a measure of control. “Damned young scoundrel! Took him to task when I heard what he was up to, horning in on my grandson’s rights. Said he’d done his damnedest to locate the boy. Said his contact in India had written to say Giffard had perished of one of the fevers they have there, soon after his mother’s demise.”
The Reverend Gaunt was aghast. “But he did not produce such a letter! Nor was Hammersley privy to anything of the kind. And he’d set his own enquiries in train. He had no address, for Henry kept silent on that score. Yet he passed the letters to you, Saunderton.”
“You should have kept them,” Delia cried. “You had no right to destroy them!”
Lord Saunderton flew into another passion. “No right? Who are you to tell me my rights? Ah, enough! I’ve had enough of this! Out! Get out, both of you! Never let me see your face again, wench!”
Delia backed away as the old man groped for the stick leaning against the fireplace surround. But the rector held his ground.
“Very well, we’ll go, Saunderton. But know this. You do yourself harm by your obstinacy, no one else.”
“D’ye think I care? All I want is to be left alone!”
Goaded, Delia could not refrain from retort. “You will be, sir! Giff will never seek you out, be sure. If you ever wish to see him, you will have to buckle!”
Grabbing his stick, the old man brandished it. “I buckle? I’ll see him in hell first! Out, I say! Get out of my house!”
The Reverend Gaunt urged her towards the door. “Come, Delia. There is no point in remaining.”
“But we’ve failed, sir! I can’t bear it!”
“It was a long shot at best, my dear,” said the rector, low-toned. At the door, he turned, raising his voice. “We’ll bid you farewell, Saunderton.”
The old man roared and the stick flew across the room. “Get out! Out, I say!”
In haste, Delia seized the door handle and scrambled through ahead of the rector. He shut the door behind them, letting out a resigned sigh.
“Devilish fellow!”
“I think he is half mad, sir!”
“A trifle senile, I fear.” He patted Delia in a consoling manner. “You did your best, my dear Delia.”
“I feel a good deal frustrated, sir, I must say. I had high hopes we might persuade him to help Giff.”
“Yes, I know you had. However, our efforts are not entirely wasted. We have at least proof of Piers’s perfidy. If he could lie to Saunderton, his whole conduct becomes suspect.”