“You’ll take everything I give you, won’t you?” He drove in deeply. “Everything that I am.”
“Yes, yes,” she panted.
He surged, another heavy thrust. “And you’ll give me yourself in return?”
“Everything that I am,” she breathed. “Always.”
He pounded into her, his stones smacking her folds. Reaching in front of her, he searched out her pearl, strumming out a melody of delirious pleasure. Soon the sensations became too much, pushing her over the edge, sending her soaring once again. Groaning, he buried his face in her neck, his hips pistoning against her, the scorching blasts of his seed saturating her womb.
He cuddled her against him, their bodies still connected, the sounds of their breaths mingling with the crackling of the fire. As spent as she was, sleep eluded her… and apparently her husband as well, for his words rumbled against her ear.
“Tonight would have unraveled me if I didn’t have you by my side. Discovering my father’s plot...” His voice roughened. “I’ll never understand why he hates me so.”
His words stirred a memory. Something the duke had said… about why he’d initiated the vile scheme…
“The locket!” She bolted upright. “We have to look at it!”
Sinjin’s brows drew together. “Why?”
“Before you and Ambrose arrived, your father mentioned the locket,” she explained. “Something about it having the power to destroy the duchy.”
Throwing on her robe, she went to her armoire and returned with the locket. She sat on the bed, Sinjin beside her, both of them studying the oval silver charm. It was pretty with its filigree design, but there was nothing remarkable about it.
“What could this locket possibly signify?” Sinjin took the piece from her, pressing on the latch to reveal the empty hollow inside. “Why would Acton care about it?”
Peering closely, Polly said, “See how the inside doesn’t fill the entire depth of the locket? Do you think there could be a hidden compartment behind the inner wall?”
“Hmm. Look here at the rim,” he said. “It’s got a slight dent…”
“Someone might have pried it open there,” she said with burgeoning excitement. “Let’s try a penknife.”
They took the locket to her desk. She lit a lamp, and Sinjin carefully plied the tip of the blade to the edge of the open locket. The interior wall popped off… and Polly’s heart thudded as she saw the tiny portrait within: a beautiful raven-haired lady.
Nestled against it was a lock of mahogany hair.
“That is my mama,” Sinjin said hoarsely. “And the hair…”
“It could be yours.” Polly’s voice was hushed. “Open the other side.”
When the concave divider separated, he found a slip of paper.
It contained an address.
Chapter Forty
Two months later
Hand in hand with her husband, Polly trudged up the grassy knoll of a churchyard. It was a sunny late afternoon, autumn crispness in the breeze. In a village near Weymouth, close to the coast of Dorset, they were following their guide, a stout and kindly lady by the name of Mrs. Wakefield.
“… I was surprised when I received your letter,” the good lady was chattering. “I never knew my poor Catherine had any relatives—except her brother, of course, who paid for her board and care in my home.”
Sinjin’s grip tightened on her fingers, and Polly gave a reassuring squeeze back.
After discovering the contents of the locket, Polly had gone with Sinjin to confront his father. The duke had been placed under house arrest pending his trial for murder and kidnapping; all charges of lunacy against Sinjin had been dropped. Perhaps given the evidence of the portrait and the address, or perhaps because Acton knew his time to face the ultimate judge would soon be upon him, he had confessed everything.
Sinjin’s mama had indeed run away with her lover, but she had somehow survived the storm that took the ship down. When Acton had arrived in Weymouth, he’d found her in a local hospital—alive but clearly damaged from the near-drowning. She hadn’t recognized him or herself. And he, embittered by her betrayals and wild, uncontrollable moods, had seen a way out.
He’d found Mrs. Wakefield’s private home for lunatics just outside the port town. Claiming to be her brother, he’d given his wife’s name as “Catherine Smith,” and left her there, paying for her upkeep but never visiting again. He’d continued on with his life as if she’d truly died and, in doing so, had become a bigamist.
