“Do you think Reginald would prefer a swan or a deer?”
Lily was suddenly grateful for her months as a governess. Spending that much time with a child made one an expert at answering fanciful questions delivered with all the gravitas of a sermon.
“I think Reginald would like the company of another bird,” she said after a moment’s consideration.
“The swan it is, then.” Beatrice bustled off toward the front counter, the swan swinging on its ribbon from her fingertips.
Suddenly alone again, Lily found herself staring at the display next to the porcelain ornaments. It was a large dollhouse filled to the brim with furniture and miniature items. Lily drew a small gasp when her eyes flitted to the nursery of the house.Hanging in the corner was a tiny papier-mâché hot air balloon. And it was yellow.
The inclination to buy it and send it to Rebecca was so strong that Lily’s hand moved toward the case before she knew what she was doing. She considered it for a moment, then her hand dropped limply to her side. The letters were one thing; a gift would be another thing altogether.
Each time Lily wrote to the girl, she swore it would be the last. She knew that it would be best for Rebecca to forget about her, to move on. She undoubtedly had a new governess by now. Besides, children’s minds were like the spring—always growing, always changing. Lily should let Rebecca’s memories of her fade, let them be choked out by fresh ones.
If Lord Hayes had any sense—which Lily knew he did—he wouldn’t have shown the letters to his daughter at all. Which meant what—that she was truly only writing such nonsense tohim? Ridiculous.
Lily turned her stiff back to the dollhouse display and walked toward the front of the store. Margaret and Beatrice were already gathered there, showing each other their purchases. The sight of them enjoying the family’s restored wealth should delight her. Lily knew she should be content—she should behappy. For the hundredth time, she resolved to be. Lily straightened her back and her smile and rejoined her sisters.
CHAPTER 9-BRADFORD
London was precisely as Bradford had last left it—overcrowded, smelly, and loud. He did his best not to remember the events of the last time he’d been here, though of course that was impossible. Pale, watercolored memories draped over everything, much like the mist that lingered well into the morning.
It had taken Mr. Thornton but three days to arrive on Bradford’s townhouse doorstep, self-satisfied and amused with his success.
“Her name is Miss Lily Preston,” he’d announced without preamble, once they were cloistered in Bradford’s study with the door shut firmly behind them.
Bradford’s staff in London had been shocked at his sudden arrival; the only thing that would be more shocking to them would be to find out the real reason for his visit.
The name rang through Bradford with the clarity and tenor of a single strike of a brass bell.Lily Preston.It fit her.
“Are you certain?” Bradford leaned forward in the chair behind the desk and it squeaked.
The sound was old and familiar, but it had been so long since he’d heard it that it was somehow new and surprising as well. It had been his father’s chair; Bradford hadn’t changed anything about the house since his parents had been alive. For one head-swimming moment, it felt like he was a young man again. Like the last ten or so years hadn’t happened.
Mr. Thornton nodded. “All the parameters match. It turns out your governess was truthful with you about some aspects.” He paused and rummaged in his pocket, coming up with a notebook. It was the briefest of pauses, but Bradford had to resist the urge to snap at him all the same. “Miss Lily Preston is the second daughter of the late Baron Cavendish. The title passed to her eldest brother, Richard, approximately seven years ago, at which time he proceeded to gamble and otherwise squander away all of the family assets.”
Bradford leaned back in his chair, nearly stunned with his relief. So ithadbeen a brother’s debts she’d been working to pay off, not a husband’s. And Mr. Thornton had called her a miss, not a missus, had he not?
Meanwhile, Mr. Thornton continued, “However, approximately two years ago, her eldest brother died, and the title passed to the second son, William. The new Lord Cavendish was somewhat estranged from the family—though no one seems to know those particulars—and was away in India. By all accounts, he was completely unaware that his eight sisters were languishing in poverty.”
“Eightsisters?”
Mr. Thornton nodded. “Your Miss Preston was one of ten children, now one of nine.”
“Good heavens.” Bradford’s mind went instantly to Rebecca. He was constantly preoccupied with her care and rearing, and she was an only child. He couldn’t imagine havingtensuch delightful burdens.
“Things became rather desperate for the Preston misses. They retreated from society, and there’s very little information about that time. They only had the house and a stipend of fifty pounds per annum.” The man frowned at his notebook as if disappointed he couldn’t offer more details.
But Bradford could imagine what that might have been like. Eight young women living unprotected, in increasing poverty. Poverty was challenging enough when one was accustomed to it—it must have been as shocking as a sudden, freezing downpour to those young ladies.
“You’ll be relieved to know that not everything she told you was a lie. Her brother William did return from India with a massive fortune only months ago. He spirited his sisters away to Paris for a few months. On the surface, it was so that their familial seat could be renovated, but doubtless he endeavored to get them out of the public eye for a time.”
“And now they’ve returned?”
At Mr. Thornton’s nod, Bradford felt something that he hadn’t in quite some time: anticipation, excitement. He wanted to leap out of his chair and go to her, to watch the surprise flit over her face when she realized he’d caught her.
And even more than that petty victory, he just wanted to see her again.
“Are you certain it’s her?” he asked again.
