The grand entrance door swung open before they could knock, and an elderly butler appeared, his eyes widening at the sight of Lucien.
“My lord,” the man whispered, his lined face paling. “It cannot be…”
“Hello, Phillips,” Rockwell said smoothly. “Might we come in? We have news for the family.”
Phillips stepped back, his rheumy eyes never leaving Lucien’s face. “Of course, my lord. The family is at home. I shall announce—”
“No need,” Wolf cut in. “Better we handle this…delicately.”
Lucien followed them into a vast entrance hall that stretched up two stories, dominated by a sweeping marble staircase. Strong June sunlight filtered through tall windows, catching on gilt-framed portraits and crystal chandeliers. The faded opulence made his head spin. This was supposedly his birthright, yet he felt like an imposter in a play he hadn’t rehearsed.
A soft gasp drew his attention to the staircase. A young woman stood frozen on the stairs, her knuckles white against the banister. She was perhaps twenty years of age, with dark hair like his own and eyes the color of storm clouds.
“Lucien, you’re alive!” she breathed, and the naked hope in her voice made his chest ache. “Where have you been?” She came tearing down the stairs and threw herself into his arms.
The impact of her embrace sent shock through his system. His body went rigid, every muscle tensing as unfamiliar arms wrapped around him with desperate familiarity. She hugged him hard and long as her tears fell, yet he could only stand frozen, his own arms hanging uselessly at his sides.
As she hugged him, he felt helpless in her grief. “How could you stay away?”
He wanted to respond, to say something—anything—but his throat had closed. This woman—this stranger—was crying tears of joy over him, and he felt nothing but the hollow ache of absence where recognition should have been. The guilt was immediate and crushing.
She stepped away, and he saw her face crumple as she took in his stiff posture, his vacant expression. Her joy flickered and died like a candle in wind.
“Lucien?” The uncertainty in her voice was worse than her tears.
He turned toward her, searching her features desperately for any spark of recognition. The shape of her nose, the curve of her mouth, even the way she tilted her head—it all seemed significant, like a language he should understand but couldn’t read. He recognized his features but not her. Nothing. Just as with the house, the gardens, the butler—she was a stranger wearing the face of family.
Wolf said quietly, “Your brother has no memories of who he is or who you are. He received a head injury in the Irish Rebellion and cannot remember anything from before that day. He has been living in Ireland, believing his name to be Mr. John Collins.”
Lucien was surprised that this sister didn’t crumple to the ground. Isn’t that what ladies of quality did when faced with dreadful news?
She looked at him closely. “I’m just so thankful you’re not dead. Father… He’ll be, he’ll be sorelieved.”
“Lady Lauren,” Rockwell said gently, “might I present Lord Lucien, Viscount Furoe.” The formal introduction hung awkward in the air between them. “Lucien, this is your sister, Lady Lauren Cavanaugh.”
“My sister.” He tested the words, finding them strange on his tongue. He executed the bow he vaguely remembered from a dark recessed area of his brain, and Rockwell had also refreshed the social graces he wasn’t quite sure of. “My lady.”
Lauren’s grey eyes swam with unshed tears; her face paled with barely contained emotions. She was dressed in a morning dress of soft blue muslin that spoke of better times. He could see patches on the sleeve. Behind him, Wolf shifted restlessly, and Lucien caught the significant look that passed between him and Lauren. There was history there, he realized. Yet another story he should know but didn’t.
“Welcome home,” Lauren said, her voice trembling slightly. “Madeline will be beside herself. She’s at a friend’s house, but I think it would be best if I spoke to her first. It will be quite a shock. And as for Father—”
“Another sister?” The information Rockwell and Wolf had given him on the journey tumbled through his mind. Everything was so new, and he struggled to keep it all in order.
“Yes.” Lauren swallowed hard. “Your younger sister. She was twelve when you…when you died—that is when you left.”
Left.Such a gentle word for whatever violence had stolen his memories and sent him stumbling, half-dead, into a new life in Ireland. Into Ava’s life.
Ava. His chest tightened at the thought of her. Beautiful, mercurial Ava who had nursed him back to health, who had spun pretty lies about a marriage that had never happened, who had given him their daughter—
No. He couldn’t think about Ava-Marie now. His little girl was safe at Rockwell’s London townhouse with her cousin Caitria, and no one here need ever know the truth of her birth. The story Rockwell and Lady Farah crafted on the journey back was simple enough: a hasty marriage to a local Irish girl, nowdeceased. It was close enough to the truth to sit easy on his conscience, and it protected his daughter’s future.
Now it also protected his sisters and family name.
Lauren stood wringing her hands. “Is nothing familiar? Would you…would you like to see through the house, or perhaps our mother’s portrait?”
He didn’t have the heart to tell her nothing would bring the memories back. But he would humor her, given what a shock this must be. Besides, it put off the main reason for being here—to learn how precarious the family financial situation was. Rockwell had hinted it was very dire, and the shabbiness and lack of servants indicated he was right. Anger at the father he didn’t remember grew.
He nodded, following her up the sweeping staircase and into a long gallery lined with stern-faced ancestors he should recognize but didn’t. She stopped before a large portrait of a striking woman in her early forties. Dark hair like his own was arranged in elegant curves around a heart-shaped face, and something in her slight smile tugged at the edges of his mind.
