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T he next morning brought a low, persistent drizzle that was hardly harsh enough to deter their mission yet dreary enough to cast a dull pallor over the last leg of their journey. Jacob’s hand twitched as he looked out the carriage window.

Amelia’s revelations last night had been life-altering—both when it came to knowing her as a person and to recognizing the sheer, divine coincidence of their circumstances.

He’d sent an express to Father immediately after taking his leave of her last night, asking for further details on his supposed betrothed.

He sneaked a sideways glance at Amelia, who sat pensively on the carriage bench, her eyes and fingers restless.

Father’s reply might take at least another day to arrive, but somehow, Jacob already knew the answer in his heart.

“You do know it will all be well,” he said gently, as the post-chaise crested another small rise in the terrain.

They’d gained the final details of Sir George Staunton’s current address from the innkeeper’s boy this morning, and the baronet’s cousin’s estate was apparently much closer than they’d anticipated.

They wouldn’t need to visit another inn for another evening. Today, they would finally arrive.

“I don’t know how you can be so certain.” Amelia sighed.

Betsy looked ready to say something or other, but one look from Jacob quelled her promptly. The plucky maid, still in her employer’s black books after her grievous errors in judgment, pulled back obediently.

He turned back towards Amelia. “I am certain because, no matter the answers you find today, they will not change the fact that you are one of the bravest, most compelling young women I’ve ever had the honor of knowing, and I am sure that you will take whatever knowledge you gain and make the best of the entire situation. ”

“If Sir George does not remember me?—”

“Then you can remind him of who you are.”

“If he cannot tell me anything of my past?—”

“Then it has little bearing on your future.”

She met his eye, her gaze a mixture of gratefulness and uncertainty. “And if he corroborates that everything is indeed as I thought it was?”

Ignoring Betsy altogether, Jacob brushed his hand against hers before resting his palm over her fingers. “Then you are worth every bit as much as a person as you always have been.”

She turned her hand over to hold his.

And Jacob smiled.

Amelia’s heart thudded like a low, persistent drum as the butler, a more amicable one this time, escorted them into the modest country manor.

The place was nowhere nearly as grand as Milford House, or her own uncle’s seat in Thorncombe Abbey, but it felt airy and comfortable—a country gentleman’s home.

If Jacob’s sources were to be believed, Sir George didn’t currently own any home, and the place was merely borrowed from one of his distant relatives.

She supposed even a minor title didn’t bring guarantees of material comfort with it.

It was a sobering thought, that—considering she was here today to ask the man how to trace her mother’s royal bloodline and inheritance.

“And what card shall I give the baronet, ma’am?

” The butler inquired after seating them in the modest parlor, his tone impassive.

Amelia glanced at the bulging, middle-aged servant.

He might be less hostile than Lady Morchester’s man, but his leveled brow indicated he was just as well-trained in turning down unwanted visitors if needed.

Perhaps she’d merely been misled by his portly frame and thinning hair.

Perhaps there was no such thing as a kindly butler, after all.

“Mr. Jacob Hawthorne, at your service.” Jacob dutifully produced his card, while Amelia continued to rue the absence of hers.

“Ah,” said the butler, doing little to suppress how unimpressed he was. “And Miss?—”

“Miss Amelia Fitzwater, niece of the Earl of Aldbury.”

Amelia shot Jacob a small, thankful smile. He acknowledged it with a quick nod.

“The Earl of Aldbury?” The butler’s brows rose ever higher. His gaze ran the length of Amelia’s short frame. “To my knowledge, the earl’s family is mostly English , ma’am.”

Jacob shot to his feet. “Are you daring to suggest that Miss Fitzwater is not?—”

“Jacob, let him be.” Amelia pressed a hand to his arm.

He turned towards her, eyes concerned. She tried to look reassuring.

Then she let go to procure the jewelry box from her reticule.

She handed it to the butler. “My father is The Honorable Martin Fitzwater, the youngest brother of the earl. His acquaintance with Sir George is of a personal nature, and I know the baronet will recognize his name for certain. If you must, please present this to Sir George, and I assure you he will know who I am.”

She watched nervously as the butler lifted her most prized possession between his well-fed fingers. He looked tempted to scrutinize the porcelain box before years of training led him to hold it reverently between his palms instead.

“I shall inform Sir George forthwith.” He bowed slightly.

Amelia acknowledged him with a slight nod before he slipped out the door.

Usually, being left alone with Jacob brought with it a sense of relief—as if she were safe, as if she could finally breathe without worrying about what Mother thought, or what the servants might gossip about, or whether or not the hackney driver was trying to rob her.

Today, her nerves were strung so tightly that she found herself barely able to string together a single coherent thought.

A warm hand landed on her shoulder. She shifted slightly towards him, a small compensation in place of actually burrowing into Jacob’s arms .

“Remember what I said in the carriage,” he whispered.

“Remembering and believing are two rather different things.”

“They do not need to be.”

“It is easy to speak so when the trajectory of your entire life is not at stake.”

His hand tightened on her shoulder. She looked up to meet his eye.

His gaze was stormier today—almost as if the surge of emotion she felt had affected him as well. It was almost as if the clear blue sky had a layer of clouds swirling amidst it, teasing the possibility of rain without actually letting the waterworks lose.

“Whatever concerns you—will always concern me,” he said softly.

“Jacob—”

“I mean it.” The urgency in his voice only seemed to render it more tender. “Whatever this visit culminates in—whatever this friend or baron or master says—I have no intention whatsoever to stop being a part of your life just because we have finally located him.”

“Oh, Jacob.” Her heart swelled. Her hands found his. “I’ve said before that you are kind, but you are so much more than?—”

“By Jove!” A brown-haired man who looked a few years past his thirtieth year exclaimed as he rushed into the parlor. His eyes fixed themselves onto Amelia. “You look just like your mother.”

Jacob watched, his own heartbeat erratic, as the energized baronet guided Amelia by the elbows away from Jacob and onto the worn, ornate settee.

Amelia’s eyes sought Jacob’s, and he immediately followed to stand beside her.

Her trembling hand found his just as the baronet pulled up a neighboring chair and sat down directly across from Amelia.

“The eyes, the nose—” Sir George spoke eagerly, his eyes darting all over Amelia as if cataloging a scientific specimen. “I’d seen you as a girl, but the resemblance now is truly remarkable.”

Amelia squeezed Jacob’s hand, her face steady. “You knew my mother then?”

“Of course! How could I not have? And even if I might have forgotten about Martin’s paramour, one look at you would have brought back every recollection.”

“I resemble her then—my mother?” It pained Jacob to hear the crack in her voice—to feel the uncertainty and relief entwining in her words. How did one feel having to conduct such a life-altering interview? “I had hoped that you knew her—that perhaps you recognized the jewelry box.”

“Oh, this. Right.” Sir George handed back the treasured heirloom as if it were a common household item. “It is nigh identical with my mother’s.”

“Lady Staunton has one too?” Amelia marveled audibly. “Did she also visit the Manchurian court?”

“Oh, no, no—none of that.” Sir George laughed as if the idea were ludicrous. Perhaps it was. “There were more than a few of them at the time, among other things—although most of the men decided to bring the carved fans back in place of the heavier porcelain. ”

“Carved fans?—”

“Ah, yes.” Sir George jumped to his feet. “The collection I travel with is hardly as impressive as the one I leave in my London offices, but I suppose it would be a pleasure to see you juxtaposed with the items. Come along.”

He ushered Amelia forward, with Jacob trailing behind, until they passed through a small door in the corner.

The entryway was humble, corresponding to the compact study they entered together—but what set the sight apart was how every single surface, horizontal or vertical, was entirely covered in chinoiserie.

Jacob felt as well as heard Amelia’s gasp.

“There, don’t you look just like a doll amongst it all,” Sir George said with the giddy enthusiasm of a child as he placed her in the exact center of all the carved, painted, and handcrafted artifacts.

His gaze held an almost paternal glint as he watched Amelia take in the various paintings, vases, cabinets, and scrolls.

A few long lengths of flat fabric displayed elaborate calligraphy of intricate Chinese writing, penned from top to bottom.

Delicately painted porcelain, similar to Amelia’s box, lined the length of the desk—teapots and saucers and drinking contraptions that looked too small to be bowls yet too handleless to be proper teacups.

A bronze mirror sat to the side, its handle and sides ornately carved.

“I must say Martin brought home the best legacy of them all.”

It heartened Jacob to watch Amelia smile. “But you did know my mother.”

“Of course.”

“She existed.”

“You silly girl, of course she did! ”

“And what—what was her name?” Amelia looked with so much hope towards Sir George that Jacob almost felt equally invested. Surely, the name had to have some sort of deep meaning, or perhaps a poetic one.

Sir George frowned, seemingly taken off-guard by the question. “Her name? Well, now, I don’t think I remember. Although my secretary must. It might take a few days to get word to him in London and back, but he just might recall it.”

“Your secretary?” Jacob and Amelia repeated at the same time.

“Ah, yes, perhaps it is surprising. But the servant boy my father brought with us—who must be your uncle, now that I think about it—has been so successful at understanding the English way of things as much as imparting the Chinese language that I thought to give him some sort of position amongst my staff.”

“Why would—” Amelia tilted her head slightly. “Why would your servant—be my uncle?”

Sir George met her eyes, looking genuinely surprised. “My servant—did your father never tell you?”

A few weighted seconds passed.

“Tell me what?”

“About your mother?—”

“She was a Chinese princess—albeit a minor one. They met at the Chinese court, and Papa stayed behind when the embassy left because he’d married her. They remained another year, until my mother died in childbed after bearing me. Then Papa returned to England.”

Jacob expected appreciation for, or at least acknowledgment of, Amelia’s burst of information. Yet instead of expressing either, Sir George took a deep breath in and frowned. Jacob puzzled as the man sighed. “Oh, you poor dear. Is that what your father told you?”

“Well, he—yes, I suppose, in bits in pieces, over the years.”

“Ah.”

“Is it not true?”

“Well.”

“Well what?”

“ Almost everything you said is true,” Sir George answered. Jacob hardly dared to hope. “But your late mother, she—she was not a princess—only the maidservant to one. And I don’t know if your parents ever married.”

Jacob was exceedingly glad that he was within reach of Amelia when she stumbled.