A Lady by Midnight (Spindle Cove #3)(18)

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”

“Did you already have your own lady’s maid?”

Kate laughed, astonished. “No. I haven’t that many belongings to pack. What I meant was, it’s not appropriate for you to invite me to your home.”

Lord Drewe blinked. “Of course it’s appropriate. It’s a family home.”

A family home.

The words made her breath catch painfully. “But . . . wouldn’t I be an embarrassment?”

“Absolutely not,” Harry said. “Our brother Bennett holds the position of family embarrassment, and he jealously guards it against all would-be usurpers.”

“Why would you embarrass us, dear?” asked Aunt Marmoset.

“Even if all you say is true . . . I’m your illegitimate second cousin, by a tenant farmer’s daughter.”

Kate waited for the import of her words to sink in. Surely people at the Gramercys’ level of society didn’t associate with bastard relations?

“If you’re concerned about scandal, don’t be,” Lark said. “Scandal comes with the Gramercy name—along with enough wealth that no one much cares. If there’s one lesson Aunt Marmoset instilled in us from our youth, it’s—”

“Beware of spice drops,” said Harry.

“Family above everything,” countered Lord Drewe. “We may be a motley assortment of aristocrats, but we stand by one another through scandal, misfortune, and the rare triumph.” He pointed to the parish register. “Simon claimed his daughter and gave her the family name. So if this infant is you, Miss Taylor . . .”

A dramatic pause thickened the air in the room.

“. . . then you are not Miss Taylor at all. You are Katherine Adele Gramercy.”

Katherine Adele Gramercy?

Like hell she was.

Thorne clenched his jaw. He wasn’t a man of words. This situation called for eloquence, but he could only think of action. Chiefly, he wanted to fling open the door and turn all these queerly chattering aristocrats out on their arses. Then he’d lift Miss Taylor in his arms and carry her upstairs to have the restful lie-down she’d been needing for the past several hours. Her cheeks were deathly pale.

He would want to lie down next to her, but he wouldn’t. Because unlike these presumptive intruders, he had restraint. Thorne had heard of aristocratic inbreeding being to blame for imbecility and bad teeth. This family seemed to have contracted a sort of verbal cholera. Everything they spouted was rubbish.

He couldn’t believe these people proposed to take Miss Taylor away. He couldn’t believe she’d consider going with them. She had sense.

And she promptly displayed some of it.

“You’re so kind. But I’m afraid I can’t leave Spindle Cove so hastily. I have obligations here. Lessons, pupils. Our midsummer fair is just a week or so away, and I’m responsible for all the music and dancing.”

“Oh, I love a fair.” The youngest one bounced in her seat again. She had an irritating way of doing that, Thorne noticed.

“It isn’t much, but we have a good time with it. It’s a children’s festival, mostly—up at the ruined castle. Corporal Thorne and his militiamen are helping, too.” After throwing him a hesitant look, Miss Taylor continued, “At any rate, surely you’d wish for this . . . connection . . . to be more official before inviting me to your home? If we find that your suppositions are wrong, and I am actually not your relation . . .”

“But the portrait,” the young lady protested. “The register. Your birthmark.”

“Miss Taylor is right,” Lord Drewe said. “We must prove it’s not merely coincidence. I’ll dispatch men to interview at the school, canvass the local area around Ambervale. I’ve no doubt we’ll find the link between your infancy and Margate easily enough, with a bit of digging.”

Thorne knew Lord Drewe’s men would find no link between that parish register and Margate school. He could have cleared his throat and informed them precisely where Kate Taylor had spent her early years. She could see how eager these people were to claim her as a Gramercy then. There was high-class scandal, and then there was immoral squalor.

He said, “Miss Taylor isn’t going anywhere with you. All you’ve presented are suspicions of her identity. And we don’t even know who you are.”

Miss Taylor bit her lip. “Corporal Thorne, I’m sure—”

“No, no,” the mannish one interrupted. “The good corporal is absolutely right, Miss Taylor. We could be a gang of white slavers, or bloodthirsty cannibals. Or occultists looking for a virgin sacrifice.”

Thorne did not believe the Gramercys to be white slavers or cannibals or occultists—though they seemed to him the genteel version of bedlamites. And though he knew something of Kate Taylor’s childhood, he had to admit—he could not say with certainty that they were not her cousins. It was possible, he supposed. She hadn’t been born in that place. And she had the right name, the right year of birth. Those facts, plus the portrait and birthmark, made an argument that couldn’t be easily dismissed.

Still, the odds remained against it, and he didn’t trust these people. There was something wrong about them and their story. Perhaps they were mistaken about the connection—in which case Miss Taylor would end up dismayed and potentially the object of ridicule. Alternatively, they were her relations and had somehow misplaced her for the better part of twenty-three years, allowing her to languish in cruel, isolating poverty.