“Taken to snooping, Mother?” Dominic said drily.
“No, I—well, perhaps briefly, but we need to have a word.”
Gabriel tried to get past her. “I’ll go.”
She blocked him. “No, you won’t. Have any members of your family died since Dominic’s twenty-fifth birthday?”
Dominic was incredulous. He put the bottle of whiskey back down and tried to keep the harshness from his tone, but wasn’t quite successful. “You think to interfereagain? I will deal with this, it’s not your concern.”
“Actually, this is, and I meant to tell you on your birthday, but you had that at Archer’s house getting your wound treated, the wound you didn’t want me to even know about, and then you took yourself to Rothdale to recover so I still wouldn’t know about it. And answer my question, Gabriel.”
“No, m’lady, not one has died. But if Dom’s next birthday comes, my uncle believes that all the Biscane firstborns—me, Peter, and Janie—will die.”
“Then I’m happy to disprove that silly curse once and for all.” Anna smiled at her son. “You’re already twenty-six, darling. There’s nothing real about that curse, and your father and I proved it by lying about your age.”
Dominic picked up the whiskey again, though maybe he should have pinched himself instead. This sort of bizarre absurdity only occurred in dreams. But twice in one dream?
He took a long swig from the bottle in his hand before he demanded, “How is that possible? The servants would have known when I was born.”
“It was your father’s idea to disprove that curse once and for all, and now he has, he just didn’t live to know it. We were both young when we fell in love during my Season. And I was already pregnant before we married and left on our wedding trip.”
Dominic raised a brow. Anna blushed profusely. Gabriel tried again to leave the room, but she put her hands on the doorframe. “We were actually gone for nearly four years. When we returned to England, we claimed you were a year younger than you actually were. Yes, people marveled that you were big for your age, but no one ever guessed why. And now I know that we probably saved your life with our ruse.”
She ended that with a glare at Gabriel, but he was too relieved to care. “I’m going to go send my uncle a missiveandblacken his eye next time I see him. Thank you, m’lady. I feel so light of spirit now I could float!”
She let him go this time to ask Dominic what she’d tried to ask earlier, “Have you forgiven me yet?”
Dominic drained more of the whiskey. “The one has nothing to do with the other. You didn’t save me from a fate worse than death, Mother. You condemned me to a new hell instead.”
Chapter Fifty-Five
“MAYBE NO ONE IShome?” Alfreda said when she knocked for the second time.
“I hear babies crying,” Harriet insisted. “They wouldn’t be left unattended.”
The couple they’d been looking for did indeed get a baby last year, then soon after that, another. They were hoping for a third, since they wanted a big family. But Alfreda just rolled her eyes, refusing to repeat for the second time what she’d already predicted. They were going to be let down because even if Ella’s child was one of the Turrils’ adopted children, they couldn’t prove it, the abbess wouldn’t verify it, and the couple would certainly deny it, not wanting to give up either child they’d likely come to love as their own by now.
They’d arrived in Sevenoaks late last night, feeling a bit daunted because the town was bigger than they’d expected, having grown from the time it was established in 1605. They’d gotten rooms at a small hotel, and Harriet had gone off to find a few churches, though she’d allowed a visit to the mayor could wait until morning. But she’d had no luck with the churches in the heart of the town and had been directed to try farther out, which they did in the morning.
The pastor at the first one directed them to the Turrils’ rather large house on the edge of town. Mr. Turril was a skilled clockmaker, they’d been told. He and his wife had tried for fifteen years to conceive a child before they decided to adopt instead.
As Brooke and Harriet stood anxiously on the front step as Alfreda knocked again, the door opened. The woman who stood there was too young to be Mrs. Turril. Red haired with curious brown eyes and wearing a long white apron, she looked like a servant, perhaps a nanny, because she had a toddler on her hip that neither Whitworth could take their eyes off.
“May I help you ladies?”
From farther inside the house a female voice inquired, “Is that my package, Bertha?”
The maid turned to answer, giving Brooke enough room to brush past Bertha to find the woman who had just spoken. And there she was, black hair tied back, amber eyes like Dominic’s, fashionably dressed. Brooke had never hoped for this, not when there had been not just one but two graves for Eloise Wolfe.
“I know you,” Brooke said almost tearfully as she slowly approached Dominic’s sister. “I cried with you when your dog died. I laughed with you when you landed a perfect hit to your brother’s face with that snowball when you were only twelve. I smiled when I sat on your ‘I win’ bench in the center of that maze at Rothdale. My God, I’m so glad you’re alive, Ella!”
Those amber eyes had gotten wider with Brooke’s every word, until the black brows snapped together for a stiff reply. “You are mistaken. I’m Jane Croft, not whomever you’re referring to.”
“Changing your name doesn’t change who you are.” Brooke grinned widely. “Don’t deny it. Your eyes give you away, so like his.”
Even stiffer: “You obviously have the wrong address. Whoever you are looking for doesn’t live here. Now I must ask you to leave.”
Brooke still wasn’t daunted, but before she could reply, Harriet barged in, demanding, “Where’s my grandchild?”
