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“My mother couldn’t have any more children after she gave birth to me and my twin brother…” Morgan shifted in his seat. “They wanted more children, and one summer while we were at our estate in West Sussex near Chichester, an infant was left on the steps to the Cathedral Church of the Holy Trinity. The vicar intended to send the child to Thomas Coram’s Foundling Hospital, but he knew how long my mother had been praying for a child and sent word to my family.” Morgan paused, taking another sip.
“I was only four, but I remember when they brought her to our home. My mother was in raptures, and my father immediately agreed that the babe was to be a Morgan. The rest of the process was simple, and as fate or God would have it, we had skipped the London season the year before and traveled, so it wasn’t a far stretch for everyone to believe she was born of my mother, my true sister.”
Rowles’s heart pounded as he listened to Morgan, one question ringing in his ears. “She doesn’t know?”
“No. She has no idea.”
“And…you do not plan to tell her?” Rowles asked, his whole body bristling at the idea of keeping such a secret from Joan.
“As her likely future husband, I will leave the decision to you.”
Rowles’s chest tightened at the weight of the decision. “Me? Doesn’t she deserve to hear the truth from her brother? The one who knows the details? Can affirm to her your parents’ love and care for her? What can I possibly offer other than information?” Rowles asked, his heart still thundering.
“Then don’t tell her.” Morgan shrugged. “It’s not necessary. My parents never wanted her to know, so I’ve honored their request.”
Rowles wiped his hand down his face. “Wouldn’t you wish to know, if the situation were reversed?”
Morgan scowled. “No, ignorance is underappreciated in circumstances like this one.”
Rowles could hardly believe his ears or his eyes as Morgan swirled what was left of his brandy coolly.
“Anything else you wish to disclose?” Rowles asked, irritated with the blasé reaction of his friend to the secrets he’d kept from his sister.
“No, the rest are for her to tell you when she’s ready. I won’t interfere with secrets that aren’t mine to tell.”
Or with the secrets thatareyours to tell.“Did you think that this revelation about Joan would change my mind?” Rowles asked, watching his friend with a sharp eye.
“I wasn’t sure. I didn’t think so, but I’d prefer to tell you before you officially propose.”
“It doesn’t change anything,” Rowles affirmed, in case his friend could use the acknowledgment.
“Good. Then, without further ado, why don’t we call for Joan to join us? I believe you may have a question to ask her.” Morgan stood and strode to the door, presumably to fetch his sister.
“May I have a moment with her?” Rowles asked, standing as well.
Morgan turned to him, nodded once, and disappeared.
Rowles took a short sip of his brandy and set the snifter on the side table, then breathed deeply through his nose.
So much weighed on him, especially after that conversation with Morgan. But he pushed it all out of his mind. This was the defining moment he was waiting for.
Joan walked into the room, her gaze finding his.
His body warmed with anticipation.
He walked toward her, his eyes fixed on hers, willing calm as he reached out a hand toward her.
A question.
One that would start the most important conversation of his life.
Twenty-two
Once Morgan had invited Rowles into the study for brandy, Joan was at loss as to how to pass the time till she was called upon. Frankly, she was irritated at the custom that excluded her from their company after dinner, even if it was only for a short time. Yet her irritation solved nothing. She’d retired to the library to wait upon her brother’s leisure, her mind evaluating the dinner conversation. As she sank into a soft wing-backed chair, her irritation softened. Rowles was down the hall, and there was some reason her brother had invited him to dinner. The tension was too high, and Morgan was in too foul of a humor for it to be anything less than significant. When she’d asked her brother why the duke had called earlier, he’d said, “You.” That conveyed volumes.
And yet, nothing specific.
She rose from the chair and began to pace. Was it foolish to hope that Rowles could offer for her? Proposals were given for far less than they had already shared in conversation. What plagued her mind was her brother’s resistance. Did he truly question his friend’s acceptance of Joan’s work for the War Office? Yet for her brother to be so reluctant gave her pause, made her wonder if perhaps rather than her brother making too much of it, she was making too little.
