It has been three years since the duke came for Tavis, the man who spent all the Wilcoxes’ money. Lydia wasn’t supposed to listen to grown folks’ business, but she couldn’t help overhearing things. The Wilcoxes are loud.
She shivered. “My Duke, My Papa Duke became my best friend. He hasn’t left us since.”
“My Jasha won’t leave, not without saying goodbye.”
Another name? Goodbye?
But Lydia likes Jasha. It makes the tall duke sound small like her. “I want him to stay, Princess Grama. He never lied to me.”
“No. He would not. You must not have fear. I know he wants to see you. His letters tell me of the great love he has for his Lidochka.” Princess Grama’s arms surround Lydia. “You must walk into Anya House and expect to see your father alive.”
Yes. Lydia will only believe all the lies exposed today if the duke says so. Then he will say what happens next. There has to be a miracle today. Her Papa Duke must live.
Chapter 2
KATHERINEPALMERS, LADYHAMPTON
22 Ground Street
London, England
Iam guilty, guilty as sin.
Standing outside, in the rain, weeping so hard, I watch my daughter be taken away. The cambric muslin of my sleeves sticks to me. It’s the only thing holding my heart inside my chest. At Blackfriars Bridge, I want to shout that Lydia Wilcox—now known as Lady Lydia Jahleelovna Charles—is the Duke of Torrance’s daughter but she’s mine, too. How can I begin to make amends?
The documents fisted in my hand announce that the Princess Elizaveta, Jahleel’s mother, has every right to take possession of my child and legal custody of my daughter. What recourse does a liar, a villainous mother, have?
But Lydia needs to be with her father. The duke—my first love, Jahleel Charles—is dying. Why must he pay for my lies with his life? My fault—I followed the rules, all of them, since returning home and escaping the scandal I created with Jahleel in St. Petersburg.
The noisy Thames—the great river that divides London from my family—roars and wafts rotten egg smells. It mirrors myjudgment. Moments ago, the Duke of Torrance’s barrister, Lord Ashbrook, came into my house and said the unthinkable: “The Court of Chancery, or what’s left of it, has voted this morning to confirm unanimously the marriage of my client, Jahleel Andrewovich Charles, the Duke of Torrance, and Katherine Charles, and upholds its validity to the time of the birth of their twins.”
The documents are true.
Lydia and the stillborn son Jahleel, named Andrew, shared my womb. My lively daughter, so beautiful and tiny, became a lie upon birth. My family told everyone Lydia was my sister to protect the Wilcoxes from scandal. I’m the eldest. I was supposed to protect everyone. My sins won’t relent.
I am the villain.
The overcast gray clouds spit on me like taunting specters. I grab the lace shawl of fine Brussels needlepoint wrapping my shoulders, trying to hold myself together. The rain becomes furious. Pelted, I want to let go. The Thames calls to me. It sayswash and be cleaned. It’s another falsehood.
I let something beautiful—a miracle—become a lie. Lydia Wilcox is my daughter. I’ve been forced to keep her birth a secret every day of my child’s life. Hidden away, she suckled at my bosom. Mine. She was small and pink, gulping the milk meant for two babies.
Sloppy raindrops slide down my forehead. My chignon swells, the water tangling my tight curls. I don’t know what to do. How can I make things right for Lydia and the man I’ve wronged?
The river is not the answer. Facing the consequences and bearing the brunt of scandal is my due.
I trudge back toward the house. One can see the proud, nail-driven pine boards even in the rain. My father, Cesar Wilcox, built this home and loved it as he did the coal company he started. All would be lost if not for the duke. I pray he survives. He must be well for Lydia. I pray my daughter—our daughter—sees Jahleel smile. He has a nice one, especially when he’s not guarded or looking for strategy.
Generous to the point of spoiling me—that was the man and the marriage I ruined when I ran from him. Now, I will see the public face of the duke—the sneer his enemies know. He will punish me. But he’s already done the worst. He’s taken Lydia.
Something mewls. It seems to come from the side of the house. The screech draws me from my stupor. I stumble toward the sound. Branches are down in the small courtyard. The noise persists. Could it be the old stray cat I feed outside the coal office?
Never wanting more responsibility than I already bear, I will have no pet, no indoor cat for me. Yet I hear the cries. I can’t ignore pain.
I keep searching and find it—a limb has come down, its leaves trapping a kitten like a cage. The creature mewls, scratching at the trap that’s befallen her. I look into her dark eyes and see myself. “You want to be free? Me too.”
As carefully as possible, I lift the heavy limb, dragging it away. The kitten doesn’t move. Is she hurt? Leaning down, I try to pick her up. Maybe she will come and lick my palm like I’m good—not a woman who’s made one too many mistakes.
The kitten stares at me. Is she judging me? I deserve judgment. When the Duke of Torrance, Jahleel Charles, reappeared in my life—settled, steady, without malice—I should’ve confessed.
