The kiss caught Gwendolyn off guard.

Ever since he’d almost kissed her in Dublin, she’d dreamed of this moment. She’d even hugged her pillow and rehearsed for

when he’d finally take her in his arms—what she’d say to him, how he’d respond, how she’d answer. She had a conversation of

comments planned out.

Except now all those careful, brilliant words flew from her mind... because he was kissing her. And words were inadequate.

That didn’t mean that another part of her brain wasn’t panicking. Gwendolyn had never been kissed by a man before.

Yes, there had been dutiful pecks from boring suitors and the sloppy, quick kisses of the too bold. But this was different.

Beckett knew how to hold her in his arms, and there was no timidity about him.

Her breasts flattened against his chest. Her thighs pressed against his. She felt his desire, his passion. It was strong and bold, and she abruptly stiffened, overly conscious that she was going to embarrass herself. She didn’t know what she was doing. She would disappoint him and then he’d pull back, and all would be lost.

As if giving credence to her secret fears, Beckett paused, lifted his head. She wrapped her arms around his neck, not wanting

to let him go.

“Gwendolyn? Is something wrong?” he asked quietly.

She felt her forehead crinkle in alarm. “I—I—” She stopped, and then confessed, “I don’t know what I’m doing. Not when it

comes to kissing someone like you.”

“Like me?” His features softened. “Then let me guide you. Close your eyes.”

She did as instructed.

“Now.” His deep voice hummed through her body. “Part your lips and breathe deeply.”

As she took the breath, his mouth covered hers, and it was magic. His hold around her tightened. She melted against him, breasts

to chest, thighs to thighs, the juncture of her legs against the juncture of his. He didn’t push. He kept himself still...

and all was good.

Because she was safe, she realized. She didn’t need to guard against Beckett.

No poet, no writer could have prepared Gwendolyn for what this kiss meant. If she hadn’t been in love with him before, she

would have tumbled into it now. Who knew that patience in a gentleman was so attractive?

And while Beckett might deny being in love with her, this kiss said different.

An impatient horse nickered.

The kiss broke, but Beckett still held her tight.

“Gwendolyn.” His voice was hoarse, as if he struggled with himself.

She held up a stern finger. “If you dare to say I am too good for you—” she threatened.

His lips twisted ruefully as if that was exactly what he’d been about to say. “You’ll what?”

“I shall stomp on the toe of your boot so hard you will hobble around for days. Then every time you take a step, you’ll think

of me and how I don’t appreciate nonsense.” She paused. “Don’t spoil what this is,” she whispered.

Beckett nodded. He lifted her hand and pressed his lips against her gloved fingers. Heat flew through the leather, up her

arm, right to her heart.

“When this is done,” he promised. “When we have all the answers, we’ll talk.”

She nodded, accepting his plan. “Then let us hurry.”

He helped her mount before swinging up into his own saddle. They followed the cart path and came to the road that led through

the estate. Some stable lads were exercising their horses. Beck stopped them and asked if this was the direction to the village.

They nodded and told him it was some two miles down the way, not a far distance. Beck and Gwendolyn set off at a trot.

Gwendolyn suspected it was close to half past nine when they reached the village outskirts. It was built around a Norman church,

St. Albion’s. The church was a small one and relatively unremarkable.

They dismounted and tied their horses to a post, then walked up the stone pathway through the graves buried in the churchyard. The narrow front door was open.

Taking Gwendolyn’s hand, Beckett led her into the church. Their footsteps echoed against the stones. The nave was cool and

dark. A candle had been lit as if for prayers, but there was no movement, no sign of anyone.

“Hello?” he called.

Silence.

Beckett frowned. “Someone must be here.” He went outside. Gwendolyn followed but stayed in the doorway. From around the corner

of the building, she heard Beckett speaking to another man. A beat later, he and a short man with a bald pate and dressed

in the clothes of a workman came walking toward her.

“This is Mr. Tucker,” Beckett said. “He is the warden. This is Miss Lanscarr.”

Mr. Tucker blushed when Gwendolyn smiled at him and bobbed a bow. She was a good four inches taller than he was. “It is a

pleasure to meet you, Mr. Tucker.”

“My pleasure, my pleasure,” the man mumbled. He kept his head ducked as if too shy to look up at Gwendolyn.

Beckett took charge. “We are interested in your church registry of births and deaths.”

“You mean the parish record. Yes, it is over here.” Mr. Tucker walked to the front of the church where, off to the side, a

stone shelf had been built into the wall. The closed ledger sat on it. “Is there anything in particular you would like to

see?”

Beckett hesitated, and she understood. They knew the information they wanted, but how to find it? What date were they looking for? He had told her he did not know his exact age.

“We will be looking for a range of dates,” she said. “We are searching for information on Mr. Curran’s mother.” This was actually

true. “We aren’t certain of the details.” Another truth.

“Well, you can look through here.” He opened the registry. “We have listings back to the early 1700s. Births and deaths are

in the front. Christenings have a section in the back. If you need an earlier date, Reverend Denburn has that registry in

his home.”

“This should do,” Beckett answered.

“Very well. I am trimming around the headstones. I like to keep them neat. Please let me know when you are done.”

“Thank you,” Beckett said, and Mr. Tucker returned to his task.

Gwendolyn began turning pages. “I can’t read anything here. It is too dark, and the writing is very cramped. Or completely

illegible.”

“Let us go stand by the door.”

St. Albion’s did not have pews but wooden chairs. They pulled two to the doorway, ignoring the rope to the bell above in the

tower. Beckett opened the front door wider. They settled into their chairs, and Gwendolyn reopened the registry.

“Where to start?” he said.

She studied his features, the lines at his eyes from years in the military and squinting into the sun, the masculine maturity of his jaw, his cheekbones, the line of his mouth. “Lord Ellis field is just over five and thirty, and he told me he remembered the marchioness’s son. How old do you believe you are?”

“Thirty-one. I think. I could be younger or older but, I suspect, by not more than a year or so either way.”

She made a quick calculation. “Let us start at 1783. That gives us a good range to search.” She went to the front of the book.

“It starts at 1710.”

“It is a small community.”

She paged through the 1700s, conscious that he leaned toward her, his arm protectively on the back of her chair so he could

read over her shoulder. Births were listed with the names of the parents. That was convenient.

“It shouldn’t be hard to find a listing for the Marquess and Marchioness of Middlebury. I imagine they were written with a

flourish.”

“It still feels strange to me,” Beck murmured.

“That they are your parents?” she asked, running a finger down a page, lingering on any births and then moving on.

He didn’t answer.

They kept reading.

Ten minutes into their search, she felt Beckett stiffen. He looked out the door. “What is it?” she asked, and then she heard

Reverend Denburn’s voice. He was saying something to the warden.

A few moments later, he appeared in the doorway. “Hello, Miss Lanscarr.” He turned to Beckett, who had risen to his feet out

of respect. The reverend regarded him a moment and then said, “I am sorry, sir, I know we’ve been introduced—”

“Nicholas Curran,” Beckett said. “Not a problem. There are a number of guests at Colemore.”

“That there are. More than I have ever seen. Like the old days.”

Gwendolyn placed a finger in the registry to mark the page. She stood. “You have been to several of the Middlebury house parties?”

“Oh, yes. I am one of the disappointed whist players. What brings you to church this early in the morning? Looking for some

spiritual guidance?” He chuckled as if he jested.

“I forced him to join me,” Gwendolyn said. She held up the book. “I enjoy genealogy.”

“Do you now? Are you searching for anyone in particular?”

Gwendolyn paused. She’d forgotten what they had told Mr. Tucker. However, Beckett was thinking quicker than she was. “My late

mother was rumored to be from this village. Or somewhere in Kent. Miss Lanscarr is helping me in the search.”

“Family is very important,” Reverend Denburn said solemnly. He had a double chin that made him seem older than he probably

was. “Well, search away. I hope you find something in your perusal.”

“We shall put the registry back on its stand when we are finished,” Beckett said respectfully.

“Yes, please do. All right. I’m on my way to breakfast with the marchioness and her guests. Will I see you there?”

“Hopefully,” Beckett answered. “I’m famished.”

“As am I,” Gwendolyn said. The reverend started to turn, but then she realized she had another question for him. “Reverend?”

He stopped, looked back at her.

“You have been the marchioness’s whist partner in the past, correct?”

“I have had that honor. I was playing with her when she defeated Lord and Lady Orpington. Good players. They had been the

reigning champions.”

She thought of what Lady Orpington had said about her husband’s health beginning to fail during those games. Had Reverend

Denburn sat quietly and not offered help to an obviously ill man? If so, he wasn’t what she would consider a true servant

of the Lord.

So she pushed. “Can you tell me why Lady Middlebury refuses to let anyone play this year? It is as if she has banned cards

of any sort.”

He waved a dismissive hand. “You can play charades, that sort of thing. I also hear the young people wish a dance. The marchioness

will even be inviting a few prominent parish families to attend. Nothing like a Colemore country dance to stir the blood.”

“But whist?” Gwendolyn pressed. She would think Lady Middlebury would prefer her annual card game over a dance that included

locals to increase the number of young people.

Reverend Denburn made a sonorous sound as if considering what he should say before sharing. “Lady Middlebury has had a difficult

year. You saw her husband last night. He was—” He paused as if debating a word.

“Slightly erratic?” Beckett suggested.

“He’s always been that. He didn’t weather the death of his brother well, even though it has been decades. Then Death kept knocking.”

“What do you mean?” Gwendolyn asked, wishing to hear the reverend’s knowledge of all that had happened.

“Nothing untoward. After his brother, his brother’s wife and young son drowned. Did you hear of it?”

“No,” Beckett lied for both of them.

“Sad story. He fell into the river, and she died trying to save him. I wasn’t here back then, but I’ve heard stories. I also

have a sense,” he continued, warming to his topic, “that last year’s death of his good friend Lord Orpington stirred up old

memories. None of us wish to be reminded of our own mortality. Then again, Lord Middlebury has always been—well, let us say

the responsibilities of the estate have rested heavy on his shoulders.”

“You have known him long?” Gwendolyn wondered.

“Ever since I took the livelihood here some twenty-five years ago. I met Lady Middlebury first. We are distant cousins. She’s

been very good to me. To my whole family.”

“She seems nothing but kindness,” Gwendolyn agreed perfunctorily. “So, I don’t understand why she wouldn’t let her very good

friend Lady Orpington play whist.”

He clasped his hands. “What can I say? She is our hostess. Must be going. I shall see you at breakfast if you hurry.” On that

note, he left the church.

Gwendolyn had, of course, been hoping for more. She looked to Beckett. “He’s not a deep thinker.” She was quiet a moment and then she said, “What I don’t understand is how Lady Middlebury can be so petty as to deny her childhood friend a chance to play her favorite game and win back her title?”

“You ask a question when you already have the answer. Yes,” Beckett said as if it was obvious, “she also took advantage of

her childhood friend’s husband’s ill health. Petty is a nice description. Of course, Lady Orpington is not letting this go gracefully. They are both like two dogs with one

bone.”

Gwendolyn nodded. “Something is terribly wrong here. I mean, her behavior is—” She paused, tapped the book, and then she tried

a different tack. “If we were talking about my cousin Richard, who took over the family house by declaring our father dead,

then I could see such manipulations. But Beckett, these people, all of them, have too much money to be greedy.” She frowned.

“Don’t they?”

“Greed doesn’t have a social class. Then again, Gwendolyn, what if my memories of a murder are true? Winstead, the murderer,

was the marquess’s man. I don’t believe he acted independently. If that is true, they risk losing it all. Now, back to the

book.”

They returned to their search.

And there it was—the third of May 1786, a boy was born to “Marquess and Marchioness of Middlebury.” To Gwendolyn’s disappointment,

no name was recorded.

“The third of May,” Beckett said. “I’ve a birthdate.”

“And you are thirty-one, just as you’d thought.”

On the same page was the entry of the child’s father’s death. That writing appeared bleak and somber. The marquess died on

the tenth of September 1786.

Gwendolyn stared at those entries. “He only had a few months with his son.”

“But no name for the child.”

“Let us look at the christenings.” Gwendolyn turned to the back of the registry, where the baptisms were recorded.

Beckett leaned against her as if anxious for the information. He ran his finger down a few more lines. “Robert Ellicott Dumas

William Chaytor, christened on the seventh of May 1786.” Beneath his name were the signatures of his godparents, Lord Walter

and Lady Chaytor. Walter was the marquess’s given name.

His uncle, his godfather, had his mother murdered?

“That is your christened name,” Gwendolyn said. “Robert. And from that, Robbie.”

“If it is true. How do I know I’m not making up the memories?”

“We will find out,” Gwendolyn assured him.

“What do you suggest? Should we ask Lady Middlebury? Accuse her husband of murder? Corner poor, befuddled Lord Middlebury?”

“We will find a way to confirm what did or didn’t happen,” she answered. “We just have to keep our ears open.” She turned back to the births and deaths. “Here is Ellisfield’s brother,” she murmured. He, too, was at the house party, as was Lord Ellisfield’s sister—although it was clear to anyone they were not of any importance. Their brother, the heir, was the person everyone watched and gathered around. She kept going and found the information she wanted.

“‘6 June 1790, the death of Catalina Marianna Borromeo Chaytor, Fourth Marchioness of Middlebury, by drowning.’ Below it is

the entry of your death.” She looked up at Beckett. “Even though they never found the body, they have you listed here.”

Beckett took the book from her and studied the passages. He shut the ledger and sat a moment. Gwendolyn kept a respectful

silence. She could not fathom how he felt. These events were so traumatic. His child’s mind had shut them out to protect him.

“I’m not this person,” he said as if trying to understand his reactions. “I’m not Robert.” He stood.

“Actually,” she answered, “you are.”

At that moment, Mr. Tucker appeared in the doorway. “How is the research going?”

Gwendolyn forced a smile. “We are done.”

Beckett—or Robert... or, actually, Lord Middlebury—turned and walked into the sanctuary to return the book to its shelf.

“What did you learn?” Mr. Tucker asked.

Gwendolyn made a little face. “Nothing,” she lied. “There is no mention of his family. We had hopes, but you know how family

lore is. Memories are never reliable.”

“True,” Mr. Tucker agreed heartily. “Here, let me help you put back these chairs. I’m done cutting around graves. I have to do it every week. Keep the place tidy.”

Beckett joined them. His expression was impassive; however, she was beginning to know him well enough to realize how good

he was at hiding his true emotions. “Thank you for letting us look at the registry.” He offered the man a coin.

“No need for that, sir. Well, I suppose, yes. Thank you, sir.” The coin disappeared into Mr. Tucker’s pocket. “You are welcome,

sir.”

Beckett offered Gwendolyn his arm. “We should return to Colemore. Reverend Denburn claims the breakfast is worth being at

the table.”

His voice was distant as if he was distracted. She gave one last smile to Mr. Tucker, and they went out into the day. The

sun seemed very bright after the dimness of the church.

However, Beckett didn’t move toward the horses. Instead, he let go of her arm and began walking among the graves.

Gwendolyn joined him, taking another line of graves instead of the ones he searched. She knew what he was looking for.

Mr. Tucker left the church and watched them for a few minutes. Then he called out, “Is there something else I can help you

with?”

To Gwendolyn’s surprise, Beckett said, “The marquess’s family plot? Is it here?”

Mr. Tucker frowned, and Beckett quickly explained, “We heard a ghost story.” He said this as if they were curiosity-seekers.

The warden made a dismissive noise. “The singing marchioness. I imagine the current Lord Middlebury wishes that story would go away. And yet,” he confided, moving closer to them as if not wishing to be overheard, “they say Middlebury himself hears her often. Reverend Denburn wouldn’t like me telling you this. He calls it gossip. Course, he gossips plenty.”

“Has anyone else in the village heard her?” Beckett asked.

“I best let that alone, sir.” He started to back away. “I’ve said too much already.”

“Understood,” Beckett said as if it was of no matter. “However, we would like to see the graves. Even if the story isn’t true,

it is a matter of curiosity.” Another coin appeared in Beckett’s hand.

Mr. Tucker slipped that one in his pocket to join the other. “Follow me, sir.”

He led them around the building. The headstones on this side were larger and better cared for. Some tombs, especially the

ones covered with lichen, were dated almost two hundred years ago. Mr. Tucker directed them to three relatively new headstones.

One was proudly in the open, next to the family monument. The other two graves appeared almost hidden. They were located under

the overgrown branches of a giant hemlock tree.

Mr. Tucker pointed to the larger headstone in the open. “That is the fourth marquess, my lord’s older brother.”

Beckett’s expression was somber as he approached the site. Gwendolyn respectfully followed him.

“His wife is next to her son,” Mr. Tucker said. He nodded to the half-hidden graves. “I saw her a few times when they first married. Lovely woman. Always laughing. And that there is the tragedy.” He nodded to a much smaller headstone. It was the child’s, carved so that it appeared a miniature of his father’s.

“Course, the lad’s not in there,” Mr. Tucker said. “Chances are the fish ate him. Gives me chills to think of it. We tell

our children the story to remind them to be respectful of the river. It doesn’t appear dangerous, but water can always claim

lives no matter how shallow. It did that day.”

“Yes,” Beckett agreed absently. He turned to Gwendolyn. “Shall we go to breakfast?”

“I don’t know if I have an appetite,” she murmured, shaken by the sight of the smallest grave... and what it meant.

He understood. He took her arm. “Come.”

They were quiet as they rode down the road. She waited until they were well out of the village before she said, “What are

you thinking?”

“That I know why Middlebury feels guilty. Murder is grim business. What I don’t understand is why he rescued me from a brothel

in London? I would have grown up not knowing anything. I’d probably be a rat catcher or some such low trade today. And why

did he give me an education and see to my commission?”

“Guilt. It makes people do strange things.”

He appeared to mull over her words. Then he said, “None of this can be proven.” He looked to her, his expression bleak. “How can I claim to be Robert Chaytor? I’m not even certain myself. I don’t want the money or the title. I just want answers. And if someone ordered Winstead to murder my mother—I want justice.”

“Who do you believe gave the order?”

“The only person who stood to gain—the Marquess of Middlebury.”

“Unless this Winstead was a rogue who acted alone,” Gwendolyn suggested.

His glance said he thought she knew better.

She nodded an acknowledgment. “Well, then, I would place a wager on Lady Middlebury. She strikes me as ruthless. So, what

is our next step? What are our plans?”

“Our plans are to move you, Lady Orpington, and Mrs. Newsome to someplace safe. And then? I will have a conversation with the Marquess of Middlebury.”