Page 3 of Fortune’s Final Folly

Zeta’s shoulders stiffened as cold outrage settled in her gut. She shifted to stare past the maid to the estate below. “Has the magistrate been called then?”

How had she ever believed she could raise her daughter in such a bitter, unwelcome place, where even the servants feared for their future?

Though she desperately wanted to locate her daughter, Zeta could not jeopardize Lavinia and her people. They’d taken her in, fed her, and given her a place to sleep. She would not be responsible for their presence being reported to the magistrate—and whatever would likely, and swiftly, follow for Zeta daring to defy the duchess’s final wishes.

“Of course not, my lady.” The servant wrung her hands, her widened stare pleading with Zeta to believe her. “My name is Augusta. I have seen you watching but was unable to come and speak with you.”

“Why do you wish to speak with me now? What has changed?” Zeta was not foolish enough to take the servant at her word, not after her employer’s betrayal. “I have returned to Shrewbury as often as possible, yet no one has ever offered me help.”

“The servants…” The maid bit her lip and clenched and unclenched her hands at her sides. “The servants are afraid.”

“Of what?” Zeta demanded.

“Not what, my lady. Whom.” She glanced over her shoulder and down toward the manor as if fearing she’d been overheard.

With the duchess gone, there only remained one person to fear. Pierce. “And you are not frightened of his wrath?”

“I was for many years, but I have never forgotten your daughter…”

“As I have not,” Zeta snapped.

“I wish to help you find her.”

Zeta was still unconvinced the maid had anything to offer.

“Why now? When you never helped before.”

“I couldn’t interfere before with the duchess present. Now, with the duke and duchess gone, it is different. The servants, all of us, are worried about our positions. If the duke’s son does not return to his place, what will happen to the lot of us, and Shrewbury? The steward cannot keep paying the servants as he does, with no lord presiding over the house.”

Tension stiffened Zeta’s shoulders as she reminded herself that the people of Shrewbury were not her concern. Perhaps, in a time long gone, they were. But not now…not ever. Only the thought of finding Katherina drew Zeta to Shrewbury, not any misguided affection or concern for the estate’s servants.

“I can listen around Shrewbury. Mayhap ask after the babe.”

Zeta narrowed her eyes on the maid, daring her to toy with her emotions a second longer.

“I am not the only one who remembers you and the child. Others were never loyal to the duke and duchess, though none will openly admit it. I can convince them. Together, we might be able to find her.”

Zeta had never been blessed with anything even close to good fortune—if that were even what Augusta was bestowing upon her now and not another falsehood or thin thread of hope that would soon be severed. Her mind told her to disregard the woman and renew her search, yet her heart…her heart pushed her to accept this simple kindness, even if the maid’s offer proved fruitless in the end.

“I can send word to you if I hear anything,” the woman promised. “It may take time, but I have faith someone will speak on the matter. Someone will know what has become of your daughter.”

“Thank you. I will return to Oxfordshire as often as possible,” Zeta offered. The only bit of information she’d been able to gain since the duchess had thrown her from Shrewbury was the mention of a Vicar Elliott. The name had proven useless time and time again. In all her travels, Zeta had never found anyone by that name, nor met a single soul who knew of the vicar or his family.

However, hope—no matter how small—would not escape Zeta’s grasp.

Long ago, she’d pledged to find Katherina, or die trying.

She was not ready to die, nor had she given up on locating her daughter—not in all the years she’d been searching.

Chapter 1

London, England

September 1821

Lord Joshua Stuart, second son of the Duke of Beaufort, leapt down from his carriage outside his Cheapside office and signaled for his driver to depart. Discarded morning papers and scraps of waste littered the hard-packed street, and two filthy, ragged mutts scavenged for their next meal. The shingle overhead squeaked, and Joshua made a mental note to oil the hinge and polish the tin signage that read simply: Solicitor.

The morning was warm, signifying the afternoon would likely prove sweltering in the tiny confines of his office. It was days such as these that Joshua longed to help all those in need at his proper office off Bond Street. However, those less fortunate, the ones who needed to work every waking hour to keep the pantry stocked, the butcher paid, and the tallow burning, hadn’t the time nor the funds to journey across town to the solicitor’s office Joshua’s uncle had opened nearly thirty-five years ago.