by Darcy Burke
“Rafe?”
He heard his name but didn’t turn.
Selina’s hand touched his arm. “Rafe?”
“I remember this, Lina. Before I walked into the house, I could describe the entry hall, this staircase. Up there is a gallery with portraits.” He started toward the stairs, stopping at the first step and turning his head to look at her. “Are you coming?”
She hurried to follow him. “What does this mean?”
“I’m not sure. But I think we did more than visit Ivy Grove.”
Selina halted when they reached the top, and he looked back at her. She’d gone a bit pale.
He reached for her hand and gave her a reassuring nod. Together, they walked through one of the archways that separated the gallery from the area overlooking the hall below. At one end there was a chaise, and at the other, a pair of chairs. “Those chairs aren’t right,” he said. “There wasn’t anything there before.”
“How are you remembering this?” Selina whispered.
He couldn’t answer. Squeezing her hand, he led her toward the chairs, then abruptly stopped in front of the portrait he’d been looking for.
A gasp from Selina seemed to take in all the air around them. “Who is that?” She looked from the portrait to Rafe and back again. “He looks just like you.”
“That’s because he’s our grandfather. We lived here, Lina. I’m certain of it.”
“We lived here?” She looked around, the color still gone from her face.
He felt her shake, her body wilt. Releasing her hand, he clasped his arm about her waist and held her steady against him. “Our nursery was on the second floor. We could see the folly from the window.” He hadn’t remembered any of this before today, but being here, seeing the house, had brought a flood of memories back.
“But this house isn’t new, and our house burned down. Didn’t it?”
“May I help you?” a feminine voice asked pleasantly.
Rafe and Selina turned in unison. From her garb, the woman was a servant. Her mostly silver hair was pulled back severely from her round face and tucked beneath a cap. Her dark eyes settled on them with curiosity. “May I escort you downstairs to the ballroom?” Her mouth turned down, and she stepped toward them. She looked from Rafe to the portrait, her eyes widening, before returning her attention to Rafe.
“It can’t be,” she breathed, moving even closer, and stared up into his face. “You are the mirror image, but—” She blinked then squinted slightly. “Your eye…the orange spot…”
Rafe leaned toward her slightly, widening his eyes. “In my right eye, yes.”
“Dear Lord.” The woman went completely white before crumpling to the floor.
“Bloody hell,” Rafe muttered.
“The chaise,” Selina said, gesturing to the other end of the gallery.
Rafe bent down and swept the woman into his arms, bearing her to the chaise, where he carefully laid her atop the cushions. “She recognized me.”
“I think so.” Selina sounded as breathless as Rafe felt.
The woman’s eyes fluttered open. She blinked at Selina before looking at Rafe. Lifting her hand to her mouth, she shook her head. Tears gathered in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks.
A cascade of emotions rioted through Rafe, but none so strong as the desperate need to know. “Why are you crying?”
“It’s you—it has to be.”
“Who am I?” He glanced toward Selina. “Who are we?”
The woman’s tear-filled gaze moved to Selina. “And you must be wee Selina.”
Selina’s throat worked. “You know my name,” she croaked. Rafe wanted to reach for her, but he was unable to move. He could barely think.
The woman sat up and swung her feet to the floor. She wiped the backs of her hands over her cheeks. “Yes, I was a new housemaid when you lived here as children.” Deep furrows marred her brow. “You were looking at your grandfather’s portrait.”
If they had, in fact, lived here and that portrait was their grandfather… Rafe tried to take a breath and couldn’t. “Who were our parents? We don’t remember. They were lost to us in a fire, but this house clearly did not burn down twenty-seven years ago.”
“No, the fire was at your family seat—Stonehaven in Staffordshire. We thought you had died. How are you not dead along with your poor parents?”
Rafe wished those bloody chairs weren’t so far away. He feared he was about to collapse too.
“Rafe?” Selina pressed herself to his side and put her arm around his waist. She wiped her hand over her brow. “Who are you?” she asked the woman.
“I’m Mrs. Gentry, the housekeeper here.” She rose, her gaze warm and kind. “You poor dears, this is a shock to you, I can see. What can I do for you?” She turned her gaze to Rafe. “My lord?”
My lord.
His knees felt weak. Selina seemed to know it as her hold on him tightened.
“Our father was the earl?” he managed to ask.
Mrs. Gentry nodded. “Yes. He was Lord Stone’s older brother.” She shook her head. “My apologies—you are Lord Stone. Oh my goodness, what will your uncle say?”
His uncle. His real uncle.
Rafe swiped his hand over his face. Good God, he was a fucking earl. Absurdly, he thought of all the people he’d known over the long years of his childhood, when he’d commanded a small army of thieves and later when he’d overseen a dozen receiver shops from Saffron Hill to Petticoat Lane. Or those who had known him as the Vicar.
Selina pivoted with him and pushed him down on the chaise. He pulled her down with him, needing her at his side.
“Would you like a drink?” Mrs. Gentry asked. “Perhaps some port?”
“No. Maybe.” Rafe shook his head. He couldn’t think. And he bloody well needed to. He directed an intense stare at the housekeeper, uncaring if he frightened her with his fierce need to understand. “You’re certain I’m—” What the hell was his name even? “Stone’s heir?”
The housekeeper shook her head.
“You aren’t certain?” Selina asked tentatively, her brow creasing.
“I am. I beg your pardon, this is a shock for me as well. You are not, however, Stone’s heir. You were, but now you are Lord Stone. Raphael Jerome Mallory is your name—Jerome was your father—I have always included you in my prayers. But you were addressed as Lord Sandon, of course. Your father called you Sandy, but your mother called you Rafe.”
Sandy. The name roused something in him. A horrible sound erupted from his chest—part gasp and part sob. He clapped his hand over his mouth and looked away.
When he’d reined in his emotion, he turned his head back to housekeeper. “Tell us about the fire.”
“There you are.” Harry Sheffield, Selina’s husband, took that inopportune moment to interrupt as he walked into the gallery. “I’ve been looking all over for—” He stopped abruptly. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, Harry.” Selina let out a sound similar to the one Rafe had made.
Sheffield rushed forward and crouched down before her. “What is it, my love?”
Selina threw her arms around his neck and began to cry. Rafe stared at her, feeling as overwhelmed as she looked but also somehow frozen.
Sheffield’s gaze met Rafe’s over Selina’s shoulder. “What the hell is going on?”
“We’ve had a bit of a shock.” That was all he could say?
“Come, we must go downstairs and find Lord Stone.” The housekeeper frowned. “Er, Mr. Mallory.”
Selina pulled back from Sheffield and wiped at her eyes before looking to Rafe. “Should we?”
“You must,” the housekeeper insisted. “He’ll want to know you aren’t really dead.”
“I require an explanation,” Sheffield said. As a constable, he was always on a quest for answers.
Selina touched the side of her husband’s head. “You know our parents died in a fire. Mrs. Gentry”—she nodded toward the housekeeper—“recognized Rafe—the orange mark in h
is eye. She knows who our parents were—the Earl and Countess of Stone.” Her voice broke on the last word. Rafe put his hand on her shoulder.
Sheffield’s eyes widened, and he gaped at Rafe. “You’ll need proof to claim that.”
“I’m the proof,” Mrs. Gentry said, sounding a bit cross. “And I’m certain the other members of the household who were here when they were children will agree he is Lord Stone. Furthermore, there are bound to be several people at Stonehaven who can do the same.”
“Stonehaven?” Sheffield asked.
“The Stone family seat.” My family seat, Rafe thought. He was a goddamned earl. And he had no idea when—or if—that would sink into his brain.
Sheffield narrowed his eyes at Mrs. Gentry. “You’re certain it’s him?”
“She is,” Rafe answered tersely. “Just as I’m certain that I’ve been here before—that we lived here. I knew what the house looked like before I came inside, and I took Selina directly to a portrait of our grandfather.”
“Harry, he knew it was him,” Selina said softly. “Then Mrs. Gentry came, and she said so too.”
Rafe lightly squeezed Selina’s shoulder, then released her. “Yes, let us go downstairs. The ballroom, you say? It’s in the corner, I’m not sure which one, and it has doors on two walls that open outside. There’s a reflection pool.”
Mrs. Gentry grinned. “Yes. That’s right.”
Rafe stood, his legs finally feeling steady and his heart beating at a slightly slower pace. Sheffield rose and offered Selina assistance. She took his hand and pressed herself tight against his side. Rafe was glad she had him. This was more than a shock; this was unbelievable. An unending barrage of questions assaulted him.
“Follow me, my lord,” Mrs. Gentry said. “Unless you remember the way.”
“I’m not sure I do,” Rafe admitted.
The housekeeper nodded before turning and walking from the gallery.
Sheffield looked at Rafe, his eyes glazed with disbelief. “You’re the Earl of Stone?”
Rafe took the most substantial breath he had since walking into the house. “Apparently so.”
After completing a circuit of the ballroom, Anne had to accept that Rafe wasn’t there. Had he left? The day suddenly became far less interesting.
“Ho there, Miss Pemberton. Terrible storm, what?” Sir Alergnon asked as he intercepted her next circuit.
Only a few inches taller than her, with thick brown hair and kind eyes, Sir Algernon Betts-Hinsworth was unabashedly on the Marriage Mart. He’d expressed his interest in Anne before she’d accepted Gilbert’s proposal. In hindsight, Anne had chosen very poorly—all because Gilbert had kissed moderately well. After kissing Rafe—and thoroughly enjoying it—that had seemed an important attribute. And since it had seemed Rafe was lost to her, she’d searched for a replacement.
He was not, however, lost to her any longer.
She summoned a smile for Sir Algernon. He was a pleasant sort, even if Anne had no interest in kissing him.
“Yes, it was rather sudden and the rain fierce,” she said, remarking on the squall that had sent them all to the folly.
“An indoor picnic is exciting, though, isn’t it?”
Exciting wasn’t the word Anne would use. “It’s better than no picnic.”
“Just so, just so.”
The footmen had laid blankets around the ballroom and were beginning to set up the food. Outside, the sky had darkened further, and the second storm that had threatened when they’d come inside now unleashed itself upon the earth. Water sluiced down the ballroom windows, and wind shook the trees.
“I’m quite delighted to be inside,” Sir Algernon remarked. “I daresay the trip back to London will take twice as long as the journey here.”
While he spoke, Anne scanned the ballroom, then stared at the main entrance. The arrival of two people made her breath catch until she recognized them—her godfather’s daughter, Deborah, and her husband, Lord Burnhope.
Anne seized on the opportunity to excuse herself. “Pardon me, Sir Algernon. I wish to welcome Lady Burnhope.” She gave him a warm smile before hastening across the ballroom.
By the time Anne arrived at Deborah’s side, her husband had already gone. “I thought perhaps you weren’t coming,” Anne said.
“Just late.” Deborah patted a slender hand against the back of her elegantly styled brown hair. She always looked as though she’d stepped from the pages of La Belle Assemblée. “We were caught in that horrendous storm, and that delayed us further.”
Lord Stone came toward them, his brows drawn as he surveyed his daughter. “Deborah, you are quite tardy. As usual.” His lips pressed together in disapproval.
“My apologies, Papa. Burnhope had business that held us up, and the weather was uncooperative.”
“Writing another treatise on beetles, was he?” the earl asked with a touch of sarcasm. “Well, you are here at last. We’ve moved the picnic indoors. It would have been nice to have your help when the arrangements needed to be adjusted.”
Anne shifted uncomfortably. She’d been present for too many occasions when her godfather had needled his daughter, and Deborah typically pricked his ire in return. It was a contentious relationship. Once, Lord Stone had told Anne he wished she’d been his daughter instead. He’d promptly apologized, but Anne had never forgotten.
Deborah’s eyes hardened, but her mouth curved into a smile. “How can I help now that I’m here?”
“I believe it’s all been handled. Just supervise Anne, if you will. You’re good at that.” Stone winked at Anne before going to speak with some of his guests.
“You’re good at that,” Deborah mocked. She dashed the back of her hand over her brow. “My apologies. Do you actually require supervision?”
The irony was that Deborah wasn’t good at that. She’d been a terrible chaperone back when she’d allowed Anne to sit by herself at Hatchard’s for two hours every Thursday. She’d also been disappointed when Anne’s mother had put an end to those excursions so that Anne could focus on her Season. Anne had never asked what Deborah had been doing during those afternoons, but she’d long suspected the time had been spent conducting a romantic liaison.
“No, but your company is most welcome,” Anne said. “I was trapped speaking with Sir Algernon.” She sent a guilty glance toward him and was glad to see he was now occupied with a group of other guests.
Deborah followed her gaze. “He is on Papa’s short list of potential husbands for you.”
“He has a list?” Anne let out a soft groan.
“Yes, sorry.” Deborah let out a light chuckle as she looked down at Anne from her well-above-average height. “He’s absolutely committed to seeing you wed with the utmost haste. He was hoping for the end of the Season, but since that is nigh, I expect he’ll be disappointed. Unless you marry someone by special license.” She laughed again.
Anne couldn’t imagine that happening. Not when the only person who came to mind when she considered marriage was Rafe. And that wasn’t happening, with a special license or otherwise.
“I take it you are not interested in satisfying Papa’s expectations?”
“Not at all.” Anne gave Deborah a sardonic stare. “Do you blame me after what I went through with Gilbert?”
“Heavens, no. Why you chose him is still a mystery to me.”
Anne wasn’t about to tell her about the kissing. Besides, it was more than that. She’d chosen someone she could like but not love, which she hadn’t realized until after the wedding had been canceled. That she’d somehow found Gilbert likeable was a testament to his skill at cultivating relationships that would benefit him.
“It hardly signifies since nothing came of it,” Anne said, eager to dispose of the topic. “In any case, I’ve no desire to rush into marriage any time soon. As you said, it’s nearly the end of the Season anyway.”
Deborah eyed her with curiosity. “I suppose I understand, but remember, it’s every young lady’s responsibility to
marry and marry well. And, goodness, it’s not as if the road to success is always straight and simple as mine was. Look at your sister. Five years on the shelf and now a viscountess. Though, hopefully, you won’t have to wait so long.” Her brow creased, and she tapped her fingertip against her chin. “Alas, you are the victim of a scandal, just as she was.”
Anger roiled in Anne. She wasn’t a victim. At least, she didn’t want to be.
“It’s good that Papa is helping you,” Deborah continued. “Your reputation was not as damaged as your sister’s, but it was still wounded. Papa’s support will fix things. And it does help that your sister married a viscount, even if he is a wastrel.”
Anne gently elbowed Deborah in the arm. “You do realize she’s still my sister, and I love her very much? And that I currently reside with her and the wastrel, whom I also happen to love as a brother?”
Deborah laughed gaily. “Yes! I didn’t mean to insult, but facts are facts, dear. You are always welcome to come live with me.”
Anne would never. She didn’t dislike Deborah, but she didn’t necessarily like her either. It was a complicated relationship, as many were in families. And Anne considered Deborah, Lorcan, and her godfather family. In particular, Anne didn’t like the way Deborah treated her husband. Lord Burnhope was a quiet sort who enjoyed entomology. He was about as different from his fashion-loving, pompous wife as one could be.
“I’m quite happy residing with my sister and brother-in-law.” Anne worked to keep her voice even.
Deborah’s gaze strayed to Jane and Anthony, who stood together near one of the doors leading outside. “They seem well-suited.” Was there an edge of envy in her tone?
“Yes,” Anne agreed. “To wed for love is very lucky, isn’t it?”
“Only if it’s to the right person. Marrying well is paramount. If there’s love in the bargain, then yes, that’s fortunate indeed.”
How cold. And yet that’s precisely what Anne had been raised to believe. Until she’d met Rafe, she hadn’t thought too deeply about whether she’d fall in love. The hope had been there, certainly, if not the expectation. Then she’d met him, and her world had shifted.