Page 27 of A Stolen Heart

“Mother, there is no need to go into all—”

“Ursula, please.” The Countess’s modulated voice hardened, and she shot her daughter a glance that shut up even that formidable woman. “I wish to explain it to Miss Ward.” She turned to Alexandra. “You see, as you must have guessed, I thought you were someone else when I saw you last night. In the candlelight, you looked almost exactly like her. Even now, the resemblance is startling. Of course, it is impossible that you could be she. She would be Ursula’s age now, not a young woman. But you looked so much as she did when I last saw her, over twenty years ago.”

The Countess paused for a moment, then went on. “You resemble my daughter-in-law, my son’s wife, Simone. She died twenty-two years ago. She and my son and their three children.”

Alexandra drew in a quick breath. “Oh, my lady! I am so sorry.”

“Thank you.” The Countess sighed. “It was a terrible time. My son, Emerson, and his family had gone to visit Simone’s parents. My husband grew ill and died while they were gone, and we sent for them, but then all that rioting broke out. I don’t even know if they ever got the message. The mob killed them. It didn’t matter to them that Emerson was English. They were staying with Simone’s parents, obviously aristocrats.”

A chill ran through Alexandra. “The mob, ma’am? Where were they?”

“They were in Paris when the revolution broke out. The mob stormed their home and dragged them all out and killed them. Even the children.”

“Paris?” Alexandra repeated in a stifled voice. “But that’s—”

“That’s what, dear?”

“That is where I was born.”

The Countess stiffened, one hand going to her throat. “You—you lived in Paris?”

Alexandra nodded. “Yes. My father was an American diplomat at the Court.”

“When was that?” the Countess asked intently. “When were your parents in Paris?”

“At the time of the Revolution. I was born about a year and a half earlier. They left during the rioting and returned to the United States. That is, my mother did. Unfortunately, my father caught a fever and died on the passage over.”

“I’m sorry.” The Countess paused. She was paler than she had been, her eyes brighter. “Were you—could you be related to Simone’s family? The de Viponts?”

“No. Both my parents were Americans. Rhea and Hiram Ward.”

“This is so peculiar,” the Countess murmured.

Thorpe frowned in concern and went to the Countess. He knelt beside her chair and took her hand in his. “Please, you mustn’t get upset over this. I understand that the resemblance must be quite striking. But it’s merely a strange coincidence. The fact that Alexandra was born in the same city where your son, Lord Chilton, and his family died doesn’t mean that—”

Lady Ursula gasped.

“What!” The Countess went paper-white, and she stared at Thorpe. “What did you call her?” She swung on Alexandra. “What is your given name?”

“Alexandra.” She looked at the older woman worriedly. “Please, my lady, don’t upset yourself.”

“But that is one of my grandchildren’s names! John, Marie Anne and Alexandra. She was the baby.”

There was a long moment of silence while all the occupants of the room stared at Alexandra and the Countess. Finally Lady Ursula broke the silence, saying in a crisp voice, “This is nonsense, Mother. It’s utterly impossible. She could not be Chilton’s child.”

The Countess swung on her fiercely. “Don’t you remember how Allie looked—those rosy cheeks and big brown eyes! That curly black hair! Her coloring was exactly like her mother’s.”

“My lady!” Alexandra exclaimed. Her stomach felt as if it had dropped to her feet. “Are you suggesting that I am your granddaughter?”

“You are the right age. You look like Simone. You were in Paris when they were.”

“It’s impossible,” Lady Ursula said flatly, shooting Alexandra a dark look. “Thorpe, tell her. It’s absolutely absurd.”

“I don’t see how she could be your granddaughter, my lady,” Thorpe agreed, gazing worriedly at the older woman, whose cheeks were aflame with color. “They were all killed by the mob, weren’t they? That’s what I have always heard.”

“They were,” Lady Ursula agreed heartily.

“How do you know?” the Countess demanded. “We never received their remains—any of them!”