“No, the woman’s husband was a raving lunatic. Threatened to destroy my career if I printed them.”
Hugh’s fingers went as cold as Sebastiaan Martens’s heart.
Tony snorted. “I wasn’t worried about my career, but I was very worried about what he’d do to his wife. He was furious with her for letting her picture be taken. Ever heard of such nonsense?”
“It must be Aleida.” Hugh’s voice came out in a wisp. “Her husband forbade her to have her son photographed. He was ashamed of the boy’s hand.”
“That’s him, all right. Crazy. He’s dead, you say? Good riddance.”
Hugh’s hands tightened around his suitcase handle and the pole. “If only she had that photograph, she could prove Theo was her son.”
Tony spread his hands wide. “I have the prints in my room at the Savoy.”
Everything froze inside him, not daring to hope. “You do?”
“Sure. I may be a reporter, but I’m also a photographer, and a photographer always takes his portfolio with him.” Tony slapped Hugh’s arm. “We’re going to the Savoy.”
When they reached Leicester Square Station, Hugh had to restrain himself from running the half mile to the hotel.
Up in his room, Tony thumbed through a portfolio. “Here you go. Is it her?”
It was. Hugh sank into an armchair with the stack of photographs.
Aleida’s exquisite face, lit up in absolute love, and a little boy.
Theo.
Hugh’s heart lurched. What a beautiful child he was, laughing, with his clublike hand raised high. Hugh flipped throughthe photographs, and Aleida and Theo came to life, speaking with each other, smiling, Theo touching Aleida’s cheek, her mouth, Aleida kissing his hand.
She saw no deformity. She saw her beloved son.
Hugh had never loved her more.
Seeing that child’s face, seeing the love between them—now he knew why Aleida couldn’t give up the search.
Tony sat on the bed. “Is it her?”
“Most definitely.” The photographs proved not only her maternity but also that she was neither negligent nor abusive.
Tony waved his hand at the portfolio. “Give them to her.”
“But they’re—”
“I’ve got the negatives back in New York. I can make more prints.” His wide mouth curled into a mischievous smile. “If they’ll help you get back your girl...”
“They won’t.” He’d hurt her too deeply, and he wouldn’t insult her by trying to win her back. “But they will help Aleida get back her son.”
“Then what are you waiting for? Leave your suitcase here.” He jerked his head to the door. “Go on, now. Scram.”
A smile built, nearly as wide as Tony’s. “Right-o.”
37
Aleida folded Theo’s jacket into the suitcase, set his cap on top, and shut the lid. In her heart, she’d always be a mother, but not in her everyday life.
A bit light-headed, she slid the suitcase under her bed. Was this how mothers felt when their children died?
Only in part. At least Aleida knew her son lived and thrived.
