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He really did love Redcliffe, he realized. It was just that Elm Court, at least for now, was home.

They spoke very little as he rowed her about the outer edge of the lake. She lowered her parasol a few times to gaze up into the treetops, and for a while she trailed her free hand in the water. Conversation seemed unnecessary. It was as though they were in perfect accord with each other. Was there hope, then? He was dismayed when he realized he had asked the question out loud.

“Is there hope?”

Her eyes came to his, but she did not immediately answer. Perhaps she had not understood what he meant.

“One day,” she said softly, “I will tell you my story. You are quite right. There is one to tell.”

“Thank you,” he said.

He left her standing on the bank while he put the boat away and made sure the oars were properly stowed. They walked silently side by side back to the house. Again, though, it was not an uncomfortable silence.

Yes, there was hope. She was going to tell him her story.

—

The riders had returned and were walking up to the house from the direction of the stables. Stephanie and Bertrand waited for them at the foot of the steps up to the portico.

“Well, Aunt Louise,” Bertrand said, raising his voice slightly. “Did you enjoy the ride?”

“I did indeed,” she said. “Marcel was good enough not to put me on a slug.”

“A slug, Louise?” the marquess said. “In my stables?”

“We have Flora at Ravenswood,” Stephanie said. “Though I do believe her feelings might be hurt if anyone called her a slug. She is marvelously patient with children and inexperienced riders. She was a great favorite last summer when there was a rather large number of children demanding rides. They persuaded Owen to take them and teach them to ride alone. Nicholas put Winifred on her when they rode to the lake one day. She told me about it afterward. It was her first-ever ride.”

“Well, today’s ride was obviously not your first ever, Louise,” André Lamarr said. “I am still feeling somewhat chagrined that you won our race.”

She tutted. “Hardly a race, André,” she said. “It was across one field. Across the width of it, that is, not even the length. But I am proud of the win anyway. I believe you owe me five guineas. Never underestimate a woman, my man.”

Bertrand was talking with Matthew.

“Allow me to show you something, if I may, Stephanie,” the marquess said, offering her his arm and proceeding up the steps with her and inside the house. “I believe you may be interested. Or I may be just a doting grandpapa, and you will be kind enough to indulge me.”

“Now you have my curiosity aroused,” she said.

He turned toward the library, nodded to a footman to open the door, and led her inside.

“I am fortunate to have so many grandchildren of whom to boast,” the marquess said. “Some might say that I have only one, but if Viola can lay claim to David as a grandson, then I can claim all the Cunninghams’ offspring as well as the Benningtons’ and Lydia and Harry’s. I may, however, balk at the new title to be bestowed upon me later this year when Winifred gives birth.”

He had crossed the room to the large desk by one of the windows and was taking a few sheets of paper from under a paperweight. He shuffled them and then brought them to where Stephanie was standing by the fireplace.

“They were delivered by this morning’s post,” he said, “and I have been puffed up with reflected glory ever since. What do you think?”

There was a small charcoal drawing centered on the top page, exquisitely executed and in minute detail.

“Oh goodness,” she said, looking at it more closely. “Is that me?”

A woman was seated on an armchair, leaning slightly forward, a book open between her hands, a look of warm animation on her face. Her hair was coiled in two braids about her head. A few children, one with unruly, spiky hair, another with a large bow high on the back of her head, were seated cross-legged on the floor in front of her.

“Captured on Christmas Eve, I would guess,” the marquess said. “Look at the others.”

“Robbie,” she said when she looked at the next picture. It showed a dark-haired, dark-clad boy perched on a high stool, an open book in his hands, a dog with ears erect and tongue flopping seated at his feet, a star with one downward-pointing ray longer than the others to one side of them and slightly above them.

The third picture showed a laughing man and woman dancing with each other while they held identical little girls in their arms. One could almost feel the movement and hear the music and sense the happiness of all four—surely Mr. and Mrs. Cunningham and their young twins.

The final drawing was of a handsome older man with a look on his face that somehow combined deep affection with a mocking air. He was seated with an infant on his lap playing with what might be a watch or a fob on a chain. A woman leaned toward them, one hand on the child’s back, exuding affection.