“Well?” He folded his arms. “Did they?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. Each packet contained four letters.”
“Four?”
“Yes, four. One addressed to me. Another to you—as you know because I tried to give them to you when your mother intended them to be delivered—when you turned twenty-four.”
“And?” he prompted.
“And two more. One to your sister, which I was to keep—and I have—until Emily turns eighteen. And a final one to…another lady.”
“What lady?”
“If your mother wished you to know about her, she would have written of it in her letters to you. They both tooka risk, keeping up a clandestine correspondence. But, as I understand, they were childhood friends. As close as sisters. I will say no more. Her instructions to me were quite clear. I was not to discuss her other correspondent with anyone, ever—which would include you. Although, I imagine she might have explained in her letters to you.”
He ran his hand down over his face. “But I told you to burn the letters she sent to me. If you don’t tell me about this mysterious lady to whom she wrote, who will?”
“Your mother?” she suggested.
He steadied himself by grasping the top of the chair in front of him “You kept them?”
“Of course. They are addressed to you. They are not mine to burn.”
“And what if something had happened to you and they had fallen in the wrong hands?”
“They would not have fallen into the wrong hands. Even if something happened to me, I have a trusted executor.”
Well—he uttered a nasty oath—here he was, again circling back to a past forever nipping like a hellhound at his heels. Nothing he’d tried had freed him. Not changing households. Not war. Not passion. And certainly not distraction.
He stared at the painting hung on the wall behind the Black Widow’s desk, feeling very much as if he’d already lived this moment.
He had, he suddenly realized.
His fear, his desperation—they were an echo of the same emotions that had been roiling his brain the night he’d met with the Blackbird.
The night everything had spun out of control.
Yet another coincidence?
There’d been far too many for his comfort.
His gaze moved to Bessie. He wanted to ask her about his suspicions. Instinctively, he knew she held the answer. But he couldn’t form the words.
He’d spent a lifetime hating his father. A lifetime grieving the death of a child who he now suspected had not died. He ran his hand through his hair, trying to make sense of his memories.
He’d heard his father order the midwife to leave the baby in the dark cold, hadn’t he?
And he’d snuck into the birthing room, wanting to hide the baby from its uncaring parents, but the bundle had been heavy, too heavy for a mere six-year-old to carry. He’d sunk to the floor and held it on his lap, trying to rock it, listening for its cry.
But it was too quiet. And when he pulled the blanket away from its face, he saw not the pink skin of a newborn, but a terrifying shade of blue. He’d lain the body back in the cradle, rushed back to his own bedchamber, and hid under his blankets, his thighs itching something awful.
He’d been too late.
In the present, he rubbed both hands against his burning, aching, dirty thighs.
How could that baby have survived?How?
He’d never felt safe again. He’d never again trusted in anyone’s care. In fact, his skin had crawled every time he looked at his father. As for his mother?
