“Do you really not remember anything at all?” Lady Evangeline’s voice was pleading. “We spent much time together at Aldingbourne Hall. You were the perfect duchess. I daresay you were happily married, Julius and you. At least you seemed to be, in my eyes.”
Once again, wisps of something drifted up into her consciousness. A throbbing pain shot through her head like lightning. She winced and lifted her hand to shield her eyes.
“I—I really don’t know.”
Lady Evangeline looked at her for a moment in silence, then sighed and nodded. “Very well. Let us return.”
They returned to the parlour, where the Duke was pacing in front of the fireplace. The children watched him in silence, following his every move. Les and Hecki sat cross-legged on the floor, Theo in a chair, and Monain the armchair. Mr Mortimer looked up in obvious relief when they entered.
The Duke stopped pacing. “You saw it?”
“Yes.” Lady Evangeline nodded. “It’s circular, about this big,” she indicated it with her fingers, “and located?—”
“Just above her navel,” the Duke said in unison with her.
“Thank the heavens,” Mr Mortimer breathed. He pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at his forehead. “I thought I would not survive the suspense. It is now officially established that you are Her Grace, Catherine Stafford-Hill, the Duchess of Aldingbourne.” He made a formal bow.
The Duke, pale but with a determined set of his jaw, made a movement as if to reach out to her, but withdrew and clasped his hands behind his back. He rocked on his heels; his eyes boring into hers as he gave a curt nod. “Yes.” That was all he said.
“Now what?” Theo asked, looking from one to the other. “I have so many questions.” He spoke for all of them.
Now what, indeed?
A sick feeling churned in her stomach as it dawned on her that there really was no point in denying it any longer. She had to face the truth. She finally had to face her past.
Hecki jumped up, looking around wildly. “What does that mean?”
All eyes were on them, on Hector. The other matter that required resolution. Lena drew Hector into her arms protectively.
“I am not certain,” she whispered into his hair. She had to protect this child at all costs. Her head started to pound and she felt weary, so weary.
Mr Mortimer cleared his throat. “Regarding the child’s paternity—” He interrupted himself. “Perhaps it would be more appropriate to discuss this without the children present?”
Hector pulled away from Lena and glared at him. “I’m not leaving.”
“I’m staying put, too.” Les crossed his arms. “Hecki is my brother and needs my support.”
“Nobody’s going anywhere, Mr Mortimer.” Theo placed a protective arm over both Hector and Lena. “We’re a family. We remain together.”
“Yes.” Lena nodded. “We remain together.”
“I refuse to skirt around the matter.” The Duke’s eyes never left the boy. “Let the children stay. Although, the question must be asked. Who is this boy’s father?” His voice was heavy.
His question was met with silence.
“Well?” His voice was sharp.
“Simon Arenheim was his father, of course,” Lena said helplessly. Simon was there when Hector was born. Simon had helped raise him. Simon had always been there for Hector. He was his father.
Hector clenched his hands. “Simon was my papa, but he wasn’t really my father. Not like he was Les’s, Theo’s, and Mona’s father.” He turned his scowl on Lena. “You always said that it didn’t matter because what mattered was who raised me, and that was Papa Simon. Isn’t it true?”
Yes. She’d always told him that. Hector had always accepted the explanation. He’d never questioned it.
Until now.
Hector's question hung in the air like a live grenade, filling the room with a tense, charged silence.
“Your Grace?” Mr Mortimer prodded, looking expectantly at Lena for more.
