“That is yours,” whispered Mrs. Denton. “Take it.”
Cassandra stared at the banknotes balanced on her palm. “But I—”
“Take the money, read the letter, and I’ll say no more on thematter.” Violent coughs seized her body, and she pressed the cloth to her mouth. “Now I’ve nothing to regret.”
Cassandra cringed at the sight of the crimson stain on the handkerchief.
Blood.
“Mr. Duncan!”
The surgeon, who’d been waiting in the corridor, rushed in at Cassandra’s call, pushed past her, and hastened to the bed. “You must leave now, Miss Hale.”
She heard the order but could not move. Panic, even more powerful than betrayal’s sting, paralyzed her.
“Leave, now! And send the housekeeper for the vicar.”
Cassandra staggered backward, as if the earth shifted beneath her feet. She promptly located the housekeeper, sent the woman on her task, and retreated to the darkened corridor outside of the sickroom. For where else could she possibly go?
As she paced the narrow space, the uneven wooden floor groaned beneath her weight, as if commiserating in her agony. She strained to hear anything from within the chamber, but all was quiet.
Now, with nothing left to do but wait, a rare, solitary tear slid down her cheek. In the last quarter of an hour, everything Cassandra thought she knew about her life had changed, and in the coming hours, there would be no returning.
She swiped away the moisture with her long cambric sleeve, unfolded the letter, and held it up to the candlelight flickering from the sconce.
My Dear Cassandra,
You must forgive the silence these many years, but surely you understand that some situations are delicate. I have a great deal of information to share with you about your family. Circumstances have evolved, and now the time has come when we may speakof such things. I sincerely hope that doors that have been closed may open.
I would not presume to intrude, but I invite you to come to my home, Briarton Park, in North Yorkshire, at your earliest convenience. My health prevents me from traveling, but if the trip is agreeable to you, send word and a carriage will be sent to convey you here.
The enclosed funds are rightfully yours and for your personal needs—some of which I hope you will use for the journey. I know you must have many questions, and if you are willing, all will be shared in due time.
With optimism,
Robert Clark
Who was Robert Clark? And why would this money be rightfully hers?
She hungrily scanned the letter again in case she’d missed any information.
The date struck her: 24 June 1809. Two and a half years ago. Two and a half years! Had Mrs. Denton kept silent about the letter all this time? It clearly had been read, judging by the broken seal and wrinkled paper.
Hysterical voices and haphazard footsteps echoed from behind the closed door, snapping her back to the present.
Mrs. Denton, the woman who had raised her, taught her, cared for her, and now employed her, was going to die.
And the life that Cassandra thought she knew was going to die with her.
Chapter 1
North Yorkshire, England
Autumn 1811
James Warrington met his half sister’s determined gaze. A pink flush on Rachel’s high cheekbones emphasized her tightly drawn lips. Shimmery tears brightened her silver eyes but did little to dim the rage brewing within them.
He braced himself for a battle.
