She had spent fourteen years surviving Penharrow alone.
She looked at her mother’s face, which was her face, which had been looking for her for years, and she thought about what Dorothea had said in the blue sitting room at Saxton House about not just escaping and not just surviving but thriving. She thought about Penharrow knowing it. She thought about his face, which she would never have to see again, when he understood what had come for him, not from Oliver, not from the law, but from two duchesses and the daughter he had stolen who turned out to have been the daughter of a duke the entire time.
She thought about her father, who had looked for her until he died.
She thought,I will tell him. Not by speaking, but by winning.
“I want to help,” Megan said.
Both women looked at her.
“I am not a bystander either.” She looked at her mother, then at Dorothea. “I know things about him. About his finances andhis household and the men he has dealings with and the things he has done that he doesn’t know I witnessed.” She thought of fourteen years of listening through walls, hearing staff talk, and understanding, very early on, that knowing things was the only power available to her. “I have been memorizing him since I was a child. I know where the bodies are.” She paused. “Figuratively. Mostly.”
There was a brief silence.
“Good,” said Dorothea.
“Excellent,” said the Duchess of Newbury.
And in the pale blue drawing room in Grosvenor Square, with the afternoon light going gold across the carpet and the tea cold in its cups, the three of them leaned in and began.
CHAPTER 19
Dorethea arrived home alone. Megan had decided to stay with her family. Her brother, Harry wanted to spend time with her. Oliver understood her need to be with a family she never thought she’d have but he missed her.
The next morning Oliver was just drafting a note when Harold the butler arrived in his study. “Are you at home for the Duke of Newbury, my lord,” and he presented Oliver with the Duke’s card.
“Of course. Put him in the drawing room and see if the Duke of Saxton is free too.”
Harold led the Duke of Newbury to the drawing room with the precise formality the man’s rank required, and Oliver gave himself a moment in the corridor before he followed.
He used them to think about what he knew of Harry Fairfax, the Duke of Newbury.
Twenty-five. Inherited the dukedom four years ago when his father died, still searching for the sister he had never stopped believing was alive. Harry had spent his own money on investigators, and he’d gone himself to Wales twice in the last three years on nothing more than a suspicion and a rumor. He wasangry that he’d not followed up on his hunch. He’d heard about Penharrow’s proclivities.
Oliver knew what it was to spend years wanting to do something about a man and finding your hands empty.
He pushed the door open.
The Duke of Newbury was standing at the window. He turned as Oliver entered and Oliver had a moment to assess him—tall, fair, Megan’s eyes in a harder face, the jaw set with the particular tension of a man who had spent a bad night at the end of a worse week. He was not a man in the mood for pleasantries.
“Lord Astor.” He inclined his head. Correct, controlled.
“Your Grace.” Oliver crossed the room and offered his hand, and the Duke took it with a grip that communicated precisely how many feelings he was currently managing. “I’ve sent word to my uncle. He’ll join us directly.”
“Good.” Harry released his hand and turned back briefly to the window before seeming to decide against it and facing the room instead. He was doing the thing men did when they wanted to appear less agitated than they were—standing too still, jaw too tight.
“How is she?” Oliver had to know. It wasn’t a question. It was the thing that had been waiting in his mouth since her brother had arrived.
“I’m sure she’s better than she was having found her family. Better than anyone has a right to expect.” Harry chose his words carefully. “She had a difficult night after—after speaking with mother. Understandably. But this morning she seemed steadier.” He paused. “She is remarkably strong.”
“She’s had to be.”
Something moved through Harry’s expression that he locked down quickly. He was going to be a difficulty, Oliver thought, not because he was unreasonable, but because he was in painand he had somewhere to aim it, and that was always the more dangerous combination.
The door opened again and the Duke of Saxton came in, unhurried, with the expression of a man who had been briefed sufficiently to know what kind of meeting this was. He greeted Harry with the precise degree of warmth appropriate between equals who did not know each other well and were potentially about to do business.
“Your Grace.”
