Page 60 of His Improper Lady

Desiree snorted. “You should talk.”

All three looked ready to embark on another round of arguments, so Tom said in a moderate tone, “Why don’t we all sit down, and Desiree can catch you up on what we’ve found out the past few days?”

The siblings glowered at Tom in unison, but Desiree sat down, followed by Brock after he heaved a sigh, and Wells went to stand by a bookcase, hooking his elbow on one of the shelves. Tom seated himself in a chair some distance from Brock and Desiree. The less he inserted himself into this, the better; it was clear that neither of Desiree’s brothers trusted him.

“I’ve found our relatives,” Desiree said.

“What?” Brock’s eyebrows shot up, and even Wells straightened.

“We are Morelands, and our father was named Alistair. I met them, Brock.” Desiree’s eyes shone, her voice reclaiming its former excitement. “I talked to them, and they’re very nice.”

“Nice?” Brock looked skeptical.

Desiree launched into the tale of talking to Alex and Con, then going to Broughton House and meeting the others. Her brothers said nothing, just listened, somewhat slack jawed, as Desiree described the Morelands and the conversation they’d had. When she finished, there was a long moment of deafening silence.

Finally, Brock said, “They gave you that box?”

“No. We found the house, Brock. The one you described. That’s where we got the box. We went in tonight and found the hiding place you told us about, and it was in there.”

“You broke in? Desiree, you promised you were going to stop thieving.”

“I wasn’t thieving,” she answered indignantly. “It belongs to us.”

“I’m not sure the people who live there now would take such a sanguine view of it,” Brock retorted, but he spoke without heat and his eyes strayed back to the box.

“Do you recognize it, Brock?” Desiree asked.

“I’m not sure.” It was the first glimpse of uncertainty Tom had seen on the man’s face. Brock picked up the box and set it on his lap. He smoothed a hand across the top.

“I’m sorry about the scratch. I, um, dropped it,” Desiree said, and Tom knew she didn’t want to tell her brother about the man attempting to steal it from them. “But we managed to pick the lock instead of breaking it.”

Brock opened it and took out the wrapped jewelry, unfolding the cloth to reveal the sapphire splendor. Brock’s face didn’t change, but Tom heard the hitch of his breath. “I remember these.” He brushed his fingertips across the gems. “She looked like a princess.”

He rewrapped the jewelry quickly and stuck it back in the box, his movements efficient and businesslike. Opening the pouch, he poured the contents into his palm, picking through them. “These, too. They’re your mother’s.” Brock set the pouch back and held the box toward Desiree. “You should have them, Desiree.”

“They belong to all of us,” Desiree protested. “But that’s not the important thing. It’s the letters.” She pulled one of them from the stack and held it out to Brock. “Read it. See the signature?”

He grimaced as his eyes skimmed down the note to the bottom. “It’s an A. Desiree, that’s no proof.” He handed the letter back to her.

“I don’t know why you’re being so stubborn.” Desiree plucked the note from his hand. “Of course it’s Alistair—the Moreland ring, the Moreland who left the country at the same time as our mother, the letter A on the letters? It’s plain as can be, but we’re going to find out more. The Morelands are taking us to see an aunt who knew him better.”

“Why would these people try to help you?” Brock almost growled.

“Because they are kind and—”

“You cannot trust the aristocracy,” Brock snapped. “I don’t know what they hope to achieve, but they aren’t trying to help you. They aren’t going to take you into their family like the prodigal son returned home. You don’t know them, Desiree.”

“I do! I met them. They weren’t like other aristocrats. They’re, well, they’re a bit eccentric, but very open-minded.”

“They’re known as the Mad Morelands,” Wells offered. Tom glanced at him; he’d almost forgotten the other man was there. Desiree was right; her twin was very good at making himself unnoticed. “I asked around about them. The duchess is some sort of social reformer, and the duke’s a bit dotty.”

“He’s not dotty,” Desiree protested. “He’s sweet and still madly in love with the duchess. You can see it.”

Brock rolled his eyes. “What does that have to do with the matter?” He threw a contemptuous hand toward the letters. “Love notes from a lord to his mistress are easy. It would have been more to the point to have provided for you and Wells in some way. To take you with them. As for this exemplary family, where were they all the time you were growing up? Why did they never offer a bit of help or acknowledge you in any way?”

“They didn’t know about us!” When Brock snorted, Desiree went on. “I know them better than you do. I’ve met them. But you can meet them, too. You can decide for yourself.”

“I’m not trotting over to the duke’s house, hat in hand.”