by Cheryl Holt
The truth was that she had been adopted by Thomas and Ruth Robertson. In every way that counted, they’d been her parents, her real parents, and growing up, Sarah hadn’t ever been curious about who might have deposited her on the doorstep at the orphanage those many years ago.
It was a private facility where the noble and notorious left their natural children. It wasn’t as dilapidated or dangerous as the public facilities. The top-lofty families paid extra to hide their illicit offspring, so in that, Sarah was lucky. She’d thrived under the Robertsons’ care and had charmed them sufficiently that they’d made her their own daughter.
As she’d gotten older and had begun to understand more about her parents’ business, she’d realized that she probably had lofty antecedents as well. Noblemen sired bastards, and desperate relatives brought them to the Robertsons.
She’d been delivered when she was three, and they’d claimed they had no information about her past. She’d believed them—until her father had perished three years earlier. When she’d been sorting through his papers, she’d found a tattered birth certificate that revealed secrets she’d rather not have uncovered.
She was a Blake. Her father had been Viscount Matthew Blake. Wouldn’t that mean old Godwin Blake, the prior earl, was her grandfather? Wouldn’t that mean Nathan Blake, the new earl, was her brother?
She spoke the word brother out into the quiet room, and it seemed to reverberate off the walls. Did she recall having a brother? Might she ever have lived with him? She thought they might have once been together. Was that why she’d always felt a part of her was missing?
If they’d lived together, why had they been separated? And who had separated them?
She had no idea, just as she had no idea where she’d been those first three years of her life, and it was silly to fret and ponder. It never took her in a beneficial direction. She was happy with how things were.
She went over to the desk and pulled out the birth certificate so she could peruse it for what had to have been the thousandth time.
Father: Matthew Blake, Viscount Blake
Mother: Mary Carter
She voiced their names aloud too, Matthew and Mary, merely to hear how they sounded. Then she tucked the document back where it belonged.
What was the point of staring at it? There was no point really.
* * * *
Nathan gazed up at the London house Edwina had sent him to. After she’d finally provided the address, he’d worried she might lie, that she might simply list a random location to vex him, but it was the right place.
Visually, he noted the details. There was the carved gate. There was the bricked drive leading up to the front door. There were the flowerboxes under the windows. Yes, he remembered it all.
It was a fine dwelling, two stories high and constructed of red brick, with black shutters. He recollected it being very large, very grand, but it was actually quite modest in size and design. The street was in an area where successful lawyers or merchants might reside.
He didn’t have to wonder why his father had selected it. No doubt Godwin Blake had tormented his son and heir—just as he’d tormented Nathan. Nathan had survived his ordeal by meeting Sebastian Sinclair. Sir Sidney had opened his home to Nathan, had regarded him as a second son, so Nathan had escaped.
Had there been anyone to rescue his poor father from Godwin’s machinations? He didn’t think so.
He supposed his father had been disowned and cut off financially from the family’s coffers. Godwin had been a miser who’d enjoyed using his money to punish people. He’d refused to give any of it to Nathan, but then, Nathan hadn’t needed any.
As a child, he’d fled with the Sinclairs to Africa, and Sir Sidney had funded the trips. After Nathan’s grandfather had died and he’d become earl, he’d gained access to the estate accounts and had been able to pay his own way.
When his grandfather had fiscally punished his father, what had his father done?
Evidently, he’d moved to this quiet neighborhood and had lived an unpretentious, quiet life.
Nathan had been dawdling long enough that he was surprised no one had come outside to ask his purpose. He knew he should continue on, but he was frozen in his spot, as if the house were a magnet that wouldn’t release him. His head was aching again, his heart pounding as if there was danger lurking beyond the horizon.
What might it be?
A vision roiled him, of himself as an angry boy in the driveway. Carriages had rolled off, and the servants fought with him so he couldn’t chase after them. Who had been in the vehicles? Why had he been so determined to stop them?
He struggled to recall, to bring the vision into clearer focus, but he couldn’t. It was as if his memories were behind a locked door he couldn’t unseal.
This is a dirty business, a footman had muttered.
The chilling words rang in his mind.
He heard footsteps, and he glanced down the block to find an elderly gentleman approaching, his cane rhythmically tapping the bricks.
“Good morning to you,” he said to Nathan. “If you’re about to knock, the occupants are away at a wedding. You’ve missed them.”
“I hadn’t decided if I’d knock or not.” Nathan pointed to the house. “I lived here years ago. I was dithering over whether I should beg to be let inside so I could see my old bedchamber.”
“They’re kindly folks. They’d have been delighted to show you around.”
“Maybe I’ll visit again after they’re home.”
“You should.”
“Have you lived on this street for long?”
“Yes, we bought when the area was first built. It’s been forty-five years now.”
“Might you have known my father? Matthew Blake?”
The man studied Nathan curiously, then he said, “I did know Viscount Blake. If he was your father, I’m betting you’re young Nathan.”
“Yes, I’m Nathan Blake.”
“You look just like him. You’re the spitting image.”
“I don’t remember much about him, but I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should. He was quite handsome and dashing.”
“I thought he was, but my recollection is hazy. After he passed away, I buried a lot of details, and I can’t seem to lure them to the surface. It’s the real reason I’m here today. I was trying to jog loose some facts.”
“I’ve often read about you in the newspapers. Aren’t you supposed to be deceased?”
Nathan snorted with disgust. Would the hideous story ever go away? “I wasn’t deceased. I was…lost.”
“I’m glad you’re so fit and hale, but I must admit, your black eyes lend you a rather sinister air. When I initially noticed you, I worried you might have ominous intentions.”
“I had a minor disagreement with an acquaintance. We resolved it with fisticuffs.”
“It must have been a tad more than a minor disagreement.”
“It might have been.”
“Arthur Wilson,” the man said, and they shook hands. “Your father wrestled with some private issues, but all in all, he was a fine person. He certainly doted on you. He’d be proud of your adventuring.”
“I hope so.”
“How are your pretty sisters?” he asked.
“My sisters?”
“The twins? They’ve likely both been married forever, and you’re an uncle a dozen times over.”
A roaring started in Nathan’s ears, and it grew until it was such a cacophony that he felt as if his head might explode. Suddenly, he was too dizzy to stand, and he staggered and collapsed down onto a knee.
“Whoa there, my dear fellow!” Mr. Wilson said. “Are you all right?”
“No.”
Nathan huddled on the cobbles, anxious to catch his breath. He was panting to fill his lungs, as if he’d run a long race.
Mr. Wilson hovered nervously, watching until Nathan mustered the energy to push himself to his feet.
“I had sister
s?” He was completely befuddled by the news.
“Ah…yes?” Mr. Wilson frowned as if Nathan were an imbecile. “They were precious little angels, with curly blond hair and big blue eyes. My wife always said they looked like porcelain dolls.”
“But…but…where are they?” he murmured more to himself than to Mr. Wilson.
Mr. Wilson blanched. “You don’t know?”
The question hung between them, and Nathan yanked his gaze from Wilson and shifted it to the house. He stared keenly—as if he could peer through the walls and into the past.
Then…?
He saw the twins prancing down the stairs, their starched petticoats swishing.
They were hand in hand, their heads pressed close, and they were babbling to each other in a secret language only they could comprehend.
“Sissy and Bec-Bec.” The names bubbled up from an ancient cauldron of missing information.
“Yes, those were their nicknames.”
“I didn’t remember about them—until just now.”
“My goodness.”
“What could have happened to them?” he asked.
“I’ve wondered myself, and we prayed it had worked out for the best.”
“Obviously, it didn’t.”
Mr. Wilson hesitated, then claimed, “It was a dirty business.”
The sentence sent a shiver down Nathan’s spine. “What was?”
“The things that transpired after your father’s death. Your sisters were taken away, but we were never sure to where. There were such awful rumors. We couldn’t decide if we should believe them or not.”
“What were the rumors and who took them away?”
“Is your Aunt Edwina still alive?”
“Yes.”
“You need to have a long talk with her.”
“I definitely will—the minute I’m home.”
Mr. Wilson waved down the street. “My house is that third one. Would you like to join me for a cup of tea?”
“I think I should.”
“With you as my guest, my daughter might let us splash some brandy in it.”
“I could use a beverage much stronger than tea.”
“And brandy will loosen my tongue. I will tell you all that I know—and all I suspect.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“I won’t marry him, Mother. I don’t care what you say. You’ll never make me.”
Nell huddled in a chair in the corner, hoping she was invisible. They were back at Selby, in Florence’s sitting room. Susan and Florence were standing in front of the hearth, puffed up like a pair of ornery bulls that were about to lock horns.
She and Susan had chatted about the situation all the way to Selby. Nell had tried to persuade her to calm down, to ponder the probable consequences of rash action. It wasn’t easy to renege on a betrothal. There was a huge fortune at stake, and the appropriate contracts had been signed.
Edwina and Percy Blake would be adamant that the marriage go forward—no matter what—and Nell was terribly afraid that Albert and Florence would demand the same. Nathan, as head of the Blake family, would be dragged into it too. What would his opinion be?
She couldn’t guess.
If Susan’s parents ordered her to wed Percy, it wasn’t the Middle Ages. A bride couldn’t be forced into matrimony against her will. Yet if Susan disobeyed her parents, what would transpire?
Nell had no idea. Albert and Florence doted on Susan, and they never quarreled with her, but then, Susan had been the perfect daughter and had never given them a reason to be enraged. Were they finally at a spot where the Middletons would erupt with dissension? Would Nell be pelted by the shrapnel?
She was determined to stay out of the line of fire.
“You won’t marry Percy?” Florence asked. “What are you talking about?”
“Percy has a mistress—and two children,” Susan fumed.
“So?” Florence snidely asked.
Susan threw up her hands. “Why aren’t you incensed?”
“Your wedding is in six days. What are you expecting? We’d call it off?”
“Yes!” Susan vehemently stated. “That’s exactly what I’m expecting.”
Florence snorted with disgust. “Don’t be ridiculous. We’re not calling it off. We’ve tendered a down payment on the dowry. Percy has some of the money in his bank account.”
“Are you deaf? It’s not up to you. I have decided, and I will not proceed!”
Florence rolled her eyes as if Susan was a toddler having a tantrum. “Your father will certainly have a comment on that ludicrous attitude.”
“It won’t dissuade me. He can rant and rave and issue threats, but they won’t work. I will not enter into a flawed union with such an inconstant philanderer.”
“Evidently, I’ve been much too lax in teaching you the facts of life.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Susan snottily inquired.
“Men have affairs, Susan. They sire illegitimate children. It happens.”
“Yes, and now, it’s happened to me! Did you know about this? Did Father?”
“I believe your father might have mentioned it.”
Susan looked as if she might faint. “And you betrothed me anyway?”
Florence tsked with exasperation. “Why would you assume your marriage should be different from any other woman’s? You’re not special. There is no magical cloak to protect you from the slings and arrows a husband might inflict.”
It was a horrid remark, and Nell bit down a gasp. As to Susan, she was livid.
“Is that your answer? You dare claim I should accept this? Are you mad, Mother? What is wrong with you?” Suddenly, Susan whirled on Nell. “Tell her what we saw.”
“I think she’s clear on it,” Nell wanly said. “I doubt she needs clarification.”
Florence must have forgotten Nell was present. With Susan addressing her, Florence whirled on her too.
“You took her to town!” Florence accused.
“I didn’t take her, Florence. She asked me to accompany her, and she couldn’t go alone.”
Florence wasn’t appeased. “You let this occur! You encouraged her.”
“I didn’t encourage her. I simply listened and advised.”
“Yes, and it appears with your stellar advice you’ve convinced her to back out of her marriage!”
“I didn’t!” Nell tersely insisted.
Susan stepped between them. “Mother! Stop chastising her. This is my problem, and this is my choice. Nell isn’t to blame.”
“A likely story!” Florence seethed. “You will both retire to your bedchambers and remain there until I permit you to come out. Susan, we will inform our hosts that you’re indisposed. I’ll have meal trays delivered to your room until you begin to act appropriately.”
“I won’t pretend I’m ill. We should return to London at once.”
Florence bristled. “Return…to…to…London? Now who’s mad? I shall send a messenger to town immediately to summon your father. You will shut your mouth until he arrives to speak to you.”
“I already told you. He can lecture me all he wants, but it won’t help.”
“You will not disrespect me!” Florence hissed, and instantly, she altered into someone Nell had never met before.
She stormed over to Susan and slapped her as hard as she could. The blow was so powerful that Susan staggered and nearly fell to the floor.
Nell was stunned, anxious to jump up and intervene, but confused about her role and whether she was allowed to interfere. Susan rubbed her cheek and glared at her mother with a great deal of malice, but she didn’t burst into tears.
“Is that how you respond, Mother?” she spat. “You can’t commiserate or offer any sympathy. You simply hit me as if I’m a wayward servant? You can’t treat me like this.”
Florence stiffened, seeming cruel and dangerous. “You don’t feel I can do whatever I like to you?”
“No, I don’t,” Susan unwisely retorted.
&
nbsp; “You’re twenty, which means I am fully in charge of you. I can lock you in a convent for the rest of your days. I can throw you into a mental asylum and keep you there with the other lunatics until you relent and behave as I bid you. I’ll simply testify to a judge that you refused to wed the man your father picked for you.”
“You wouldn’t!” Susan mulishly said, but some of her recalcitrance had waned.
“I would. Any judge in the land would recognize your disobedience as a sign of insanity. I’d have a court order like that!” Florence snapped her fingers, the sound echoing off the high ceiling. “Go to your room—and stay there until your father arrives! I’m sick of the sight of you!”
Susan was shocked by the encounter, and she fled without glancing back. She probably assumed Nell was hot on her heels, and Nell had intended to be, but as she rose to follow, Florence said, “I’m not finished talking to you. Sit down!”
Nell eased into her chair. She struggled to maintain a composed façade, but her mind was racing. She always hated to upset Florence, but Susan was her best friend, and Nell was very loyal. She was caught between them and could only work to calm Florence so she didn’t spew rash comments in the heat of the moment that she would be too proud to ever retract.
“I’m so disappointed in you,” Florence started, giving Nell no opportunity to steer the conversation in a different direction.
“I’m sorry.” What else could Nell say?
“Do you think Susan’s marriage is some sort of game? Some sort of jest?”
“No, Florence! I would never think that.”
“Yet you’ve colluded with her to her detriment.”
“We didn’t collude!” Nell shook her head with annoyance. “I don’t understand this vitriol. Susan is about to be a bride, but her groom is a dedicated libertine. You can’t suppose she’d be thrilled by the discovery. What bride would be?”
“Her father chose her spouse for her, and she doesn’t get to have an opinion about his character—or lack of it.”
From Florence’s statement, it was obvious there would be no reasoning with her. Still though, Nell had to try—for all their sakes.
“Were you telling the truth about the situation with Percy?” she asked. “You and Albert learned of his other family, yet you deemed him to be suitable? I may be about to make you even angrier, but Susan is your daughter. Why would you deliberately place her in a quagmire that would end up hurting her like this?”
