But she’d never thought she would do anything but work until the day she died. Most people in London—in England—did so, after all.
But now she was in a grand ballroom, in the most beautiful dress she’d ever seen, whirling slowly around the heir to an earldom—and, more importantly, the man she would marry.
It was like a fairy tale come true.
Henry grinned at her with those devastating dimples when they came together again. “You look happy.”
She smiled at him as they placed their palms together and walked around each other. “I am.”
He leaned close as if he would kiss her in the middle of the ballroom, with everyone watching, and she didn’t stop him.
She lifted her face to his. She didn’t care if they had an audience. They were in their own little world.
Henry held her hand aloft and had begun to pace with her down a line of ladies and gentlemen when there was a shout from the main door to the ballroom. Mary started. At first she thought—wildly—that someone was objecting to their flirtation.
Then a woman pushed through the crowd, coming nearer. She wore a plain gray gown and shawl, neat and clean, but not a ball gown by any account. It was a dress Mary might’ve worn just a few weeks ago.
The music stopped.
People turned to look.
The woman halted, and Mary got a good look at her face. It was her own.
Her heart seemed to stop.
The woman threw up her chin and said in a clear voice, “I am the real Lady Cecilia.”
Chapter Eleven
On the sixth day there was tremendous excitement in the kingdom as the prince announced his engagement…to the maiden who had found him on the shore. He’d forgotten all about Clio. That night she wept in Triton’s arms, devastated that she’d been so silly as to forsake her beautiful tail for a man who couldn’t see her for what she was.
But Triton was worried. He knew that if the prince did not kiss Clio on the morrow her life would be forfeit.…
—From The Curious Mermaid
Henry stood to the side of the crowded sitting room and watched Mary.
His Mary.
His fiancée.
The woman he loved.
Sweat slid down his back. The woman who had interrupted the ball so dramatically stood by the marble fireplace mantel, looking like a doe cornered. A thin young man in a gray bobbed wig was beside her, his chin up as if he was terrified but determined.
Normally he’d feel sympathy for them both, but this woman was attempting to take Mary from him.
“Quiet.” The single word was spoken by Lord Caire.
Everyone turned to him.
Joanna was tearstained and draped over Seymour on one of the settees. Lord and Lady Angrove stood behind Joanna, and the dowager marchioness sat in a chair by herself, her dark eyes still and observant. Lady Caire held Mary’s hand as she sat beside her. The Earl of Keating and Mother sat with Kate and Becca, Father looking near apoplectic. For some reason Fitzgerald and his wife were also in the room, sitting by themselves. Henry wasn’t even sure why they were there, but they must’ve followed the rest of them into the sitting room. The Earl of Angrove had announced to those assembled in the ballroom that the family would retire to deal with the woman claiming to be Cecilia.
“Now,” Caire said when the room was quiet. As her former employer, he seemed to speak on Mary’s behalf. “Let us discuss this mystery.” He turned to the woman standing by the fireplace. “Who are you?”
She lifted her chin, and in that moment she was the spitting image of Mary. “I’m Cecilia Albright.”
“Then why haven’t you come forward before this?” Henry snapped.
“I—I…” She fumbled in a small bag dangling by a string from her wrist and withdrew a letter. “I received this a week ago. It says that I’m Cecilia Albright. That I was stolen as a baby and left with the vicar of Lesser Inchwood.” She gulped and looked around the room. “Well, and that part is true at least. My father was the vicar and I was left on the doorstep of his church as a baby. Everyone in the village knows this. He and his wife kindly adopted me, though they of course thought I was a by-blow of some fallen woman.”
The letter shook in her hand.
Henry glanced at Lord and Lady Angrove, but they seemed frozen. Caire had obviously elected to sit back and observe the proceeding.
Henry strode forward and took the letter gently from the girl’s hand. He looked down at it and read:
Twenty years ago I left you on the step of the church because I couldn’t do what he asked me. I can’t bear the sin anymore. You are the true firstborn daughter of Lord and Lady Angrove.
The signature was scrawled: A Friend.
Henry looked up at the girl. “I think it plain that you’re an Albright.” He glanced at the earl and his wife, then turned back to her. “But this is no proof that you’re Lady Cecilia.”
Lady Angrove straightened and said heavily, “There is a way to prove who is Lady Cecilia. The man-midwife used forceps on my Cecilia when she was born. It tore her skin and left a scar.” She lifted her hand to touch her head just behind her left ear. “Here.”
Henry gave the letter to the earl and then crossed to Mary. He looked into her big brown eyes, so like those of the other two women.
And entirely different.
“May I?” he asked.
She nodded jerkily and tilted her head.
He bent to look behind her ear. He pushed her hair aside, running his fingers against her scalp. Gently he turned her head, not meeting her eyes, to check the other side. Perhaps Lady Angrove was mistaken as to the side…
But no.
There was nothing. Her skin was perfectly unblemished.
Henry straightened, feeling as if he’d received a deathblow but hadn’t yet begun to bleed.
Mary closed her eyes and buried her face in Lady Caire’s neck.
He turned to the woman at the fireplace.
The woman who might be his intended wife.
“Do you have such a scar?” he asked, his voice far more calm than he felt.
“Yes.” She smiled excitedly. “Look. Just here.”
She pushed aside the hair veiling the back of her ear and turned.
There it was, a crescent-shaped purple scar, only the size of the tip of his thumb.
Such a small thing, really.
She let her hair fall and glanced at the man behind her before looking at Lady Angrove. “I am, aren’t I? I really am Lady Cecilia!”
“It would seem so,” the marchioness said, speaking for the first time. She glanced at Mary and for a moment a fleeting expression of regret crossed her face. Then she firmed her chin. “This gel must be one of Angrove’s bastards.”
“Oh, my dear.” Lady Angrove said sadly to Mary. “I’ve grown so fond of you.”
“Henry,” Kate whispered.
He couldn’t take it in. He couldn’t think. He stared at Mary, but she wouldn’t look at him.
“This is ridiculous!” The exclamation came from Fitzgerald, of all people.
Everyone turned to look at him.
He was standing, some sort of strong emotion purpling his face. “How could this be Cecilia? How could either of them be Cecilia? She died as a baby! She’s dead.”
There was a moment of stunned silence before Caire turned his head to him as intently as a hawk sighting a mouse. “How do you know?”
“I…” Fitzgerald opened his mouth. Shut it. Looked around the room. “I don’t—”
“I couldn’t do it!” Lillian Fitzgerald suddenly cried. “To kill a baby! It was too much to ask. I couldn’t do it, no matter what Lancelot told me to do. I left her on the church step instead, and then…”
The rest of her words were drowned as she loudly sobbed.
Lord Angrove rose, pointing a shaking finger at Fitzgerald. “You. You were behind the kidnapping?”
Fitzgerald lunged for the door.
But Henry stood in his way. H
e stopped Fitzgerald with one punch to the jaw.
The older man fell backward to the floor.
Henry lifted his foot and placed it squarely on the man’s throat. He leaned over the bastard and snarled, “Did you try to kill my fiancée?”
Fitzgerald choked until he lifted his foot fractionally. “I don’t—”
“Yes,” Lillian Fitzgerald said rather wetly. “It’s why I sent the letter to the real Cecilia. I don’t know who this is”—she glanced at Mary—“but I couldn’t let him kill an innocent. He’s supposed to be a man of the church, and all this, all this is because he wanted the parish living.”
“What are you talking about?” Henry asked, never taking his gaze from Fitzgerald.
Seymour slipped from the room.
The marchioness made an irritable sound. “Good Lord. My sister’s bequest.”
He did glance up at that.
The old lady shook her head. “Matilda left a small house and estate to my daughter’s first daughter. She didn’t know at the time that Martha was carrying twins, nor, of course, the sex of the babies.” The marchioness waved an impatient hand. “Suffice it to say that her will specified that if the baby was not a girl or if the child died before reaching her majority, the house would go to our nephew Lancelot. The will, unfortunately, made plain that only the eldest daughter was allowed to inherit, so Joanna was immediately passed over. My sister was quite off her head toward the end. Lancelot inherited the bequest.” She looked at the man groaning on the floor. “And with the land came the ability to give the parish living to the vicar of the owner’s choosing.”
“When the baby wasn’t returned, Fitzgerald inherited,” Lady Angrove said wonderingly. “We never thought about it. The land and house are so small—not worth much at all.”
“To you, perhaps, my lady,” Lillian Fitzgerald said with an attempt at dignity. “To us as poor relations, the living was everything.”
Seymour returned with three footmen. Two of them lifted Fitzgerald between them while the third took Mrs. Fitzgerald’s arm.
She began to weep again.
“Guard them,” the Earl of Angrove instructed the footmen as they left. He shook his head. “I’ll send for the magistrate and have them charged. Kidnapping. Theft. The attempted murder of my daughter.”
“Then this woman is truly Cecilia,” the Earl of Keating—Father—finally spoke.
Henry’s head jerked in his direction.
Father stared at him, as implacable as ever. “This girl is your fiancée.”
Henry bared his teeth. “The hell she is.”
The earl scowled. “Now look, boy.”
“Oh, but…but I can’t marry him,” Cecilia—the real Cecilia—said. “I’m already married.”
All heads turned to her.
She smiled shakily and linked her arm with that of the young man who had stood with her this entire time. “To Hubert. Hubert Waffling. We were married just this last spring.”
The marchioness’s eyes narrowed.
Waffling spoke suddenly—perhaps to forestall any idea the marchioness might have of replacing him. “And she’s with child.” He looked down at his wife, stark love emblazoned on his rather plain face. “Our child.”
The Earl of Keating stood, his hands balled into fists at his sides as he glared at Henry. “Then Lady Joanna. You’ll marry the sister.”
Joanna abruptly got up and ran from the room. Seymour cast the most hostile look at the earl that Henry could ever remember having seen on his friend’s face and followed her.
Henry looked at his father.
The old man scowled. “Listen to me, boy.”
He couldn’t talk to his father right now without saying something he would regret.
He turned to go to Mary.
But she and Lord and Lady Caire were gone.
It had always been too good to be true, Mary reflected listlessly as the Caire carriage rolled through the London night. She wasn’t a fairy-tale lady, an aristocrat, the daughter of a loving family, Henry’s fiancée.
She was just plain Mary Whitsun, a foundling left on an orphanage step like so much rubbish. It all really had been a dream.
“I think a nice hot cup of tea when we return,” Lady Caire said gently. “I always feel better after a cup of tea.”
Mary was aware that her mistress was looking at her with a worried expression, but she couldn’t seem to find the words to answer her.
Lady Caire took her hand. Mary and she were sitting on the same side of the carriage while Lord Caire was across from them, a silent presence. Beside him was his mother, the elder Lady Caire—a dashing lady nearing seventy.
She said, “Angrove is obviously Mary’s father. She ought to apply to him for support.”
“Oh,” Mary said. She hadn’t thought about the matter, but now that she did, it was obvious. “I must’ve been left at the home by one of his mistresses.”
The younger Lady Caire squeezed her hand. “Probably, though we may never know for certain.” Her brows drew together. “Do you want to try to make him acknowledge you?”
“No, my lady,” Mary replied at once. Lord Angrove had been a cold man even when he’d thought her his legitimate daughter. She didn’t want to think how he’d be now that it was obvious that she was his bastard.
She might be an impoverished maid, but she had her pride.
The elder Lady Caire cleared her throat delicately. “I’ve thought about repairing to Paris for the winter. Perhaps Mary Whitsun could join me as my companion.”
“That sounds like it might be a lovely plan,” the younger Lady Caire said uncertainly. She glanced at Mary. “Of course you needn’t make a decision right now.”
Lord Caire stirred. “What did Lord Blackwell mean when he accused Fitzgerald of trying to kill you?”
“Oh,” Mary whispered, realizing. “He must’ve been after me all along.”
“What, dear?” the elder Lady Caire asked, leaning forward.
Mary inhaled. “Henry…” She swallowed. A nursemaid shouldn’t call a viscount by his given name. “That is, Lord Blackwell and I were shot at. Twice. My lady’s maid was hit on her arm. She’s still favoring it.” She tried to smile and failed. Lane wasn’t her maid anymore. She was back to being lower on the servant ladder than a lady’s maid. “I thought someone must be trying to kill the viscount, while he was worried for me.” The memory of Henry’s concern almost brought tears to her eyes, but she fought them down. “I suppose Lord Blackwell was right. That man—Mr. Fitzgerald—was trying to kill me. How odd.”
She gave a small shiver at the thought, but really the whole thing was overshadowed by everything else that had happened that night.
The younger Lady Caire shot a worried glance at Lord Caire. “Darling, you should have told us. I’m sure we had no idea living at the Earl of Angrove’s house was so dangerous.”
“Oh, but it wasn’t,” she protested at once. “Lady Angrove was so nice to me, and my sister—” She cut herself off abruptly. Jo wasn’t her sister anymore, was she? “Lady Joanna was very, very sweet,” she finished in a whisper.
Lady Caire wrapped her arm around Mary’s shoulders.
She leaned into Lady Caire’s warmth. Normally she would never ride in a carriage with Lord and Lady Caire. She was the nursemaid. The servant, no matter how kind and loving Lady Caire was to her.
It wouldn’t matter, she tried to tell herself as she blinked back tears. She’d been a servant before, and she could go back to that. She was lucky she had a position to go back to. Many girls in London didn’t.
She was fortunate, really. She had a job and food and a place to lay her head. A kind mistress and lovely children to look after.
It was just that in real life nursemaids didn’t marry the sons of earls. Henry was lost to her forever.
And that?
That broke her heart.
Chapter Twelve
The next day Triton marched into the palace and into the throne room. The princ
e was sitting with his fiancée, telling her once again how brave she was to have saved him, while Clio stood by mournfully. Triton rolled his eyes at this scene. He took the prince by the shoulders, picked him up, and shoved him into Clio’s arms, firmly enough that the prince’s mouth fell against Clio’s lips.…
—From The Curious Mermaid
Henry was dismounting from his horse in front of Keating House a few minutes later when he heard hoofbeats behind him.
He turned just as Seymour pulled up. The other man must’ve followed him directly from the ball. The carriage carrying the rest of the Keating family hadn’t even arrived back at the house.
“Blackwell,” Seymour greeted him with uncommon seriousness as he dismounted. “A word?”
“Of course.”
Henry led the way into the house, passing Phillips with a nod and continuing up the stairs and into the library. He went straight to the decanter sitting on a table and poured the amber liquid inside into two glasses.
He turned and offered one to his oldest friend in the world.
“Thanks.” Seymour took a long sip, paused to swallow, and then looked up at Henry. “I can’t let you have her. I’ve been in love with Joanna for years, I think you know that.”
“Yes,” Henry said. He would’ve had to be a blind fool not to have seen the love between the two. They’d never discussed it. One wasn’t supposed to in the aristocracy. A man was just supposed to marry his best friend’s lady and never say a word.
Henry made a face at his drink. What bloody idiots they were.
“The thing is,” Seymour continued. “When Cecilia was found it changed everything. I could tell Joanna how I felt. She could tell me that, surprisingly, I’m the man for her. We made plans. And I find that just because Cecilia wasn’t who we thought her doesn’t change those feelings. Those plans. She’s mine, Blackwell. I can’t even tell you I’m sorry.”