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She’d seen to that by keeping them in the country as much as possible and forbidding any association with her parents. Or her deceased husband’s licentious cronies. They’d attended church and country gatherings.

Rather than attend Eton or Harrow, where most boys of station received their educations, Walter, Ronald, and Godwin had been educated by private tutors. Instead of attending Oxford or Cambridge, they’d gone to university in Edinburgh.

Having a Scottish ducal grandfather had eased that pathway.

However, as much as Adelhied would’ve loved to have their support, she needed to do this on her own. To slay the dragon that had haunted her all of these years. To face the cold-hearted parents who’d bullied and manipulated her until she had cut them from her life.

A small smile played around the edges of her mouth as she examined the portrait of her mother still residing in the place of honor over the fireplace. She’d always been as unfeeling and emotionless as her husband.

In fact, she’d been the one to tell Adelhied, succinctly and without a hint of compassion or sorrow, that her daughter had been born dead.

Had it all been a carefully concocted lie?

Had the midwife been bribed?

Where had her daughter been all of these years?

How could her own parents do that to her?

Adelhied’s heart convulsed with renewed pain. She shoved a gloved fist in her mouth to silence the primal moan rising to her lips. Hatred like she’d never known burned in her veins, fueling her wrath, and she hungered for vengeance.

It had been a difficult birth. She’d floated in and out of consciousness. Afterward, Adelhied had been half out of her mind with grief for weeks.

If her parents had lied to her…

If her beloved daughter had lived, by God, Adelhied would see that they paid for their treachery. The annulment should never have been granted because she had been pregnant.

Another glance to the mantel clock revealed thirty minutes had passed since Burrows had escorted her to the drawing room. She hadn’t been offered so much as a cup of tea. Likely Burrows was afraid of earning his employers’ disapproval.

Just as she crossed the room to yank the bell-pull, the door opened, and her aged parents shuffled into the room arm in arm. Father leaned on a silver-tipped cane, barely resembling the man she remembered.

Shock held her momentarily frozen in place, unable to speak.

Time had not been kind to the Duke and Duchess of Featherstone. Both were thin, wizened, and hunched over. Nevertheless, the unmistakable glint of haughty superiority they’d always borne still shone in their rheumy eyes.

Burrows, the butler for the last four decades, followed them into the drawing room. “Shall I bring tea?”

Now he’d offer tea?

He’d always been a sycophantic coward.

The duchess looked to Adelhied and raised a white eyebrow. “Will you be staying for tea?”

Pity stabbed Adelhied at the desperation in her mother’s eyes, and her heart buckled. She would not be like them. Vindictive and vengeful. Besides, she hadn’t eaten or drunk anything since breaking her fast this morning.

Adelhied had spent the afternoon inquiring around London about her daughter and hadn’t taken the time to eat. Angling her head, she acquiesced. “Tea would be lovely.”

Both of her parents exhaled audibly.

Evidently, they’d feared she’d take after them. She had cause to.

She waited until her parents sat upon the settee before she claimed a seat across from them. “I have reason to believe my daughter is alive.”

The duke and duchess exchanged a speaking glance.

Adelhied had expected protestations and theatrics. Vehement denials.

She could only conclude they, too, had heard whispers.