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Her eyes had always told him more about her thoughts than her words. Right now they said she hoped—and she feared. And that something in her was beginning to believe.

Justin smiled. When Brook believed in something, there was no stopping her. “Out you go, my lady.”

She leaned toward the door but then stopped and spun back around, brows creased. “Do I have to call you Lord Abingdon now?”

He chuckled. “Try it, and I’ll toss you in the drink. And if you think the air is cold, wait until you take a dip in the North Sea.”

She gave him that grin that nearly stopped his heart and let Thate help her out of the car. Justin hurried out behind her and urged her forward.

Whitby took a step toward them and nodded at Justin. “My lord, welcome back to Whitby Park. I am so glad . . .” The man’s face washed pale as he studied Brook’s face. His hands fell to his sides, limp. “Lizzie.”

Lady Ramsey rushed to Whitby, though she didn’t spare a glance toward Brook. The way her hands clamped onto his arm, Justin couldn’t be sure if she meant to steady him or keep him still. “Now, Ambrose . . .”

Before Justin could make the introductions, Brook eased forward, gaze tangled with Whitby’s. She extended her hand and, when Whitby offered his, made a polite curtsy. “My maman called me Lizette—but since her death, I have been called by my middle name. Brook.”

The marchioness released Whitby’s arm, her face going even paler than his. “That voice. Lizzie.” She took a step and swayed.

Whitby’s face went from wonder to frustration in a heartbeat. “Mary, don’t you dare—”

“Mama! Don’t!” Lady Melissa reached toward her mother.

To no effect. Lady Ramsey’s eyes rolled back, and she crumpled with surprising grace to the ground.

Justin lurched forward, but none of the servants had budged, and Whitby waved him off. “Don’t bother yourself, my lord, she is fine. Mary, do get up.” He waited a moment, but her only response was a groan. To Brook he said, “She must always steal the show. We’ve grown accustomed to it. More or less.”

Lady Regan knelt with a sigh. “You’re going to ruin your new frock, Mama. Lord Thate, would you be so good as to help me get her back on her feet?”

Obviously a task his friend had no problem with, as it put him in immediate proximity to his would-be lady. Justin looked up from the flutter in time to see Lady Melissa shake her head and press her lips against a smile.

Whitby rolled his eyes. “A cup of tea and she will be right as rain. Now.” He drew in a breath and tugged his waistcoat into place. “Again, welcome to Whitby Park. My lord, allow me first to offer my sincere condolences. We heard about your father yesterday, with great distress.”

The mention of Father brought the clouds back again, rolling like thunder through Justin’s being. Why must everyone mention it? Their condolences only made it worse. He pasted a smile into place and nodded. “He said you were an old acquaintance, when I mentioned you just before . . .”

Blast!
He ought to have known better than to let his thoughts take him so near their last moments together. He had to pause to clear any telltale emotion from his throat. “It was a great shock to us all.”

Whitby looked every bit as uncomfortable with the conversation. He nodded once and motioned toward the tall front doors. “You will stay here until Monday, of course. We will do our best to entertain you. A fox hunt or grouse hunting or billiards or . . . whatever it is young men do these days to fill their time.”

“Oh, Ambrose,
really
. Did you not look over the list I gave you?”

They both turned to where Lady Ramsey had risen to her feet
between her elder daughter and Thate. Aside from a curl out of place, she looked no worse for her faint. Whitby blinked at her and then pivoted back to Justin. “Have you need of a footman to assist you, my lord, or is your valet with you?”

“He is, yes.”

Whitby paused a moment before looking once more at Brook, and he drew in a new breath as if to brace himself. Studied her as if she might vanish like the morning mist.

Did he see any of himself in her, or just her mother? To Justin’s eye, there was little resemblance. Where Brook was fair, Whitby had hair closer to his niece’s raven, streaked through with silver. A broader face where hers was delicate and narrow. Brown eyes rather than green.

But the lines around the earl’s mouth relaxed, and he offered her his arm. “And have you a lady’s maid, my dear?”

The endearment must have loosed something inside him. His nostrils flared, and he promptly cleared his throat.

Brook tucked her fingers into the crook of his elbow and smiled. “A temporary one—my former governess is chaperoning and assisting me during the journey.”

Lady Ramsey fell in on Brook’s other side and motioned her daughters to follow. “Well, we shall see you have everything you need until you find a lady’s maid. Deirdre has a fine hand with hair. Though yours doesn’t need much work. It is lovely—exactly as Lizzie’s used to be, with those curls.”

Some of the pressure eased from Justin’s chest. Whitby and his sister both wanted to believe her their own, which meant they would look for proof of it instead of against it. They would accept her. She would find her place.

He indulged in a quick sigh and cast a half smile Thate’s way. “And where are you staying?”

“Here.” He looked around with a frown. “Mother ought to be about, unless she took tea elsewhere.”

Good. While the ladies fussed over Brook, he wouldn’t be bored senseless. Nodding, he started after the others, shoes crunching over the carefully raked macadam.

He halted when the butler stepped forward. The man bowed and held out a folded paper that flapped in a gust of salt-tinged wind. “Pardon me, Lord Abingdon. This was delivered for you not an hour ago.”

“Ah, thank you.” Who would send him a telegram here? Not Cayton, certainly, being so near. Which left Grandfather—and which inspired him to open it now rather than wait for a bit of privacy. If there were more bad news, so soon after Father . . .

“Everything all right?” Thate must have had the same thought. His voice was tight.

But a quick scan elicited only minor concern. “It must be. Grandfather says he is coming to join us in Yorkshire.”

Thate’s scowl mirrored Justin’s thoughts. “He has hardly left Ralin for two years.”

“I know.” He hadn’t even felt able to attend the sessions this past spring—and Grandfather took his responsibilities in the House of Lords very seriously. “Maybe he is on the mend.”

“I hope so.” Thate’s sobriety fled in the face of a mischievous grin. “And if he isn’t yet, he certainly will be after one look at your Brook’s angelic face. Such beauty can surely produce miraculous—”

“Oh, stop.” Had they not been in company, he would have punctuated it with a shove, as they had done as boys at school.

And Thate would have shoved him right back, even as they started after the others again. “And forgo seeing that unprecedented jealousy on your face? Unthinkable.”

“It is concern for her, not jealousy.” If his friend so much as looked at her too long, he’d toss
him
in the drink. “And you had better watch yourself, or her cousin will overhear you singing her praises.”

Thate opened his mouth but just grunted. And gave him an elbow jab too discreet to be effective.

“Adolescent.” Had they not caught up with the group, Justin would have been honor bound to return the jab with increased force. He settled for swiping his hat from his head and handing it to a servant.

Their hosts had led them through the tall front door and into the great hall with its intricately patterned floor tiling and plaster reliefs of classical scenes above the paneling. Brook, having spent much of her life in the prince’s palace, would not be cowed by the display of wealth—but having also spent time amid performers, she would nonetheless appreciate it.

Whitby directed them into the drawing room. Deep, rich colors took the place of the pastels that usually dominated such rooms, and reigning from the wall was the portrait that had convinced Justin this was Brook’s home.

She stood now in the center of the chamber, staring at the painting of the woman who could be no one but her mother. Justin slid to her side, ready to take whatever action she might need. To support her if her knees went weak, to assure her if the doubts rushed in. To protect her if the show of acceptance from the family turned to attack.

All eyes were on her, but she seemed oblivious to that. The look on her face was the exact one she had worn when they first went to the Louvre—passionate awe. She gave a minuscule shake of her head. “She was so beautiful.”

Whitby took her other side, hands again clasped behind his back. “Indeed—the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. And the kindest, with the gentlest spirit.”

“You love her very much.” Brook’s voice was a soft echo in the room.

His larynx bobbed. “She was everything. Everything. She and our daughter, for the few short months I knew her.” He
pivoted to face Brook, examined her countenance yet again. “You are Lizzie’s very image.”

Brook’s lips quirked, and a familiar light entered her eyes, the one that could keep an entire principality on its toes. “Not quite. Her nose was not so narrow, and her forehead higher. And our chins—we have very different chins. Mine is absent that crease there, below the mouth.”

Leave it to Brook to point out all the differences. Justin couldn’t help but chuckle. “And you’ll find her spirit about as gentle as a typhoon.”

Her laugh rang out like a chime. “I would warn you not to believe him,
mais
alors
. He knows me too well.”

Whitby and his sister exchanged a glance, Lady Ramsey lifting a hand to her chest. “She sounds so very like her, Ambrose.”

“Mama.” Lady Regan shook her head, though she looked more amused than anything. “After lecturing Uncle not an hour ago—”

“You didn’t know her, darling.” Voice soft rather than harsh, Lady Ramsey gripped her daughter’s hand. “Lizzie was my dearest friend. Eighteen years has not erased her memory. The voice, the face . . .”

“The crest.” Whitby’s sharp gaze turned on Justin. “That was how you identified me, with an envelope with my crest on it. But you were not sure how the envelope came to be in her possession.”

Justin could only look to Brook, who uttered a quick “Oh!” and let her little lace bag fall from where it had been looped over her arm. After flipping it open, she pulled out a folded sheet of yellowed paper.

She handed it to Whitby. “There is an entire box of correspondence in my trunk. Maman had it amid her collection, but something about them seemed different. I haven’t read them all, not knowing what they were, but that one mentioned a baby.”

“What is it, Ambrose?” Lady Ramsey asked as her daughters claimed the settee.

Justin watched the change come over Whitby’s face. From unaffected to curious to certain. His eyes scanned the page, and then he lowered it to his side and focused on Brook.

“Ambrose?”

“It is only a letter, Mary. A letter I wrote to Lizzie.” He spun away, raised a hand to his face, and pivoted back with a visage once again stoic. “Perhaps it is conceivable that these letters would have somehow ended up in a stranger’s hands. And I have certainly seen many a young woman who bore a resemblance to my wife or my own family. But when one combines it all . . . well, there is only one thing I can say.” He reached out and took Brook’s hand. More, he let his lips quiver. “Welcome home.”

The unmistakable sound of breaking china came from the opposite side of the room, shattering the mood as surely as it had the plate.

Six

D
eirdre’s face flamed hotter than a summer kitchen. She could only imagine how Beatrix felt, being the one to drop the saucer. Though it hardly mattered which of them had done it. All eyes were now on them, which was what they were to avoid at all costs.

Bile burned Deirdre’s throat, and her hands shook. Never in her seven years here had she done anything to earn a reprimand from the earl when he spoke to the staff after morning prayers, but it would surely come tomorrow. And what if he dismissed her? He usually wouldn’t after one infraction. But then, never before had anyone drawn such attention to themselves during what he seemed to believe was the most important reunion of his life.

“Oh, heaven above,” Beatrix murmured under her breath. “I think I’ll be sick.”

“Hush.” Deirdre wrapped the broken shards of china into her apron and curtsied low. “Begging your pardon, my lords. My ladies. So very sorry.”

Oh, she should have been paying more attention to laying out the tea things and less to the conversation underway. Then
she would have been able to catch the plate before it fell. But if his lordship honestly believed this girl was his daughter . . . well then, it would affect them all.

And she dared not think how Lord Pratt might react.

The marchioness sent her a scathing look, but Lord Whitby chuckled and waved a hand. “It is no matter, Deirdre. I always hated that tea service anyway.”

Lady Ramsey squeaked a protest. “That was Mother’s favorite pattern.”