“Perhaps, but not on Daniel Thackery’s desk. The barrister who produced a widow’s dower of twenty thousand pounds in a flourish of papers forgot to show me this one.”
Stupid me for just accepting his help without asking questions. Stupid me for believing the man who rescued me from Bedlam was honorable. “Why would he not give this to me?”
“The document bore a seal from Jamaica. The West Indies. Youarefrom the islands.”
Snippets of that life—a bright feather touching my chin, bits of color, the warm sun—had to be true.
“Jemina?”
My lips didn’t work. No syllables.
She held me and rubbed my back. “All will be well. Don’t get stuck.”
My thoughts settled. “Patience, I had a husband who had the decency to leave me money, and I haven’t the decency to remember him.”
“That’s not your fault.”
“A concuss of the skull, that’s what the physicians said before offering me this name, Jemina St. Maur.”
My insides sickened again. I almost remembered a place, but nothing of my husband.
“You’re strong, Jemina.” Patience had her hands on me, steadying me. “You kept my head when I thought all was lost. You stood up for me when I couldn’t. Whatever this means . . . we’ll figure it out.”
“Daniel Thackery, the Earl of Ashbrook knows my secrets.”
Frenzied, I turned back and tore through the pile, the pile that should’ve been so thick I wouldn’t have seen the contract. “He knows. He knows about me.”
Watching me, nodding, Patience sat behind his desk. “Then, let’s flip through the man’s drawer. Let’s see what else he hides.”
“He has my life, and he’s chosen to keep it from me.”
“Maybe he hasn’t found a convenient way to share. You two are always arguing or ignoring each other.”
Or he’s quoting me poetry in the dark.
I resettled my gaze atop the desk and started a second pass through the stack. Soon I found a torn piece of paper from theCornwall Chronicle, a register from Jamaica. “A list of names . . . a list of passengers who quit the colony.”
I saw my name, full and complete again—Jemina Monroe St. Maur. The wordFOUNDwas written next to it. Aside Cecil St. Maur’s name was penned the wordLOST.
This I knew.
“Well, this was Ashbrook’s proof I was a widow. This is why the Widow’s Grace took me on.”
“I’m sorry, Jemina.” My friend took the list. “The ship was called theMinerva. The countess can—”
“What? My ‘problem’ is solved. I’m freed from Bedlam. I have an inheritance. When we’ve helped our fifth widow, I’m done.”
“Never. We’re in this together. The duke will discover more. He’ll be your champion. He loves discretion—and mindingmybusiness. I think almost all the servants are military or in league with him.”
Patience was brave and independent yet so certain of her husband. I wondered if I loved a man named Cecil the same way.
The coldness inside me told me no, not a Cecil. I scoured the passenger list of theMinerva, looking for more St. Maurs—a sister, a brother, a child?
Nothing.
What if I saw my flesh and blood and felt nothing?
“We have a mission, Jemina. A widow to save.”
