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Viscount Falconer’s townhouse

Viscount Falconer had spent the day more energetically than was his wont. He had made his butler’s life a misery, demanding that the nursery be cleaned and aired, in case Cleo would like to see where her mother grew up.

Not that Julia ever spent much time in the townhouse nursery; his wife had been of the opinion that children should stay safely in the country, away from coal smoke. Having had years to regret his parenting choices, Falconer no longer agreed. If they had seen more of Julia as a child, would she—would she have been more attached to them, to be blunt?

It was a question with no answer, so he shook it off and returned to badgering his cook into creating delicious morsels that his granddaughter might enjoy.

When Cleo walked through the door, Falconer had his stick at hand and clambered to his feet to greet her.

“Grandfather,” Cleo said, coming over and kissing his cheek. “Do sit down; there is no need to stand on ceremony between us.”

Falconer rather gratefully sank back into his chair. “Byng will join us soon, and I invited two guests, one of whom is a young lady, so you aren’t surrounded by ancients as you have in your other visits.”

“I don’t mind being in company with you and Byng in the least,” Cleo said, sounding sincere.

“I asked Ponder to put out sherry and ratafia, so that we can serve ourselves.” It was a tacit acknowledgment of the fact that the butler would probably wait to serve them until dinner was called, out of pure peevishness.

“Ratafia,” Cleo said, wrinkling her nose. “Made for ladies with the assumption that they have a sweet tooth. May I pour you a glass of sherry, Grandfather?”

“Just a touch,” Falconer said. “The doctor says that alcohol spurs on my gout. I had to give up caviar and foie gras.”

“Doctors should be taken in moderation,” Cleo said, smiling at him as she handed over a glass.

Falconer felt a hiccup in his chest again at that smile. She was so like Julia and yet so different. His daughter would never have worn that gown, for example. Or would she?

As a girl, his daughter had blithely insisted on wearing breeches and riding astride in the country. Julia had battled her mother over her debut ball, demanding to wear scarlet and purple, although other young ladies would be in pastels. She had always wanted to sparkle and shine, to stand out from every other woman in a room.

Cleo, by contrast, wouldn’t be out of place at any elegant gathering. Her gown was misty gray silk, clenched under the bosom the way women’s dresses were these days. She wasn’t in full mourning, but she wasn’t sparkling either.

Yet the pearls on her necklace were nearly the size of quail eggs. He cleared his throat. “I gather that your father, Mr. Lewis, is no longer alive?”

“My father died several years ago,” Cleo said. “His parents had passed away before him, and I never met them.”

“I had no idea where Julia was, or whether she was alive, until I read your first letter,” Falconer said, loathing the rasp in his voice. A man wasn’t supposed to show weakness . . . but he felt weak.

His granddaughter was silent for a moment. “Mother depicted her elopement as a great adventure. I am unsurprised to learn that she neglected to leave you and my grandmother a letter. She rarely imagined the distress her escapades caused to others.”

“Was Julia—was she happy?” Falconer asked, pushing the words into the air.

“For the most part,” Cleo said. “Perhaps it is more accurate to say that she enjoyed sadness as much as joy. Luckily, my father didn’t pass away until I was of an age to take over as a steadying force in her life.”

“We would have accepted her marriage,” Falconer said. “She—”

Byng joined them in a wave of chatter, settling only when he had a glass of sherry in hand.

“We are discussing Julia’s husband,” Falconer told Byng. “Was Mr. Lewis an actor?”

“An inventor,” Cleo replied, and hesitated. “The son of the blacksmith on your country estate.”

Falconer drew in a sharp breath. The entire county knew that their daughter had been abducted—or run away from home—but his blacksmith had never said a word. Not a word. No wonder he had up and left for Scotland the following year, without a by-your-leave.

“Mother adored the story of their elopement,” Cleo continued. “Father rode up on a white horse to a ball at Windsor Castle, swept her onto the saddle, and they galloped into the night.”

“The ball was actually at this townhouse, and someone saw her willingly climbing into a hackney carriage,” Falconer said flatly. “We were afraid she’d been kidnapped.”

Cleo winced. “Mother’s flair for storytelling did not include deference to the truth.”

“Nicely put,” Byng said, grinning. “Unless Julia changed, she thought the truth should defer to her.”