Well, half-sisters.
“I know exactly what you’re thinking,” Evie said when a grimace flitted across Joanna’s countenance. “I want you to stop. Us having different fathers by blood doesn’t changeanything. I hope you realize that.”
“I do. Up here.” Joanna tapped the side of her skull. Then she pressed a closed fist to the middle of her chest where a weight had been consistently growing ever since she’d learned the truth. “But in my heart…it’s going to be difficult to reconcile. What this changes and what it doesn’t.”
Throughout all the hard times—the war, their father’s death, selling the house, being so poor they couldn’t afford butter at fifteen cents a pound—she’d clung to the certainty of who she was and where she’d come from. It had been an unconscious source of strength. Something she hadn’t even realized she was drawing on when a problem or struggle presented itself. But it had seen her through nevertheless.
Asking herself what her father would do had seen her through. Channeling his strength and his wisdom had seen her through. But now…now that she knew her fatherwasn’ther father, how was she expected to see anything?
She felt like a ship adrift in a stormy sea, and the lighthouse beckoning it towards safer shores had just gone out. She felt lost, and angry, andbetrayed.
Betrayed by a father who was never hers.
Betrayed by a mother she could hardly remember.
Betrayed by a grandmother who had kept it all a secret.
The Thorncrofts may have lost all of their material belongings, but they’d always been rich in family, and Joanna had taken pride in that. She was proud of the strong bond that connected them. Proud of the way they’d always protected each other. Proud of the way they’d held their chins up through good times and bad.
But how could she be proud of a family built on a lie?
“Not to worry,” said Evie as she pivoted back to the mirror and picked up the vial of rose water. “I found you bossy and irritating in Somerville, and I still find you bossy and irritating in London.Thatisn’t going to change anytime soon.”
A reluctant smile teased the corners of Joanna’s mouth.
“Brat,” she said with great affection.
“So, tell me more about this private investigator you’ve hired.” Pouring a small amount of rose water into her left hand, Evie rubbed her palms together and began to massage the sweet-smelling tonic onto her face. “Mr. Kensington?”
“Kincaid,” Joanna corrected. “As I said, he came highly recommended by Mrs. Benedict. I thought him to be very competent and nice. He was also quite handsome.” Joanna frowned. She didn’t know why she’d just said that. Kincaid’s physical appearance had no bearing on his ability to conduct a thorough investigation. She wanted to take the words back, but it was too late. Mentioning a handsome man in front of Evie was like waving a red flag in front of a bull.
The damage had already been done.
“He is?” Having finished applying the rose water, Evie moved on to a glass jar filled with white cream.
Joanna had no idea what the cream contained. Knowing how seriously her sister took her beauty regiment, it was probably the sacrificial blood of a newborn lamb.
Or maybe it was just honey and glycerin.
“What does this Kincaid look like?” Evie asked as she smeared the lotion onto her forehead.
“Er…” Joanna thought back to the morning and her first impression of Kincaid. Wet from the rain, she’d been chastising herself for not bringing an umbrella when the door opened…and the most striking man in all of her life had appeared.
The sheersizeof him was what she’d noticed most. As a woman of taller than average height, Joanna was accustomed to either looking men straight in the eyes or looking down on them. But for Kincaid, she’d had to lookup. Up into a serious gaze the color of coffee with a bit of cream lightly stirred in.
His brows had been thick and forbidding above the thin wire rim of his spectacles. His mouth had been twisted into a grimace before she’d even had the chance to introduce herself. And his jaw, that hard, clean-shaven jaw, with its lines and angles, had beensternlydisapproving.
A jaw like that could make a girl swoon if she wasn’t careful.
Which Joanna rarely was.
“Well?” Evie prompted. “I’m waiting.”
“He has brown hair.”
Evie rolled her eyes. “How descriptive. You should be an artist. Is he tall? Muscular? Both?”
“I don’t know. Unlike you, I am not here to find ahusband, Evelyn.” Scowling, Joanna stood up and crossed her arms. “He looked like a private investigator. He stood about this high”—she waved her hand vaguely in the air four inches above her own head—“and physically fit with broad shoulders.”
