“The best,” Arthur confirmed solemnly.
“Yes. She is very helpful. Thank you, Miss Graham.”
“Your Grace.” Eliza curtsied and retreated to the sideboard, trying to ignore the way the Duchess of Welton was watching the entire exchange with barely concealed interest.
The Duchess was a beautiful woman. She had brilliant green eyes, dark brown hair and an air of quiet intelligence. Eliza had been careful to avoid drawing her attention. That careful distance felt increasingly precarious.
“His Grace tells me you’ve been invaluable to the household,” Imogen said suddenly, her gaze settling on Eliza. “He speaks very highly of your work.”
Eliza’s hands tightened on the wine decanter. “His Grace is too kind.”
“I don’t think he is.” Imogen’s tone was gentle but penetrating. “I think you’re precisely as capable as he says you are. Perhaps even more so.”
There was something in the way she said it, something weighted with meaning, that made Eliza’s breath catch.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she managed shakily as she poured wine to refresh their goblets.
The conversation moved on, but Eliza could feel Imogen’s attention returning to her again and again throughout the meal. Like a puzzle the Duchess was determined to solve.
After dinner, the gentlemen retreated to Morgan’s study for brandy and cigars, while Her Grace claimed she needed a moment to freshen up. Miss Winslow took the boys to the drawing room to show them a collection of curiosities from the Duke’s travels. Which left Eliza alone in the corridor, carrying an armful of used linens toward the servants’ stairs. She was eager for the day and its tasks to be done.
“Miss Graham?”
Eliza froze. Turned.
Her Grace stood at the far end of the hallway, her expression calm but purposeful.
“Your Grace,” Eliza curtsied awkwardly around the linens. “Did you need something?”
“A word, if you have a moment.”
Not quite a request.
Eliza’s mouth went dry. “Of course, Your Grace.”
“In here, I think. We’ll have more privacy,” the Duchess said.
Every instinct screamed at Eliza to refuse, to make some excuse and flee. But refusing a duchess wasn’t an option. She followed her into the sitting room, setting the linens carefully on a chair. She closed the door.
“I want you to be honest with me,” she said finally. “About who you are.”
Eliza’s heart was pounding so hard she was certain the whole house could hear it. “Your Grace, I don’t…”
“Please. Let’s dispense with pretense.” Imogen’s voice was gentle yet firm. “I know you’re not who you claim to be. I knew it the moment I saw you at Kirkhammer Hall, though it took me a while to place where I’d seen you before…”
Eliza felt the blood drain from her face. “Your Grace. Please…”
“Lady Eliza Newmont,” she continued quietly. “Daughter of the Earl and Countess of Ramersby. Missing for weeks. The subject of considerable gossip and speculation. Am I wrong?”
The room tilted. Eliza groped for the back of a chair, her legs suddenly unable to support her weight.
“Please,” she whispered. “Please don’t…”
“I’m not going to expose you.” Imogen moved closer, her expression softening. “I’m not your enemy, Eliza. Quite the opposite, actually. You need not fear me. I wish to help…”
“I don’t understand.”
“Before I married Ambrose, I lived under a false identity myself.” Imogen’s smile was sad, almost wistful. “For months, I hid my father’s identity. I had my reasons, like you… good reasons, or so I thought. But the deception nearly destroyed the best thing that ever happened to me.”
