How To Seduce A Duke

Chapter 2

The scent of coming rain permeated the damp air as Rogan Wetherly, the Duke of Blackstone, and his brother, Quinn, the newly belted Viscount Wetherly, reined their gleaming bays down Oxford Street in the direction of Hyde Park.

A single chill droplet struck Rogan’s cheek, and he turned his eyes upward to the darkening sky.

The clouds were black and heavy with moisture. They were bloody insane to venture even a few short miles from Marylebone-for the sake of a woman.

But the lady in question, according to Quinn, who was set on making her acquaintance, visited the park every Tuesday at this hour. And who was Rogan to dash his brother’s hopes of meeting her?

“Good God, Rogan-halt!” Without warning, Quinn unsteadily rose up in his stirrups, reached out, and caught Rogan’s right rein. He yanked back hard, driving Rogan’s horse straight into his own, stopping the beast’s forward progression.

Rogan’s heart lurched in his chest. “Bloody hell, Quinn! If you were trying to unseat me, you very nearly succeeded.”

Quinn cleared his throat. He removed his hat and tipped his head forward, turning Rogan’s attention to the trio of wide-eyed, stunned misses.

Fools. They must have crossed from Davies Street without paying any heed to oncoming riders. And now they were standing in the middle of the crowded street, still as statues, less than a foot before them.

The tallest of the three women glared up at Rogan from beneath the faded silk brim of a most ridiculous beribboned hat. Her amber eyes flashed angrily.

For the briefest moment, her mouth twisted, then opened, as if to give him a suitable dressing down. Then her expression suddenly changed-to one of distress. Abruptly, she looked away.

Rogan was about to call out to her when she caught up the gloved hand of the copper-haired beauty closest to her and guided her small party quickly from the center of Oxford Street down the flagway in the direction the two men had come from.

“Where was your mind? You might have trampled them.” Quinn turned in his saddle and watched the three women make their way through the bustling crowds and down the street.

“They obviously walked straight into the road without paying any attention to oncoming horses. Even had my horse trod upon one of them, I daresay the fault would not have been solely my own.” Rogan turned his skittish mount in a circle and joined Quinn in gazing upon the women’s retreat. “Did you see the way the tall one looked at me? Like she bloody well thought I had the pox, or worse.”

“No, I did not notice. I was far too occupied with stilling your damned horse.”

Rogan tightened his reins and stood in the stirrups for a better look as the young women stalked past the shops lining Oxford Street. “There was something familiar about her look, don’t you agree?” He dropped back into the saddle.

Quinn exhaled. “No doubt. I know you have adopted a respectable mode of living since assuming Father’s title, but after years of roguish adventure, it is not inconceivable that you somehow wronged the woman in the past.”

Rogan huffed at that. “Not that one. Oh, she’s comely enough to be sure, but did you see her clothing-and good God-that hat? Straight from the country with nary two shillings in her palm, I’d say.”

Quinn grunted at the comment but didn’t reply. He nudged his horse and started again toward Hyde Park.

“Come now, you cannot seriously wish to continue on,” Rogan called out, but his brother did not stop. “Look at the sky.”

Quinn settled his beaver hat and pushed it lower upon his head. “You can come along, or return to the house, Rogan, but I will continue on. She will be there, I know it, and this time, we will meet.”

Rogan shook his head and turned his mount around. He drove his heels into his horse and drew alongside his brother a moment later. “So, this woman you seek in the park…you think she is the future Viscountess Wetherly?”

“I do not know. We have not properly met. But she may be.”

“Why the race to the altar? You’re certainly not a wrinkled maid withering on the vine. You’re a hero, awarded a grand title for your valor. You’re handsome, young, and moneyed. You have everything to live for-and yet you wish for shackles?”

Quinn’s expression grew solemn. He jerked his horse to a halt and did not speak until Rogan did the same. “I wish it because I do not want to wait to be happy, to have the life I desire. At Toulouse, I learned how position and rank can suddenly mean nothing. How I could clink glasses with a friend one night, then dig his grave the next.”

Quinn gave a long sigh as he lifted his lame right leg and withdrew his foot from the stirrup, allowing the leg to hang limp. “If war taught me anything, it was that life is to be lived, Rogan. And for me, that means a wife and children. And I don’t intend to put it off any longer.”

Rogan nodded resignedly. How could he argue with that logic? His younger brother had seen more death during his years on the Peninsula than he himself would in a lifetime. He didn’t begrudge Quinn the idyllic life he dreamed of. Lord knows, after all Quinn had endured on the Peninsula, he deserved it.

Only the blissful married life he sought didn’t really exist, no matter what Quinn believed.

But that was a discussion for another day.

Rogan straightened his back and smiled. “Well then, Quinn, we shall find your lady-as long as we get back to Portman Square before the sky opens upon us.”

Quinn hooked his hand beneath his knee and maneuvered his boot back securely into the stirrup. A mischievous smile curved the edges of his lips. “We best make haste then.” He leaned low over his mount’s neck and brought down his heels hard. “I’ll see you at the gate, old man.”

Rogan chuckled, then drove his steed hard toward Cumberland Gate. How pleasingly diverting it was that Quinn, injured as he was, actually thought he could reach the park before he would.

The wind rose up as Rogan spurred his horse down Oxford Street, catching the lip of his new beaver hat and flipping it from his head. He heard the splash as the topper likely landed in a muddy puddle, but he never bothered to look back.

He had a race to win.

A damp breeze raked through his thick hair, and his coattails rode the wind behind him.

Within a short minute, his horse charged past Quinn’s. Rogan whooped in triumph. He turned to look at Quinn. “No one ever gets the better of the Black Duke!”

Quinn drove his mount harder until the two horses were nearly neck and neck. He laughed as his bay galloped past Rogan’s. “No one?” the fair-haired brother shouted back.

Rogan grinned and snapped his short whip against the horse’s right haunch. The bay shot into the lead once more. “No one-and that includes you, dear brother.”

Fat drops of rain splattered the ground around the Royle sisters as they reached Cavendish Square in Marylebone Park. A raw, mossy scent rose up into the air as the earth soaked in the droplets.

Elizabeth excitedly positioned the missive before Mary’s eyes. “We’ve arrived. There it is, do you see? Number Two, straight ahead.”

“So I see.” Mary did not move from her place on the flagway, even though the tempo of the rain had increased twofold within the past minute.

“You may dawdle here if you like, Mary, but I do not wish to see my new morning frock ruined by the rain.” Anne charged up the narrow walk to the steps that led up to the grand house. As she reached the first step, she turned and looked back at her sisters. “At least you are coming, Lizzie, aren’t you?”

Elizabeth turned her gaze to Mary, then reached out and pushed a damp sable lock from Mary’s cheek. “Please, sister. I know you believe this may be naught but a lark, but I have to know if this Lord Lotharian can tell us anything about our births. Please come with us. You are most clever and will divine the truth faster than Anne or I ever could. Please.”

Mary gazed up at Anne, who now stood with her hand menacingly poised about the brass doorknocker.

“I’m going to do it-I am going to knock this very instant.” Anne lifted the heavy ring. “You two are going to look quite the ninnies when the door is opened and you are still standing in the street, wet as river carp.”

Elizabeth turned a pleading gaze upon Mary.

She had walked all the way here, had nearly been killed doing so. Might as well go inside. “Very well,” Mary said, “but if this little adventure yields nothing to support your fanciful story of our births, you must promise me you will give up your investigation and concentrate on your futures.”

“Oh, what a goose you can be sometimes,” Elizabeth laughed. “You know we can never agree to that.” She grabbed Mary’s hand and hurried to the door, arriving just as Anne slammed the brass hammer down twice upon its base.

Before Mary could offer even a syllable of reply, the door swung open and a portly manservant ushered them inside and out of the rain.

The house appeared quite grand from the outside, but it was only once they were inside that its true enormity could be realized.

The entryway walls soared three stories, following the sweep of a staircase edged with gilded balustrades. The polished marble entry floor glistened like a mirror, which pleased Mary’s eyes, at first-until she realized that the marble reflected the white of her underskirts.

Best to walk with knees pressed firmly together.

A trio of young footmen suddenly surrounded the sisters, startling them. The servants’ gloved hands quickly plucked off all wraps and snatched away the girls’ dripping umbrellas. Then the footmen disappeared as quickly as they had come.

“My lady will receive you in the library,” the manservant said as he tipped his head and turned, as though he expected them to follow. “She is about to take tea.”

Mary stretched her hand outward and tapped his shoulder before he could leave the foyer. “I beg your pardon, but I believe we might have been given the wrong direction.”

The manservant turned to face her, appearing more than a little perturbed that she had had the audacity to touch him. But Mary was not about to be put off.

Elizabeth handed the card to Mary, who took it and pointed out the address to the manservant. “Two, Cavendish Square.”

The man blinked his lizardlike eyes and peered at the vellum, then turned his gaze back to Mary. “No, you have the right of it, miss. You are the Royle family, are you not?”

“Why yes, we are,” Mary began. “But we-”

The manservant broke in as if he did not hear her. “As I said, Miss Royle, if you will all please follow me, I will take you to my lady.”

“Stop, please! We have not come to see a lady.” Anne, who was clearly growing impatient, folded her arms over her chest.

“We have come to call upon our guardian, a gentleman…um…Lord Lotharian.” In her confusion, Elizabeth’s brilliant green eyes had grown as large and round as the manservant’s.

“Quite right.” The manservant nodded his head. “And you shall see his lordship soon. Right this way, if you please.”

Elizabeth and Anne each clutched one of Mary’s arms-for support, or to ensure she wouldn’t turn on her heels and escape, Mary wasn’t sure-and they followed the squat little man down a long passage and into an expansive library.

Leather-bound books filled the shelves to the gold-framed mural painted on the ceiling. A mingling of leather polish, candle wax, and mustiness permeated the cool air of the room.

In the center of the rectangular chamber, a diminutive, elderly, onion-shaped woman sat upon a silk-sheathed settee blinking up at them.

So startlingly small was she, other than in girth, that her dainty slippers did not come close to reaching the Turkish carpet stretched across the floor.

The manservant walked into the middle of the room and promptly announced them. “My lady, the Misses Royle.” Then he quickly quit the room.

The old woman on the settee grew noticeably excited. “Oh, oh, at last I can see you with my own eyes. I am so glad that you have come-we weren’t sure that you would, you know. But here you are and every bit as beautiful as I imagined. I have heard so much about you three gels, so much!” Her little feet, shod in silk slippers with surprisingly high heels, kicked merrily.

Her hand dropped down below the curved arm of the settee and pulled a wooden lever. At once a tufted footstool shot out from beneath the settee. The round lady hopped down upon it, then stepped lightly to the carpet.

“Stand up straight and let me see you properly. So lithe you all are. Tall, too, all of you!” The old woman’s gaze fixed on Mary. “Which are you, dear?”

“I-I am Mary.” Her cheeks began to heat, especially when the old woman raised a lorgnette and studied her. She did not like one bit being the subject of scrutiny, especially by someone she did not know.

“Since you are triplets, I had expected you to greatly resemble one another, but you don’t. The color of your hair is completely different. Even the shape of your faces-not at all alike.”

The old woman turned her lorgnette upon each of the sisters.

“No, you are as different as morn, noon, and eve. Only your commanding height and your eyes give your kinship away.”

She turned back to Mary. “Look at you, gel, such long, dark hair, and why, you are nearly the height of a man.” The short woman chuckled with delight. “You have the blood for certain. Spectacular height often reveals itself in women of royal lineage.”

“Really?” Elizabeth was clearly enthralled.

“Oh, indeed.” The lady turned her gaze upon Elizabeth. She waddled close, then stood on the tips of her toes to finger Elizabeth’s bright copper hair. “You must be Elizabeth. Look at that fiery crown of yours. Queen Elizabeth had hair like yours, dear-and she stood nearly six feet in height.”

Elizabeth gave Mary a smug look.

Oh, good Lord. Mary fought the urge to roll her eyes. As if any of these inane observations mean anything.

The lady followed Elizabeth’s gaze, then added, “Her cousin, Mary, Queen of Scots, quite matched her height, you know.”

Then the woman’s pale gray eyes sought out Anne. “Ah, such delicate features, and hair like spun gold. Beautiful, so, so beautiful.”

Anne colored becomingly.

“I vow, when the ton gazes upon the three of you, there will be no question-for it is clear you have the blood of kings and queens surging in your veins.”

Mary could endure this prattle no longer. The woman, whoever she might be, had offered no support for her words. And no good could come out of exciting her sisters this way. The tale of their births was naught but a faery story.

“I beg your pardon, madam, but I fear you have the advantage.” Mary smiled at the old woman. “We have yet to make your acquaintance.”

“Oh, mercy.” The elderly lady clapped her hand to her bountiful bosom. “I do apologize. I thought Lord Lotharian would have mentioned me in his missive. I am Lady Upperton.”

Though evidently Lady Upperton believed that this revelation would hold some meaning for them, it did not. The three Royle sisters stared mutely back at the frosty-haired old woman.

“Then, you have not heard?” Lady Upperton smiled broadly and filled her lungs with a deep breath before speaking. “Lotharian has asked me to be your sponsor-your entrée into London society.”

“Our sponsor? I-I do not understand.” Mary struggled to comprehend how such a claim could possibly be true. “Lady Upperton, I do not wish to appear ungrateful, but until three minutes ago, my sisters and I had not even gazed upon you-had not heard your name.”

“Dear me, I suppose I can understand how an offer from a complete stranger to launch you into society might seem rather unbelievable. But it’s all true, I assure you.” Lady Upperton took Mary’s hand into her own. “I promised your father I would do it when the time came. Promised Lotharian as well. And I shall. Once I give my word, I keep it.”

Promised their father?

“When?” Mary blurted. “I mean…when did you make our father this promise?”

The elderly lady grew very quiet and thrummed her small fingers upon her painted lips. “I suppose it must be almost twenty years ago. After the rakes and I heard the circumstances of your birth, how could I deny your father anything? Of course, the three of you were but babes, but he was concerned, even then, about the course of your futures.”

Surely her ears deceived her. This could not be happening. Why, their father had never mentioned anything of this. And would have. Certainly.

“You mentioned having heard the circumstances of our births.” Anne stepped forward and stole the old woman’s hand from Mary. “You…and the rakes?”

“Oh, yes. He told us all-my husband, sadly, he departed some years ago, and his fellow members of the Old Rakes of Marylebone.”

Anne’s eyebrows drew close in her apparent confusion. “Father was a member of a gentlemen’s club? I cannot imagine such a thing.”

“Indeed he was. As was…is Lord Lotharian.” Lady Upperton gave herself a mental shake, then withdrew her hand from Anne’s. “In fact, I think it is time you gels should meet him.”

Lady Upperton spun around on her teetering heels and shuffled her way to the bookcase situated to the left of the cold hearth.

She flashed the sisters a mischievous smile, then positioned the flat of her hand over the face of a goddess column and pushed. The masterful carving of the goddess’s nose depressed beneath her hand, and suddenly, from somewhere behind the bookcase, came a loud metallic click.

Lady Upperton turned back to the young ladies and raised her brows nonchalantly. “Are you ready?”

The Royle sisters exchanged nervous glances, then, as if cued, they nodded their heads as one.

All except Mary.

“Very well then, in you go.” Lady Upperton gave the bookcase a firm nudge, and at once the lowermost six feet of the shelves opened like a door to reveal a dark passage.

Anne started forward without hesitation, with Elizabeth at her heels. When they reached the opening, they stopped and looked back at Mary, who had not taken even a single step.

Good heavens.

Suddenly, Mary felt rather light in the head. When she had agreed to call on Lord Lotharian with her sisters, she had been fairly certain that nothing more would come to pass than her sisters coming home with another useless packet of letters or the like.

This turn of events, however, was unimaginable. She could not have prepared for this.

Not for a grand lady prepared to install them in to London society.

Not for a secret membership of old rakes.

Certainly not for doorways hidden within walls of old books.

“Hurry now, Mary.” The old woman beckoned her forward. “The gentlemen will be waiting.”

“G-gentlemen?” Mary swallowed deeply. “I thought we were to meet Lord Lotharian?”

“Oh yes, dear, but there are two others who heard the story of your birth that night. You will wish to make their acquaintance as well. Come now. Do not tarry.”

Mary moved her feet slowly toward the open bookcase. At that very moment, Anne and Elizabeth disappeared into the darkness beyond.

A cool draft from the secret passage lifted the fine loose tendrils of Mary’s hair, making her shiver. Still, she stepped forward.

The moment the thick darkness of the secret passage enveloped her, Mary heard the bookcase begin to move closed again. She whirled around.

In the waning light of the library, she could just see Lady Upperton’s smiling face. “You are not joining us, Lady Upperton?” she asked.

Lady Upperton grinned at that. “Oh goodness no, child. It is a gentlemen’s club, after all. I am but the gatekeeper. It would not do for you three to be seen entering the club, so Lotharian sent you to my house. Go on with your sisters, gel. Follow the small circle of light you will see in a moment. Follow it until you reach the passage. Then knock twice. Hard. I daresay Lotharian’s hearing is not what it once was.” Without another word, Lady Upperton closed the bookcase behind Mary.

“Are you coming, Mary?” came Elizabeth’s whisper a short distance down the passage.

Mary dragged a breath of musty air through her nose. “I am.”

No more than a clutch of moments had passed before Mary felt the presence of her sisters beside her. As Lady Upperton had said, a thin wand of candlelight sliced through an eye-shaped hole at the end of the passage. The sisters, hands instinctively clasped, moved together toward the end of the passage.

Mary released Anne’s hand and made to rap twice upon the wall, as Lady Upperton had instructed. But her sister stopped her.

“Look through the peephole first and tell us what you can see.”

Mary tilted her head and gazed up at the oval. “I am not nearly tall enough,” she whispered.

“I will do it.” Elizabeth began moving about in the darkness. “Come now, Mary, give me your knee and help me onto Anne’s shoulders-like we used to do in Mr. Smythe’s orchard.”

“This is madness.” Mary braced a leg behind her, then bent her forward knee for Elizabeth.

A great wheezing sound burst from Anne’s lips as Elizabeth’s legs came down upon her shoulders and her feet pressed at the sides of her sister’s back for balance.

Anne took a shaky step forward. “Go on, look through. What do you see?”

Elizabeth bent a bit at the waist and peered through the peephole. “It’s…a library. Why, it appears to be Lady Upperton’s library-except in reverse…it is like viewing her library in a mirror’s reflection! I’d swear to it.”

In that instant, Mary heard the sound of metal moving against metal. Suddenly, the wall moved, depositing Anne and Elizabeth in a tumbled heap onto a Turkish carpet, leaving Mary standing alone in the shadowy passage.

A rail-thin man with a full head of thick gray hair looked amusedly from Mary’s sisters to two men who stood near the tea table. “What did I tell you, gents?”

He leaned forward to settle his pipe in a burled wood tray, then raised his quizzing glass to his eye and peered down at the two young women sprawled near the hearth. He lifted one wayward eyebrow and chuckled softly. “Are the gels not the epitome of grace and royalty?”

Mary swallowed deeply. She ought to have revealed her presence and spoken for her headstrong sisters, who, embarrassingly, had not yet even attempted to right themselves. Instead, they lay there in a tangle of skirts, legs, and arms and stared dumbly at the three men.

In truth, Mary could scarcely blame them. Though the gentlemen were at least as deep in their years as their father had been when he passed away, there was something different about these fellows. They had a quality about them, a vitality. Whatever it was, Mary couldn’t quite identify it. But even standing here in the darkness, she could feel it.

“Darling, please come in from the passage. You’ve naught to fear.” The thin gentleman rose from the settee and beckoned, though Mary was certain he could not see her.

Blast. Her momentary reprieve had evaporated. And so, Mary fashioned the most confident smile she could manage and stepped out from behind the bookcase and into the candlelight.

At once her sisters scrambled to their feet and came to stand beside her near the glowing hearth.

“I am Earl of Lotharian.” Then, with an agility Mary could not have believed a man of his advanced years could possess, the lord eased his fine coat from one hip, swept back his leg, raised one arm to his side, and honored her with the most rakish of bows.

Mary and her sisters dropped serviceable, if not elegant, curtsies in return.

But Lord Lotharian held his bow.

Confused, the Royle sisters exchanged glances. Then, not knowing what else to do, they obligingly curtsied again.

Still, the old man didn’t move and surprisingly continued to honor them.

Elizabeth stepped slightly behind Mary and whispered in her ear. “I believe he means for us to curtsy lower, as must be proper in London society. Do try harder this time, Mary, or we may be curtsying all afternoon.”

“Very well.” Mary nodded to her sisters, and the three lowered their heads and dropped the deepest curtsies of their lives.

When they rose, Lord Lotharian still had not moved, but he was snapping his fingers madly now. “Good heavens, Lilywhite, a hand-a hand, if you will!”

“Do apologize, old man. Hadn’t realized your situation.” Lilywhite, a good head shorter than Lotharian, hurried to the lord’s side and bent to heave his shoulder into his friend’s armpit. He helped him straighten and stand. “Good bow though, Lotharian. Best you’ve achieved in years.”

Lord Lotharian grinned. “Do you really think so?”

“Oh, without question.”

“Wasn’t a proper bow.” The third man, who wore an absurd auburn wig upon his head, tilted a bulbed glass of brandy to his lips.

Lord Lotharian grimaced. “What do you mean, Gallantine? I thought my bow was more than proper-it was…magnificent.”

“Hardly. Half of a truly magnificently crafted bow is sweeping upright again. Observe.” With that, the wigged gentleman bowed gracefully to the Royle sisters. Then, with hardly any popping or crackling of bones, he drew up again and clicked his heels together in triumph. “That, gentlemen, is a proper bow.”

For the fourth time, because it was the correct response to Gallantine’s bow, the Royle sisters curtsied.

Then, they curtsied twice more for propriety’s sake when Sir Lumley Lilywhite and the Chancey Chumley, Viscount Gallantine introduced themselves.

To Mary’s way of thinking, it was now time to finish their mission. “My dear gentlemen, my sisters and I are standing in what I believe to be a private gentleman’s club-a rakes’ club.”

Mary straightened her spine and continued, “Despite our entering through Lady Upperton’s home, which for some reason looks to be a mirror image of this club, I am sure you realize that our presence in the club is quite unseemly, as we are unmarried young women.” Mary pursed her lips, as she’d seen Anne do so many times before when wishing to impart the seriousness of any given situation.

“Therefore, I wonder if you might share with us the meaning of your rather cryptic missive so that we may depart as soon as possible and protect our family name. We have brought along the key, as you requested.” Mary nudged Elizabeth, who wore the key on a blue satin ribbon around her neck.

“Yes, we are keen to learn its dual purpose. But, before we do, sir, might I ask your opinion?” Elizabeth asked as she stepped toward Gallantine. “Was my curtsy properly executed?”

When the gentleman merely stared at her, she stammered on. “I-I do wish to know. We were raised in the country and I believe largely unschooled in the ways of polite society.”

Lord Lotharian laughed and answered in Gallantine’s stead. “Your curtsy-curtsies, rather-were splendid, my dear. And I seriously doubt your social schooling was lacking in any way, because your father traveled in the most select circles of London’s Quality.”

“He did?” Anne blurted. “Lady Upperton hinted as much. But…but he was an ordinary country physician.”

“Oh, a physician he was, dear. But hardly ordinary. He was the Prince of Wales’ personal physician…as well as one of his boon companions-his drinking mates-and a founding member of the Old Rakes of Marylebone…though we were just the Rakes of Marylebone then. Handsome lot, we were. Not quite as wrinkled as we are now.”

Lord Lotharian grinned for a moment, then took in a deep breath and exhaled hard through his nose. “Do not misunderstand. I am no longer proud of the nature of our association, but I cannot deny that at one time, before the three of you were born, we were all intimates of His Majesty the Prince Regent.”

Father was an intimate of Prinny?

Mary felt the blood racing from her head, and she made to the settee and collapsed upon it.

Lord Lotharian’s hand shook almost imperceptibly as he lifted a decanter of brandy from the tantalus and splashed full a crystal glass for Mary. “Please take this, Miss Royle. It will ease your senses.”

“I-I’m sorry. This is all too much information for one day.” She looked up at the crystal he held before her. “Oh, no thank you, Lord Lotharian.”

“Dear gel, I highly recommend some Dutch courage.” He lowered the drink into her hands. “For your visit is not yet at an end, and there is more I must tell you.”

More? Lud, maybe she ought to take it.

She accepted the brandy from him and quickly raised the glass to her mouth.

True, she had no tolerance for spirits, none at all, but she drank down the nerve-bracing amber liquid without hesitation.

Lord Lotharian shoved his hand through his thick hair. “Damn me,” she heard him mutter beneath his breath. “Please forgive me, ladies. I should not have tossed your father’s past into the air as I did.”

Anne hurried to Mary and sat beside her. She looked up at Lord Lotharian. “We needed to know, my lord. You did nothing wrong by telling us.”

“Our Mary was simply not prepared to hear it.” Elizabeth crossed to Mary and patted her shoulder. “You see, while Anne and I believed what my father’s documents suggested, enough to investigate the story of our births further, Mary did not.”

Mary’s head was already spinning a bit, and the conversation at hand was too fantastic to be believed.

Feeling more than a little uneasy, she lowered her gaze and set herself to the mindless task of straightening the wrist lacing on the underside of each of her kid gloves.

When she glanced up again, she was immediately pinned by Anne’s all-knowing gaze.

The edges of Anne’s lips lifted in that superior way of hers as she curled her fingers around Mary’s wrist. “Though I daresay, she cannot ignore the possibility of the story’s truth now. Can you, Mary?”