Once Upon a Maiden Lane (Maiden Lane #12.5)(2)

She narrowed said eyes and opened her mouth to make a very cutting rejoinder, but he beat her to it.

“May I introduce myself then? I am Henry Collins, Viscount Blackwell.”

He made an elaborate and showy bow to her as if she were a lady.

By the time he straightened, Mary knew her face was aflame. This was why she hated well-favored aristocrats so: they thought nothing of mocking poor girls for their own sport.

“Are you done now, my lord?” she asked, her voice frozen.

“No, I’m afraid not,” he said ruefully. “Look here, I don’t suppose you’ll let me escort you to…erm…your place of employment?”

She arched an incredulous eyebrow.

“No, naturally not,” he murmured. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re very, very suspicious?”

“Not that I can remember.”

“It’s just that I can’t let you go without finding out your name and where you live.”

She sighed in absolute exasperation. “Why would I ever tell you those things?”

“Because,” he said, those damnable dimples coming into devastating play again, “I’m almost certain that we’re meant to be engaged.”



Henry felt the corners of his mouth quirk up as the little maidservant gave him a narrow-eyed, outraged look that wouldn’t be out of place on the countenance of a duchess.

Or, well, the long-lost daughter of an earl.

The girl before him had a very familiar face: large coffee-brown eyes, heavy mahogany hair, an oval face so perfect she could have posed for a medieval Madonna. She looked, in fact, exactly like his fiancée, Lady Joanna.

And there the similarity between them ended.

He’d grown up with Lady Joanna, considered her almost a sister. Lady Joanna was silly, sweet, and sometimes vaguely irritating.

He’d long been used to the idea of marrying her.

This woman caught his attention and held it. She was impatient and sharp tongued, and he had the sneaking suspicion that she disapproved of everything about him—right down to his stockings.

He ought to find her tartness dismaying.

Instead he was intrigued.

He wasn’t used to a lady so obviously disliking him. Most had a rather dismaying tendency to fall at his feet, truth be told. In fact, he was so accustomed to feminine approval that he noticed it only when faced with its opposite: a lady who knit her pretty brows at him while frowning down her slim nose.

She was rather refreshing.

“The thing is,” he began, only to be interrupted by a great oaf.

“There you are, Blackwell,” said the oaf—more commonly known as John Seymour, third scion of Baron Bramston. “Can’t believe you dragged me to a bookseller’s. Place is full of dust, and there’s an old chap behind the counter who looks dead. Let’s go—” Seymour stopped abruptly, probably because the maidservant had turned at his voice and he’d finally seen her face.

He stared.

Frowned.

And said, “You’re not Lady Joanna.”

Which was a bit disappointing, because Henry would’ve bet his new riding mare that Seymour would be just as taken in by the uncanny resemblance as he.

For the first time the maidservant’s brow cleared, and she almost smiled—at Seymour of all people. “No, I’m not, sir.”

“However, you’re enough alike you might be her sister,” Seymour continued.

“Exactly,” Henry said. “The Albright twin.”

Seymour frowned. “Thought she was dead.”

The maidservant huffed and started to walk away.

Henry stepped in front of her, blocking the way, still talking to Seymour. “No body was ever found. And the nursemaid was quite out of her mind.”

Seymour turned fully to him. “You can’t think…”

“Look at her.”

Seymour studied the girl, his somewhat protuberant pale-brown eyes widening. “Good Lord!”

The girl tried to sidestep around Henry. “Do you mind?”

He pursed his lips ruefully, attempting to look solemn. “I’m afraid I do, sweetheart.”

“I’m not your—”

“But that’s the thing,” Henry said. “You might very well be my sweetheart. Can you at least tell me who your people are? Who were your parents? If you were born in the country and have seven brothers and sisters who all resemble you, well, then we’re wrong, and I’ll apologize and leave you be.”

She looked at him, and that was the moment when he truly knew—because she hesitated. “I…don’t know where I was born,” she said, lifting her chin. “I was raised at the Home for Unfortunate Infants and Foundling Children in St Giles. I was left on their doorstep when I was a baby—on Whitsunday.”

“What year?” Henry asked, holding her gaze. Those coffee-brown eyes were a bit fearful now, and he mourned that—she was such a proud little thing—but he had to know.

She swallowed. “Seventeen twenty-six.”

He felt a slow grin curve his lips. “That was the year the Albright twins, the daughters of William Albright, the Earl of Angrove, were stolen from their nursery by a mad nurse. A fortnight later the younger of the two, Lady Joanna, was recovered in good health. The elder, Lady Cecilia, was never found.”