by Candace Camp
He did not look up at the sound of their entrance, and Alex had to call his name twice before the old man glanced up. “Oh, Alex, dear boy. I thought you were out on one of your adventures.”
“We were...last night. It’s past breakfast now.”
“Is it?” Bellard looked toward the windows, where light shone from beneath the edges of the drapes. “Excellent. I thought I was getting rather peckish.”
“That’s good, because we brought you up some food.”
“I was reading about the Battle of Thermopylae. I’m not as much a scholar of ancient Greece and Rome as your father, of course, but I found it fascinating. Hopelessly outnumbered, standing firm at the pass—it’s the perfect example of courage, but also a textbook use of the terrain to counter one’s lack of numbers.”
“Indeed,” Alex agreed. Sabrina wondered if he knew what Uncle Bellard was talking about; she certainly didn’t. However, she had found that ignorance was no obstacle to a conversation with the historian. Alex set the plate down on the table beside his uncle’s book. “Here you are. May I move your book?”
“Oh, yes.” The old man glanced around at the jumble of soldiers emptied out on one end of the table and the floor beside him already stacked with books. Finally he carried the large book to his chair by the fire, laying it out open on the seat. “There now. This looks delicious. And tea! Thank you, dear girl.”
Bellard set aside his reading glasses and tucked into his food. Dispelling all notion of the lack of mental acuity his vague manner implied, he said, “Did you find anything at the house you visited last night?”
“We did, indeed.” Alex pulled up a stool for Sabrina to sit on, then perched on the edge of the table, bracing himself with one leg on the floor. “We found a photograph of a family—we think the child in the picture was Sabrina.”
“Really?” He looked at her with bright interest. “But you did not, I take it, find any indication of a name.”
“No. Only the furniture and wall decorations were left there. All personal items had been cleaned out. It’s obviously been occupied only by tenants.”
“I wonder why they left the paintings,” Bellard mused.
“Gave it a homier look, I imagine. People living there just for the Season wouldn’t want to be hauling all their paintings about, but bare walls make it so obviously leased. Tom will look into the records today, but there was one other thing we discovered that might help. We’re assuming that all the paintings were left there by Sabrina’s family—certainly the photograph and a large portrait were. There was another pen-and-ink drawing in the study. Sabrina recognized the subject as Wells Cathedral.”
“Wells, eh?” Bellard was quick to catch the significance. “So you think that perhaps you are familiar with Wells. That you perhaps lived there at some point. Or at least visited often.”
“Exactly,” Alex agreed.
“Of course, I’m not sure I was correct,” Sabrina added. “It might not have been Wells.”
“That’s easy enough to check,” Uncle Bellard told her cheerfully, setting aside his half-finished plate and popping up to go to his book cabinets. He slid his fingers along the spines of one shelf, pulled one out and flipped through it, then did the same for another. “Ha! I knew there was a drawing in one of these books, just couldn’t remember which.” He brought it back to the table and laid it down, open to a drawing of a cathedral.
“That’s it,” Alex said. “It’s from a different angle, but that’s the same cathedral.”
Sabrina nodded. Strangely, the more she learned about herself, the more uncomfortable she felt. “I suppose I could have recognized it from books or something.”
Alex gave her a skeptical glance. “Do you know what Durham Cathedral looks like? Or Winchester?”
“No. I agree—I must have some sort of familiarity with the place.”
“I’ll start looking into Wells.” Uncle Bellard sounded pleased with the idea. “Wells is very old. It had a Roman encampment, you know—natural place to build because of the three wells it contained. In the civil war it was besieged by parliamentarian forces, and they damaged the cathedral. Stabled their horses in it.” Uncle Bellard sighed. “Used the statuary for target practice, too. One wonders why these religious warriors are so intent on destroying things. The last of the Bloody Assizes were held in Wells, as well.”
“I’ve heard of the Bloody Assizes,” Alex said. “But I don’t know what they were about.”
“They were after the Battle of Sedgemoor in the Levels, when the Monmouth Rebellion collapsed.”
“The Levels?” Alex asked.
“The lowlands in northern Somerset,” his uncle explained.
“Glastonbury Tor is there,” Sabrina added, and both men turned to look at her. She shrugged. “Apparently I know Glastonbury Tor, as well. It stands in the midst of the Levels, just this one single hill, with nothing but flat land all around it. It’s eerie when you see it in the distance rising up out of a mist.”
“They say the Levels were once part of the sea and Glastonbury Tor was an island in it,” Bellard said. “Some people also think it was the island of Avalon of Arthurian legend. Miss Sabrina, I think it’s more and more likely that you have lived in that area. I have a number of books...” He trailed off, moving toward the bookcases.
“Perhaps Wells is where you moved when your family left the house we were in last night,” Alex suggested.
“But why did I start out in Baddesly Commons? And why would I have gone to London? Why wouldn’t I have gone to Wells if it was my home?”
“Perhaps just to throw off your pursuer.” Alex shrugged. “It would make that ticket to Bath even more reasonable, as if you were running for home. The thing is, you must have lived in London as well, even though it didn’t seem familiar. Those pictures in that house, you being in possession of the owner’s pocket watch...”
She nodded. “Yes. No doubt you’re right. It’s so disappointing that the house didn’t waken my memory.”
“Well, it’s been six years since the owner left. You would have been young, and memories fade. Still, when you were getting that ticket to Wells and to London, you would have known about the house and thought you could stay there. Or perhaps you have a relative or friend here—the letter writer seems likely—whom you believed would shelter you. Hopefully Tom will find out something from the records, but while he is looking, I think it’s more important than ever to find someone who recognizes you.”
“You mean go to another party?”
He nodded. “After seeing that house and the portrait of that woman, I think it’s very likely you know someone who moves in Society. We’ve gone only to small sort of gatherings before now. But tonight Mrs. Roger Dalhousie is hosting a gala. It’s always a crush—Mrs. Dalhousie casts a very wide net. Kyria is going, and I think Theo and Megan could be persuaded to, as well. With all six of us, our entrance will be noticed. Even if it’s not, the odds are Megan will trigger some sort of contretemps before the evening is over.”
Sabrina giggled. “Does she always?”
“Almost without fail—well, being American and Irish and a reporter, not to mention a reformer like my mother, she’s bound to offend someone sooner or later.” He grinned. “We’ll go up and down the grand staircase several times just to make sure everyone sees you.”
“Very well. But it seems an awfully haphazard method.”
“It is. But it’s better than doing nothing.”
That evening, as Alex had predicted, they made a grand entrance, arriving with Kyria’s usual lateness, so that the family group walked down the wide stairs into the ballroom alone. Since Kyria wore a peacock blue gown, with a pin of jeweled stones resembling a peacock itself in her vivid red hair, it would have been difficult for anyone not to notice them.
Hard as it was to shine with Kyria in the party, Megan managed it, wearing a f
lame-red dress that picked up the reddish highlights in her hair. Kyria had chosen a pale pink satin gown for Sabrina, assuring her that it was the perfect foil for her dramatic black hair and strawberries-and-cream complexion. And, of course, when Sabrina tried it on, she saw immediately that Kyria was right. The ruche of the skirt’s lush material combined with the delicate color of the gown managed to make it look both luscious and demure at the same time.
Walking down the stairs on Alex’s arm, Sabrina felt like a queen making a state entrance. Her nerves quivered at the thought of being the object of so many people’s gazes, but with Alex beside her, she could ignore the stares.
The party was, as Alex had predicted, a crush. They wove their way through the crowd of people. Kyria greeted people right and left, skillfully managed to slide out of entangling conversations and avoid outright introductions of Sabrina, having no last name to give. Sabrina met a veritable sea of faces without recognizing a single one. It was a relief, after a long tour of the room, when Alex declared that they had done enough for the moment.
As the others wandered off, Alex snagged a couple of glasses of punch for Sabrina and himself. There was another smaller staircase at the opposite end of the huge room, and he steered her over to it, carefully maneuvering it so that they stood a couple of steps up on the staircase as they chatted, still in full view of the party.
At first Sabrina was uncomfortably conscious of being an object of attention, but after a few moments, she forgot about everyone else, as she was caught up in her conversation with Alex. So she did not notice the woman approaching them until the woman, only feet away, exclaimed, “Sabrina? Sabrina Blair? Whatever are you doing in London?”
Chapter Thirteen
SABRINA WHIRLED AND stared at the woman, shocked. She was taller than Sabrina and demurely dressed in a white dress accented with rows of lace ruffles around the bottom of the overskirt, sleeves and neckline. Pale blue bows decorated each point where the overskirt was raised to reveal the froth of lacy underskirt. Wearing pristine white gloves and a strand of modest pearls around her neck, she looked every inch a proper young lady—corseted, straight, her neckline not too high to be unfashionable, nor too low to be indiscreet. Her eyes were a quiet gray blue, and the only flamboyant thing about her was her wealth of hair, a vibrant reddish gold, which she had tamed into a conservatively upswept style.
She smiled as she walked forward and said, “I didn’t realize you were here. Peter said nothing about it.” As Sabrina gazed at her blankly, her steps faltered and she stopped. “Sabrina?” The smile dropped from her face, surprised puzzlement turning to hurt. “Sabrina? What—” Her gaze flickered toward Alex and she stiffened a little. “I didn’t realize you knew Lord Cons—” Her eyes narrowed. “No, wait, I’m sorry, you are not Lord Constantine, are you? You must be—”
“Alexander. Yes, you’re right.” Alex smiled and bowed to her. “You know Con?”
“We are acquaintances, nothing more.” She offered him a tight smile. “Pray forgive me. I did not mean to intrude on you and Miss Blair.” She nodded politely toward Sabrina and started to turn away.
“No, wait!” Sabrina finally broke from her paralysis.
“Yes, please,” Alex agreed, smoothly drawing the woman aside to the relative seclusion of a potted palm against the wall. “We would very much like to talk to you.”
“I’m sorry,” Sabrina told her earnestly, reaching out as if to take her arm, then dropping her hand. Hope and fear churned in her chest. “Please. I... Obviously I should recognize you.”
“Recognize me!” Their visitor goggled at her, red rising in her cheeks. “I should think so—we’ve been friends since we could walk!”
“Miss—” Alex began. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know your name.”
She quirked an eyebrow but said tersely, “I am Miss Holcutt.”
“Did you by any chance write Miss Blair a letter, inviting her to visit you?”
Miss Holcutt gaped at him. “Yes, of course I did. I always do—” She swung toward Sabrina. “Sabrina, I don’t understand. What is going on? Why are you—”
“Miss Holcutt.” Sabrina took a deep breath. “I know how bizarre this must seem, but the thing is, I don’t remember you. I don’t remember anything. I had no idea what my last name was until you just called me Sabrina Blair. The only reason I knew Sabrina was from my locket.” Her fingers went instinctively to touch the gold locket at her throat.
“Your mother’s locket?”
Tears sprang into Sabrina’s eyes. “Is it? It belongs to my mother?”
“Yes. Mr. Blair gave it to her when you were born.”
“Then that is my birthdate.”
Miss Holcutt gazed at her for a long moment. “This is real? It’s not...some sort of jest?” Her eyes went to Alex.
“No, it’s not a joke,” he told her. “I promise. Whatever you may have heard about Con and me, neither of us would play such a prank. And to what purpose?”
“I—I see.” It was clear she did not. “But how... Why—”
“I don’t know,” Sabrina said. “I don’t know anything. We think I hit my head somehow. Whatever the reason, I remember nothing before a fortnight ago.”
“But this is so...”
“Preposterous?” Sabrina offered with a wry smile. She had no recollection of Miss Holcutt, but she instinctively liked her and felt at ease with her. It was not difficult to believe that the woman was her friend. “I know. It’s even more preposterous to be living it, believe me.”
Miss Holcutt smiled, visibly relaxing, and Sabrina thought that she had, finally, completely believed the story. “My name is Lilah—that’s what you usually call me.”
“Lilah.” Impulsively Sabrina took the other woman’s hand. “Oh, Lilah, this is wonderful! I have a million questions to ask you.”
“Of course. But I don’t understand. Why did Peter not tell me? I just spoke to him and his father as they came in, and he said nothing about you being here.” She paused, her forehead wrinkling. “And how could you not know your last name when Mr. Dearborn and Peter are with you?”
“Who is Mr. Dearborn? Who’s Peter?” Sabrina asked. An icy fear began in the pit of her stomach, and beside her she felt Alex stiffen.
“Why, your guardian, of course. Mr. Dearborn is your guardian. And Peter—”
“Sabrina!” A man’s voice cut through the noise of the party. “Oh, my God, Sabrina! Thank heavens you’re all right.”
They all turned to see a young man plowing through the crowd toward them, an older man in his wake. Sabrina did not recognize either of them, but the ice in her stomach grew, and she took an instinctive step back. She saw Lilah glance at her in surprise, and Alex moved forward, placing himself between Sabrina and the approaching men.
The young man stopped, casting an assessing glance at Alex before turning back to Sabrina. His eyes were intent on her face as he said, “Sabrina...Father and I have been looking for you all over.”
“Who are you?” Sabrina asked bluntly. His intensity bothered her, as did the way he looked at her, his eyes lit with significance, as if he were conveying some secret message.
“What?” His jaw dropped. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know who you are.”
The older man had joined them and he looked equally astounded by Sabrina’s words. “What the devil! Sabrina, stop this nonsense and come home at once.”
“Miss Blair isn’t going anywhere, sir,” Alex told him firmly. “I’ll repeat her question. Who are you?”
“She doesn’t remember anything,” Lilah said, joining the conversation. “I don’t understand why you didn’t tell me about this, Peter.”
“I—I didn’t know.” He glanced at her, then back at Sabrina. “You don’t remember anything?”
“No.” She shook her head.
“Good God,” th
e older man blurted. “This is—” He stopped, apparently unable to come up with a word to encompass the situation.
“But, Sabrina,” the younger man went on, watching her carefully, “I’m Peter. I’m your husband.”
All the air went out of Sabrina’s lungs. She thought she was about to faint, but Lilah grabbed her arm and held her upright. Sabrina leaned against her gratefully.
“Odd, then, isn’t it, that she’s never mentioned you?” Alex said in a cool voice, crossing his arms. “I’ll ask you once again, sir. Who are you?”
“I am Niles Dearborn, not that it’s any business of yours,” the older man snapped. “I am Miss Blair’s guardian. This is Peter, my son, and as he just told you, Sabrina’s husband.”
“Yet you just called her Miss Blair.”
Color rose in Dearborn’s face. He clenched his hands at his sides. “A natural mistake, as they were only recently wed. I don’t know who you are, but this is no concern of yours. Come, Sabrina.” He reached out an imperious hand toward her.
Sabrina shook her head. “No.”
“What?” Dearborn stared at her in amazement, as did Peter and Lilah.
“She said, ‘No.’” Alex raised his voice, and the other man glanced at him in irritation.
“Who the devil are you?”
“I am Lord Alexander Moreland.” There was an imperious tone to Alex’s voice that Sabrina had never heard before. “Miss Blair doesn’t wish to go anywhere with you, and her wishes are my concern.”
Mr. Dearborn’s gaze turned wary, and beside him his son murmured, “The Duke of Broughton’s son, I believe, Father.”
“Yes, well.” Dearborn cleared his throat and began in a more conciliatory voice, “As you can see, Mi—Mrs. Dearborn is unwell. Her memory is faulty.”