Page 45

The gray gown buoyed her as the carriage swept up the curving drive of the estate on Palace Street.

Bordered by elms, the drive ended at an elegant Georgian home with tall, symmetrical windows on either side of an imposing oak door.

Sara named the rooms as the carriage approached, picturing them in her mind.

The parlor. Papa’s study. The knot in her stomach grew, making her breath quicken.

It was so familiar, at once linked to every memory of her childhood, and yet synonymous with rejection and loss.

Even the butler who answered her knock was unchanged. He paled, his eyes widening at the sight of her. “Miss Sally?” His voice was faint, unbelieving.

“Hello, McBain. May I come in?”

McBain snapped to attention, stepping aside for her to enter. He faltered, his eyes darting between the library and the small family parlor in the back as though he were wondering just where one placed a prodigal daughter who’d disappeared for over a decade.

“Is my father here?”

“Yes,” he answered quickly, then seemed to recollect himself. “Ah, that is, I will see if Mr. Ballantine is at home.” He led the way to the library. “Follow me, please, Mrs. O’Connor.”

“It’s Mrs. Kinney, now, McBain,” she corrected gently.

For a moment, the older man appeared perplexed. She could almost see the wheels of his mind turning, trying to figure out why the name Kinney was so familiar. His eyes widened, and she saw the moment when the truth clicked into place.

Sara moved further into the parlor, her eyes lighting on the familiar furnishings before coming to rest on the portrait above the hearth.

Her mother as a young bride, dressed in the flowing, high-waisted fashion of a quarter century ago.

Sara had spent hours curled up on the sofa, staring into that face for a clue to the woman she couldn’t remember.

The soft, dreamy eyes and whimsical smile were just as she’d remembered them, but now she noticed the tightly clasped hands, the way her brows drew together as though she were pondering some deep truth.

Help me, Mama. Help me find the words to save my family.

“McBain!”

The gruff voice in the hall brought a flood of memories so sharp that she took a step forward.

Papa. The years fell away, and she heard the voice of her childhood hero, the man she’d tried so hard to please.

The man who had rejected her and pushed her out onto the streets.

This last thought checked her steps, reminding her of everything that had happened since she’d left this house. She drew in a deep breath.

“You have a visitor, sir.” McBain moved to the door, blocking her view of the hall.

“Nonsense. No time for a visitor now. Told the governor I’d be back by noon.” Her father’s voice drew closer, and her heart started to pound.

“It’s Miss Sally.”

Silence greeted this pronouncement. Sara held her breath.

“Sally?” His voice was different, hoarse, and tinged with disbelief. The gentleness of it gave her the courage to step around McBain.

His hair was fully gray now, and the lines across his forehead and around his eyes more pronounced. His frame was bent where before he had always stood so straight and proud. She felt the weight of his eyes on her and steeled herself to meet his gaze.

“Sally. You’ve come home.”

She’d prepared herself for his anger, his indifference, even. But his gentle words, uttered so softly, shocked her into silence. Then she remembered why she’d come. She cleared her throat. Her future depended on this conversation.

“I—I hope you don’t mind.”

Her father handed his cane and hat back to McBain, his eyes not leaving her.

“Not at all, not at all.” He seemed to recollect himself, and some of his usual bluster returned to his voice.

“Sit down.” He swept an arm out in front of him, indicating a seat on the sofa.

“Refreshments, McBain,” he called over his shoulder, before taking a seat in the armchair.

His chair. She remembered climbing onto his lap while he sat, gazing into the fire on a rare evening he spent at home.

Sometimes he’d smoke his pipe, looking up at the portrait of her mother.

He didn’t talk much on those nights, but she’d been content to curl up in his lap and feel the strength of his arms around her.

The rush of tears surprised her. She thought she’d long ago ceased to mourn her father, her heart taken up with bigger sorrows. But here, in this room, she was a child again, desperate for any attention that came her way.

He cleared his throat, startling her out of her reverie. “You... you look well.” His gaze swept over her fine silk dress and stylish half boots.

What would his reaction be if he’d seen her scrubbing dirty linens in a courtyard? Would he turn away, pretend he didn’t know her?

“Colin died.” She hadn’t meant to start there but suddenly it seemed important that he hear it all. Her father paled, his mouth pinching together at the mention of her first husband’s name. “Seven years ago.”

“Seven years ?” He straightened. “Why am I only hearing of this now?”

“I went to live with his family,” Sara continued, ignoring his question.

“I worked to support myself. I took in laundry.” She met his eyes, daring him to take exception to her choices, but she could find no trace of the scorn she expected.

Instead, his eyes softened. He looked down, but not before she saw the faint shimmer of tears.

“I looked for you.” His voice was so quiet, she leaned forward in her seat to hear him better. “I made inquiries, put Osgoode on your trail, but there was no trace of you.” His hands tightened on the arms of his chair. “You just... vanished.”

She was silent, unwilling to contradict him. She’d never been more than two miles from him, but Osgoode had probably worked diligently to keep her hidden away. A reconciliation while she was married to Colin would have spelled the end of his plans to inherit her father’s estate.

Her father turned his head and Sara followed his eyes to the woman in the portrait above their heads, watching them both with her inscrutable eyes.

“On Monday, I remarried.” Sara wasn’t sure who she was talking to, for her eyes remained trained on her mother.

Her words seemed to snap him out of his fixation on the portrait.

“Married? Well, that’s something, I suppose.

” The hint of sarcasm under his words reminded her of the man she remembered.

Assuming the worst, never listening to an explanation.

Never willing to bend. She remembered how he’d used that biting tongue on her, laying her emotions bare before banishing her from his house.

Sara pushed the memories aside and focused on the reason for this painful interview. James. “I need your help, Papa.”

His brows lowered and a faint tinge of red dusted his cheekbones. “How much?”

How perfectly like him, to assume that every problem could be solved with money.

She rose, reining in her temper with a quick turn about the room.

Papa hated tears. She needed to be calm and rational if she wanted to win his support.

“It’s not money I need,” she said when she had her voice under control. “My husband is James Kinney.”

His jaw dropped and it took him long moments to reply. “What? How can this be? He got himself tangled up with his governess, but I put a stop to that...” She saw by the widening of his eyes that he’d put the missing pieces of the puzzle together. “You’re the governess.”

“I’ll tell you about it later,” she said, “but first I need to get him out of prison. Those charges aren’t true, I know they’re not.”

He looked away. “Your loyalty does you credit, but I doubt you know the whole story.”

“He went for Andrew Ridley.”

Her father shook his head. “That’s what I thought at first, too. But I had a visit from Osgoode last night that lifted the scales from my eyes. Turns out Andrew and James were up to their necks in rebellion. I was duped.”

“Duped, yes, but not by James.”

He ignored her words. “Puts me in a blasted uncomfortable spot, I can tell you. My lawyer and my godson suspected of treason.” He rose, pacing to the window.

“James was seen at a meeting down at Davies’ Tavern, you know.

And then that governess—” He broke off, sending a quick glance at Sara.

“Made me doubt everything I knew about him.”

The hint of vulnerability on his face gave her pause.

“He’s innocent, Papa.” She hesitated. Once before she’d tried to get her father to see the truth about Osgoode and he called her a liar.

Why did she think this time would be any different?

She took a breath. She had nothing to lose.

“The real villain here is Stephen Osgoode.”

He was silent for a long moment. She expected him to argue, to throw Osgoode’s distinguished pedigree in her face. Descended from a viscount. Haven’t you heard of Lord Osgoode? Instead, he seemed to shrink into his chair.

“James got a message late at night summoning him to Andrew’s rescue. From you.”

“I sent no message,” her father said, instantly on the defensive.

“I know that now. Osgoode sent it. Osgoode manned the picket on Yonge Street, too. He identified James and made sure the sheriff arrested him.”

“There’s no love lost between Osgoode and Kinney, I know that, but he wouldn’t deliberately target him. It’s ridiculous.”

“Osgoode set James up. Pushed him right in the middle of the rebellion, knowing he’d likely be arrested, or at the very least, discredited.

Please, Papa,” she said, not even trying to mask her desperation.

“You have to believe me this time.” Memories of that other day came rushing back, making it impossible to continue.