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Permit me to introduce myself. I am Paul Beckwith, Marquess of Ballister, your paternal uncle. Your father, Clarence, was my younger brother. I have only recently learned that you did not perish in the fire that took your parents’ lives. Your father and mother named me your guardian, and had I known you lived, I would’ve taken you into my home and raised you with my children.

My wife, Ellise, and I should like to invite you to make our home yours. We understand that at eight and twenty, you’ve made a life for yourself. At the very least, please do come for a visit and meet your cousins, Uncle Toliver, and Aunt Therese. We all wish to know you.

Your given name was Caroline Aimee Beckwith, if you wished to know.

~Paul Beckwith, Marquess of Ballister,

in a letter to his long-lost niece, Purity Mayfield (Caroline Beckwith.)

Posted to Petherwick Court and burned by Viscount Ceddes after reading

Servants’ Quarters—Mottford Hall

Early Morning

25 August 1818

Having given up on sleep well before dawn, by six of the clock, Purity had packed, dressed, and deliberated whether to venture to the nursey to bid Pomeroy, Merrilee, and Amaris a farewell. In the end, dread of encountering either Ceddes parent, resulting in an unpleasant ruckus and upsetting the children, had rooted her feet to her room.

For the first time in her life, Purity had chosen the coward’s way, and she didn’t at all like how she felt afterward. She’d prided herself on her courage and resilience. It didn’t matter that she’d done what was best for the Bardslay children.

Merrilee, Amaris, and Pomeroy wouldn’t understand why, after eight years, Purity wasn’t going with them. Or, for that matter, why they were leaving just a day after arriving at the Mumfords’ when their parents had actually spent time in their company yesterday. Nonetheless, with his gift for lying, Lord Ceddes had likely concocted a credible story.

Perhaps Lady Ceddes, fully aware of her husband’s foul penchants and resigned to the consequences, hadn’t needed an explanation. Poor woman. She might possess fancy clothing and jewels, opulent estates and houses, wealth, status and position, and have servants at her beck and call, but she lived with her husband’s perfidy every single day.

If Purity lived to be a hunched over, wizened, one-hundred-year-old crone, she’d never understand marriages of convenience or arranged marriages. Why exchange vows if one didn’t intend to honor them? If one fully intended to take lovers and engage in infidelity, regularly and nonchalantly?

For the first time in a long while, she considered her parents.

Who were they?

What circumstances had caused her to be discarded and sent to live at Haven House and Academy for the Enrichment of Young Women? Someone had paid the substantial monthly fee, which suggested at least one of her parents came from a family of influence.

Ah, well. There was naught Purity could do about that. Her energy was better spent focusing on her future and not the past.

Wrapping her arms around her shoulders, more for comfort than against a chill, she shook her head. The thick beige, plum, and leaf green flowered Aubusson carpet she paced across muffled her footsteps.

How soon before she could ask for a coach to take her to London?

Would the Mumfords object to the inconvenience?

She didn’t think the countess would. The earl might, however.

Purity’s gaze fell on the small, neatly made bed, her worn unassuming satchel on the floor beside it. Two more beds with matching counterpanes occupied the same wall. Here she’d believed her lack of roommates was because all of the guests had not yet arrived, when in fact, Lord Ceddes had bribed a servant to make it so.

She smoothed her hands down the front of her dove-gray gown, accented by charcoal braid and ribbons. It wasn’t a traveling gown, but how many governesses could claim to own one?

Her wardrobe consisted of exactly seven day gowns, one mourning gown, an old, drab affair she used to conduct outdoor activities, and a single pretty maroon gown for more formal affairs.

How Purity would get the rest of her possessions from Petherwick Court, including the silver cross Hester Shepherd had given her when she left Haven House and Academy for Young Women, she simply didn’t know. She wouldn’t be shocked if Lord Ceddes burnt them out of spite.

Mayhap she could impose upon Lady Mumford or Mr. Rutland to request them on her behalf. Lord Ceddes had been afraid of Mr. Rutland. That had been obvious.

Mr. Rutland’s features, the rakish tilt of his lips, and ebony eyebrow arched in an eloquent fashion promptly invaded her musings. He’d been a godsend last night, saving her from almost certain despoilment.

He’d almost kissed her.

She’d wanted him to.