His Lordship's True Lady (True Gentlemen #4)(64)

Jacaranda passed Hessian Lily’s cloak, a light silk wrap of blue that complemented the sprigged muslin of her puffed-sleeve day dress. He tended to the civilities, bowing low over Lily’s hand and taking special care with her frogs, while Worth promised Daisy to bring Avery over for tea “soon.”

A father learned to prevaricate.

Somebody else had apparently learned to prevaricate.

Hessian watched Lily accept Oscar’s escort to the waiting coach in the street.

“You noticed?” Worth murmured.

Hessian nodded. “No birthmark near her elbow.”

“Birthmarks can fade.”

Jacaranda was tying Daisy’s bonnet ribbons, while Hessian’s insides were already in a knot.

“Birthmarks can fade,” Hessian said, “scars can heal, memories grow unreliable, but I’ve recalled something else: The young Lily was right-handed. Did you notice when this Lily drew a flower with the chalk on the paving stones?”

“She used her left hand,” Worth said.

“She throws a ball with her left hand too—throws it accurately.”

Daisy swung Hessian’s hand, clearly ready to get back out into the fresh air.

“You whispered something to the lady as you did up her cloak,” Worth said. “Oscar was occupied pretending to love my dog, but I noticed.”

“One should enjoy the lovely weather while one can. I suggested she unfasten her window tonight.”

Worth’s brows drew down. Jacaranda laced her arm through her husband’s and led him toward the door.

“Thank our guests for coming, Worth.”

Worth thanked Daisy effusively and shook Hessian’s hand. “If you need anything, Hessian, anything at all…”

He’d needed to hear that he had his brother’s unequivocal support, but he also needed answers, and only Lily could provide them.





Chapter Fifteen





* * *



The evening wore on more slowly than a funeral procession, the clock ticking loudly in the family parlor in counterpoint to Miss Fotheringham’s snores. Oscar had gone out, of course, while Uncle Walter remained across the room, nose buried in the financial pages.

“Early morning outings have left me fatigued,” Lily said, tucking her embroidery into her workbasket. “I believe I’ll retire.”

The rhythm of Miss Fotheringham’s snores hitched, then resumed.

Uncle turned a page. “Good night, ladies.”

Meaning Lily was to rouse her companion and escort her upstairs. Miss Fotheringham was by no means elderly, but she had elderly ways, which for the most part, Lily appreciated. A drowsy companion prone to megrims and chills was less of a burden.

The dignified procession up the steps plucked Lily’s last nerve, though she parted from her companion on the landing, the same as she had for a thousand other nights. Miss Fotheringham had been an acquaintance of Tippy’s, though Lily had never been sure what her companion knew, or what she surmised.

Lily’s bed had been turned down, her fire built up, meaning the maids would not disturb her. The first order of business was to unlatch her window, for Hessian’s instruction had been clear.

Rather than undress or take down her hair, she went to the wardrobe. Her money was in its little glove box, beneath the satin lining. She poured the lot of it into her oldest reticule. Next, she assembled the least-impressive, sturdiest, most-sensible ensemble she could—brown velvet walking dress, plain brown cloak, a straw hat such as any shop girl might own, gloves darned on the right index finger—

“Might I ask what you’re about?”

Lily turned to find Hessian Kettering standing just inside the window she’d opened not five minutes before.

“Hessian.” She was across the room without another thought, her arms wrapped around him.

His remained at his sides.

She held him tightly for one more moment, needing the feel of him close, loathing the sense that her embrace was merely tolerated.

“I would greet you as Lily, except I suspect you are not she.”

His gaze was once again the distant nobleman, the man easily annoyed with posturing or dithering. Lily stepped back as his words penetrated her whirling mind.

“I am Lily Ferguson.”

His gaze flicked to the drab clothing on the bed. “But are you my Lily, or some creature fashioned for your uncle’s convenience—if he’s your uncle?”

The question was gently put, and yet, Lily sank onto the bed, felled by the disappointment she saw in Hessian’s eyes. He remained by the window, probably unwilling to come any nearer to a woman who was a lie.

Protestations suggested themselves, the same ones she’d offered Oscar: You have leaped to conclusions, you speculate, you conjecture from hunches and innuendo.

She barely tolerated Oscar; she loved Hessian Kettering.

“Walter Leggett is my uncle, my mother’s brother.”

A night breeze caught the curtains. Hessian closed the window and tied the curtains shut. “You are a by-blow?”

Lily seized on the question for the invitation it was. “My mother was newly widowed, not newly widowed enough, and I was conceived. She could not marry the man with whom she’d faltered, so she traveled. I was born in Bern. The first language I learned was German.”