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F irst thing in the morning, the three of them set off on horseback for the Websters’ manor, barely a mile away. Michael still felt angry that Cecilia refused to remain at home, but he trusted himself to defend her more than any of the servants, so he’d relented at last. She’d been determined to reunite with Jennette, needing to look into her face for herself and see the truth. And perhaps Jennette would speak more freely to another woman.

Michael didn’t bother telling her that sometimes evil could mask itself as good and get away with it. Either way, they were probably going to have to involve the constable eventually.

The sky was overcast, and a breeze chilled them. He watched his wife, who, although wearing a cloak, seemed unaffected by the weather, her expression set with determination, ready to fight the world in defense of her brother, as she’d been doing her whole life. Appertan alternated between looking pale with mortification and grim with the knowledge that his behavior could have cost Cecilia her life. Revelation of his deeds would either improve him or ruin him. Michael vowed to make sure it was the former, for the sake of both Mallory descendants—and for their father.

The manor itself was a two-story stone building, surrounded by a white fence with climbing vines that had begun to brown with the encroaching autumn. Trees swayed in the wind near the house, and a gardener could be seen working in the side garden.

After they’d been admitted to a small entrance hall, a maid went to fetch Mrs. Webster, since Mr. Webster wasn’t at home. Michael surreptitiously glanced past three doors that opened off the small hall, seeing a library, a sitting room of some sort, and a corridor to the back of the house. He tried to imagine the layout in his mind, wondering where the maid Jennette would be working at the moment—and where she kept her child.

Mrs. Webster hurried from the back of the house, flustered in her plain brown day dress and crooked lace cap. She peered at them above the spectacles perched on her nose. “Oh, dear, my lord Appertan, Lady Blackthorne, Lord Blackthorne, I cannot believe you weren’t shown to the parlor! Please, please, make yourself comfortable.”

Michael followed his wife and her brother into a small parlor, decorated with family stitchery and amateur watercolors between traditional paintings. He remembered meeting Mrs. Webster at the dinner party, but the woman had left little impression on him except for her obvious devotion to Miss Webster, and the glowing pride she’d evidenced at how well married her daughter would soon be. But, of course, Miss Webster was the only child they had left. He couldn’t imagine how it must have felt to lose their oldest daughter in such a tragic drowning.

When they were all seated in the cozy room, Mrs. Webster smiled overly brightly at Appertan. “My lord, it is good of you to call upon Penelope. Luckily, she is at home.”

The young earl cleared his throat. “Mrs. Webster, although I would be pleased to see your daughter, we have come on another matter. I understand that you have a maid working for you who once worked at Appertan Hall.”

“Why, yes, we do,” she said without embarrassment. “Jennette. A quiet girl, who has suffered terribly. We felt it right to hire her, when she was too embarrassed to remain at Appertan Hall.”

Mrs. Webster didn’t seem to suspect that Appertan was involved in the maid’s abrupt departure.

Appertan swallowed, then straightened his shoulders. “We need to speak to Jennette, Mrs. Webster. Would you bring her to us?”

Mrs. Webster pulled a bell cord that summoned a plump, older woman, obviously the housekeeper, then sent her off with the request. Michael could only imagine the maid’s reaction after how Appertan had treated her. If she was innocent of the plot against Cecilia, she’d be frightened that Appertan might send her away permanently—or take her child. If Jennette was guilty...

Casually, while Mrs. Webster poured tea, Michael stood, ignoring the shot of pain in his leg as he leaned on his cane and limped to the window. He’d noticed the rear exit was on that side of the house, and he kept watch as if admiring the grounds. No one ran out. Mrs. Webster saw his interest and began to talk about the roses she tended all summer.

Cecilia could barely swallow, she was so nervous. Her spoon rattled against the fragile china cup as she stirred her tea. She’d almost jumped when her husband had stood up, but seeing him at the window, she understood his purpose. Her brother’s knee jiggled with nervousness, and she longed to grip it, if only to stop him.

They heard two sets of footsteps in the corridor, and a shot of tension like lightning moved among the three of them. Oliver stood up so fast, he almost tipped over the cup Mrs. Webster was offering him. Baffled, she leaned back to look up, then saw visitors blocking the doorway.

Cecilia held her breath as Jennette stood beside the housekeeper. It was obvious the girl had been crying, for her face was stained with tears, and the housekeeper’s blouse was covered in wet spots at the shoulder. Jennette took one look at Oliver and shuddered, averting her eyes. But that shudder wasn’t one of anger, but fear.

Cecilia glanced at Mrs. Webster, wondering how she could ask the woman to leave her own parlor.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Oliver told Jennette urgently, as if he didn’t care who overheard him.

Jennette trembled and held a handkerchief to her eyes and wouldn’t look at him.

“Lord Appertan,” Mrs. Webster began, coming awkwardly to her feet, “I don’t understand what is going on. Jennette has been an exemplary servant. If you wish to hire her back, the proper etiquette suggests ...” Her words died away as she looked from person to person. “I don’t understand.”

“Jennette,” Oliver began, stepping forward.

The maid shrank back against the housekeeper, who put a bracing arm around the girl and glared at Oliver, all rigid disdain and disapproval. Cecilia had thought the woman simply overweight, but now she guessed she had the physique of one who’d worked hard all her life, and now she meant to protect the maid under her authority.

“Jennette, please,” Cecilia began, “we don’t mean to hurt you. We simply need answers.”

As if she’d somehow gathered her strength, Jennette gazed at Oliver tearfully. “I knew you’d find me, but I couldn’t leave. I had nowhere else to go. You must want the baby, but you can’t have her!”

Mrs. Webster’s mouth fell open in growing understanding, and it was hard to look at her, knowing what she now thought of Oliver—knowing what everyone would soon think. When Michael came to Cecilia’s side and put an arm around her waist, she was grateful for the support.

“I haven’t come to take the baby from you,” Oliver insisted. “This is about my sister.”

“This isn’t about Lady Cecilia,” Jennette said, her voice rising with hysteria. “She was good to me—but not you!”

Cecilia exchanged a glance with Michael. That didn’t sound like someone who wanted to harm her.

Jennette hiccoughed on a sob, then whispered, “I should have gone farther away. But I was tired and sick, and Miss Hannah saw me on the road and insisted I come with her.”

“Hannah,” Cecilia breathed, feeling an ache of loss, even as she remembered her friend’s compassion. Michael gently squeezed her waist.

At the mention of her daughter, Mrs. Webster put her trembling fingers against her lips and bowed her head.

“Miss Hannah said I should stay.” Tears fell down Jennette’s cheeks. “I—I told her about the babe, but she didn’t care, God bless her. When she died, I d-didn’t know if I could trust that strange Miss Penelope, but Miss Hannah had told her everything. What choice did I have?”

Cecilia stiffened, even as she saw Oliver’s look of shock. Penelope knew about his bastard? Cecilia felt a tingling down her back, an awareness of something crucial and important. Penelope had known the truth, and she’d still agreed to marry Oliver. That wasn’t surprising—she would become a countess, and there were many girls who would wish for that. It wasn’t just power and wealth—Penelope loved Oliver.

But ... wouldn’t she have given Jennette money to go away once she was engaged? Instead, Penelope had kept her nearby, under her control. Cecilia almost swayed, knowing how much her own need to be in control had gotten her into trouble. One couldn’t control life easily; one had to learn the grace to go along with whatever happened—to trust in God, oneself, and those one loves.

But Penelope ... Penelope must have thought she might need to use the baby to control Oliver someday.

“Where is your child?” Michael suddenly boomed out.

Jennette shot him a startled look, as if she’d only just realized he was in the room. “Who are you? You’re not taking Darlene!”

“I am Blackthorne, Lady Cecilia’s husband,” Michael said shortly, using Cecilia’s previous title as if to make Jennette understand. “Is the child with Miss Webster?”

Cecilia gasped in horror. “You don’t think—”

Oliver was gaping like a fish. “No. I don’t believe it.”

Jennette’s blotchy face paled to the color of dough. “What’s wrong? Why do you all look like that?” She pushed herself away from the housekeeper and ran out into the entrance hall.

In the sudden commotion of people trying to flee the room, Mrs. Webster fell back in a chair. “What is happening?” she screamed.

“Stay with her!” Cecilia told the housekeeper, who nodded, eyes wide with fear.

Cecilia followed Jennette, Oliver, and Michael up the stairs, running as fast as she could to keep up with them. She remembered the house well, and knew they were headed for the small rooms at the back that constituted the servants’ quarters.

“Penelope!” Oliver shouted.

Cecilia shuddered at the fear in his voice, even as a child screamed. Oliver must already be inside the room, while Michael held back a sobbing Jennette. Cecilia ducked beneath Michael’s arm before he could stop her.

Penelope stood in the far corner of the bedroom, a chubby blond toddler pressed to her chest. The little girl cried pitiful tears and reached toward her mother.

Penelope ignored her. “Oliver, you need to go home. This doesn’t concern you.”

She spoke in so calm and rational a tone that Cecilia felt gooseflesh rise along her arms. But her eyes looked wide and wild.

“She is my daughter, Penelope,” Oliver said, a tremor in his voice. “And you knew. Why didn’t you talk to me about it?”

“There’s nothing to talk about. I’ll take her away from here. She doesn’t need to disturb us. Jennette was a fool to get with child—I won’t be anything like her.”

“Of course not,” Oliver said reasonably. “You’ll be my countess.”

“I deserve to be a countess.” Penelope nodded. “I’ve proven I can control you, after all. I know everything that’s been happening because I’m very good with servants.”

Her eyes slanted toward Cecilia, and the momentary glimmer of hate made Cecilia feel nauseous. She’d trusted Penelope—how had she not seen the truth?

“It was so easy to know everything going on at Appertan Hall,” Penelope said conversationally. “Cecilia, you thought you were in charge, but it was really me, as it will always be, once I’m Lady Appertan. Oliver was so easy to handle when he wanted to kiss me. I played Francis, the page, the same way, and he did whatever I wanted, told me all your secrets, until I knew so many bad things about him he couldn’t stop doing what I wanted. He’s very good at digging—did you notice that? But the bust falling, that was all me. So easy to hide behind those potted ferns you keep everywhere. After you screamed and everyone looked over the balustrade, off I went.”

The child cried out again, and Penelope gave her the sweetest smile. “Don’t worry, little Darlene. I’ll take care of everything. I know just how to do it.” She shot Oliver a sudden look of triumph. “I persuaded you to propose, didn’t I?”

“You did.”

“You didn’t love me, but what does love matter in a marriage? A marriage is about power, and you were keeping it from me!” She suddenly pointed her finger at Cecilia.

“I didn’t know,” Cecilia said, spreading her hands wide to show she meant no harm. She felt Michael holding a fistful of her skirt, as if to keep her near him. She had no intention of rushing forward and risking her niece, not when Penelope was so near the open window.

“You were the reason he wouldn’t set a date and make me a countess.” Penelope’s voice rose slowly with each word. “I love him—I’ll make him a good wife and a better man. But not with you there.” Her green eyes narrowed in rage. “You kept interfering, doing everything for him. I was supposed to be his inspiration, his guide. Why didn’t you just leave with your husband ?” She pointed at Michael, and her whole arm vibrated with her passion. “But no, you had to interfere. Hannah tried to interfere, too. She wanted to tell you about the baby, but I couldn’t let her.”

Cecilia covered her mouth, afraid she’d scream at the images that now flashed through her mind. Had Penelope killed her own sister?

“What did you do?” Oliver cried, advancing toward her.

Michael pushed Jennette into Cecilia’s arms, and Cecilia staggered into the wall to keep the crying maid from rushing toward her daughter. Michael caught up with Oliver.

“Stay away!” Penelope screamed, leaning her hip on the window ledge, Darlene dangling outside, shrieking. “I’ll come find you, Oliver, don’t worry. We’ll be together!”

And then she swept her arm across the nearby table, upsetting a dimmed lamp. The oil spilled across the floor, and a fire started with a “whoosh” of sudden sound.

Cecilia and Jennette screamed; Oliver and Michael launched themselves forward, Michael diving for the nearest carpet to use against the flames. Flinging her leg over the sill, Penelope reached for a branch in the tree that the sisters used to play in as children. But the little girl gave a wild kick, which caught Penelope in the stomach, throwing her off balance. She teetered on the ledge, Darlene squalling and squirming. Oliver caught his daughter just as Penelope lost her grip. She started to fall backward out the window, her expression one of shocked disbelief.

“Penelope!” Oliver shouted.

With a wild grab, he caught her skirt, but as a sharp rip sounded, Penelope screamed and fell. Her voice abruptly went silent.

Cecilia only spared the shaking Oliver a brief glance as she searched for a pitcher of water on the nearby washstand. She flung it at the fire just as Michael ripped the curtains from the wall and tossed them out the window. Still clutching Darlene, Oliver flinched, as if he thought Michael had aimed them at Penelope.

Jennette gave a wild cry and raced forward, and Oliver didn’t resist as she reached for the little girl and hugged her to her breast.

“Take them out of here!” Michael shouted.

Oliver pushed Jennette into the corridor and followed her.

Though Michael had the fire almost completely eradicated, Cecilia ran across the hall, found another brimming pitcher, and put out the last of the flames. Then she and Michael stared at each other, coughing with the drifting smoke.

Dazed, she tried to move by him toward the window, but he caught her shoulders, even as they heard the first screams from down below.

“Don’t look,” he said.

She flung herself into his arms and held on. “She—she killed Hannah,” she choked out, sobs overcoming her.

“I know,” he soothed, running his hands down her head, across her back.

“She tried to kill me—all the time she was listening to my fears, she was—she was plotting to—to—” She couldn’t finish her sentence, could only shudder with grief and confusion. At last, she tipped her head back and gazed helplessly into his tender eyes. “What did I do wrong, Michael?”

“Nothing. She was like this long before your father died, before you took over the earldom. You were just one more obstacle in her way. But it’s finished now.”

“For you and me, maybe, but the Websters—Oliver—” She sagged against him wearily. “I have to go to him. He’ll need me.”

“Of course he does.”

“But not the way you think,” she said, forcing her shaky limbs to hold her upright. “I—I was proud of him today, Michael. Even with the terrible things he’s done, today I was proud of him.”

D uring the rest of the traumatic day, Cecilia watched her brother begin to take command. When Michael volunteered to ride for the constable, the sobbing Mrs. Webster begged Oliver to let their family shame remain hidden, so she could mourn her children in peace. Oliver looked at Cecilia, and she stared at the broken woman, who would have to live with the knowledge that one daughter had murdered the other. And Mrs. Webster didn’t even know what Penelope had done to Cecilia.

Cecilia leaned against Michael and gave her agreement for the day’s events to be shrouded in secrecy. Penelope fell from the window accidentally, and that’s all people would need to know. Even Jennette had calmed down enough to agree, tearfully saying she owed the Websters too much to betray them. Mr. Webster returned home at last, and his wife swooned into his arms. There was still Francis, the page, to deal with, but by the time they’d returned to the Hall, he’d taken his things and fled.

That night, Cecilia stood in her bedroom window, looking out across the darkly shrouded grounds in the direction of the Websters’ manor. She’d had time to compose herself, to remember that she was at last free of fear. Slowly, she closed the curtains against the night and turned around.

Michael watched her, leaning on his cane. He’d washed the soot from his face and hands, but a few spots still stained his shirt. It was the first moment they’d had to themselves after dealing with Oliver, Jennette, and their little girl. Jennette had been frightened of what Oliver might do, but he’d offered her a manor at the edge of Appertan Hall’s property. He would deed it to his daughter and her mother, as long as he could visit Darlene whenever he wanted, see that she was properly schooled, and someday married well, with a sizable dowry. Jennette had gaped at him, then at Cecilia, who’d smiled, before Jennette buried her face in her daughter’s hair and nodded her acceptance.

Now Cecilia looked at Michael, and asked tiredly, “What did you think of Oliver today?”

“He handled himself like a man,” Michael said, “but I don’t want to talk about him anymore. I want to talk about us.”

She’d known this was coming but couldn’t think what to say except, “You’re still hurt, Michael. We have time to decide—”

“No, I don’t need more time,” he said urgently, advancing toward her until they were face-to-face. “I love you, Cecilia.”

She felt both stunned and humbled by those words, but could she believe them? “Michael, I’m not a debt you owe my father.”

“You aren’t anyone’s debt—you’re my wife, and I can’t bear the thought of losing you.” He dropped his cane and took hold of her upper arms. “Nothing is as important to me as you are, certainly not a career. I’ll give it up, Cecilia. I’ll stay here with you, or wherever you’d like.”

Tears burned her eyes, but they weren’t of sorrow. “Oh, Michael, that means so much to me, but listen to what I have to say first. I’ve always felt so safe here, after all the deaths my family suffered abroad. And being in charge only made me more powerful, as if by controlling everything, I could make sure nothing bad happened. But that wasn’t true, was it?” she asked, giving him a sad smile.

He drew her against him. “Cecilia—”

“Let me finish, please. By controlling everything, I held at bay my fears. I think ... I think I slowly grew frightened of the wide world beyond this estate. I barely went to London. Deep inside, I harbored bitterness toward my father that I kept denying to myself. I—I couldn’t forget that the army seemed more important to him than his own family, and I swore to myself that I wouldn’t let that happen to me. If I could control everything, I would be safe. I wouldn’t marry, wouldn’t have children, wouldn’t risk losing anyone else. But what kind of life is that? Maybe Oliver and I each panicked in our own way. But I don’t need his life anymore. I want my own. I want our children—I want you. I love you. ”

Smiling, he kissed her cheeks and her forehead. “To hear those words on your lips is the greatest treasure I could ever have,” he murmured huskily.

“I don’t need Appertan Hall and all the estates, and they don’t need me. You may not believe me, but you’ll see—I’ll give up all my money to the estate.”

“I don’t need you to be powerless, Cecilia,” he told her. “You are an intelligent woman who needs a challenge. That money is yours to invest or do whatever with. You deserve to have the kind of life you’ve always wanted because you’ve let yourself suffer under too much guilt. And I haven’t felt it enough, never saw the scope of how many lives my actions affected. My insistence on living as an enlisted man has been my pride talking. I’ve let that rule my life for too long. I’ll purchase a commission with some of the dowry, as you wanted me to. You deserve to be an officer’s wife.”

“Then I’ll see what life is like as an officer’s wife in India.”

His expression grew hopeful as he searched her face, and her smile wobbled with happiness.

“No, Cecilia, I won’t ask that of you.”

“You aren’t asking, I’m telling you. Didn’t you hear what I said? I won’t be afraid of the world anymore, and as you reminded me, I’m not my mother. I’ll come with you to India, and I hope we’ll spend several months of each year here in England. The best of both worlds. We can make that happen, Michael.”

He kissed her then, drawing her up onto her toes until she had to hold him hard to keep herself from falling. They kissed and laughed and tried to talk over each other.

“I’ll need your help, you know,” he insisted. “Allen’s law practice is growing, and I’ll have to take over more of the Blackthorne estate. Who better to run it and see it thrive than you with all your experience?”

“What a challenge!” she cried, flinging her arms wide, knowing he’d catch her. When he drew her back against him, her smile faded, and she cupped his face in her hands. “You make me feel beloved, Michael. You married me when I needed your help, asking nothing in return. I’m asking for your help again. I want to start fresh, to see India through your eyes. I want to make sure our children are never afraid of anything.”

They slowly kissed, knowing the whole world awaited them.