was left out.”
Mary shook her head. “I was too shaken by the consequences of the column to notice,” she said under her breath.
She turned and walked nearly blindly into the entry hall, where she snatched her straw bonnet from a hook on the wall.
Quinn followed close behind. “I am sorry, Miss Royle. You cannot know how much.”
Mary opened the front door and started down the steps.
Quinn’s cane clicked behind her.
“I have to speak with Rogan. I have to apologize for doubting him-” she began.
“Let me take you to Portman Square,” Quinn said. “’Tis the least I can do.”
Before Mary could accept, she heard MacTavish calling her name from the open door.
“Miss Royle!” He raised a folded square of vellum in his hand. “This came for you while you were in the parlor with Lord Wetherly.”
“I shall read it when I return,” she replied curtly.
“It is from the duke, Miss Royle. His footman bade me tell you it was very important.”
Mary spun around, raced up the stairs, and took the missive. She broke the red wax wafer and unfolded the letter. Her eyes skimmed over the short note.
She looked to Quinn. “He has gone to Cavendish Square. Can you take me there to meet him?”
“It would be my honor, Miss Royle.”
Mary and Quinn were led into Lady Upperton’s library, where the portly old woman and Lord Lotharian sat waiting.
Mary glanced about the room. Rogan was not there. She lifted the short letter in her hand to show Lady Upperton and Lotharian. “I-I was under the impression that Blackstone would be here.”
“Oh, and he shall.” Lotharian rose and walked over to reach out his hand to her.
Mary took a step backward.
“My dear, you might be quite miffed at me now, but I vow, in one hour’s time, you will be kissing my cheek.”
“I doubt that very much, my lord. The past few days have been the most miserable of my life.”
“But how were your nights, my dear?” he asked, casting a loathsome, rakish wink at her.
Mary looked past the ancient rake and spoke instead to Lady Upperton. “I beg your pardon, Lady Upperton, but if Rogan is not here, then where is he? It is important that I speak with him immediately.”
“I am here.”
Mary spun around to see Rogan entering the room with a gray-haired older woman on his arm.
The woman held herself most regally, and Mary was sure she recognized her from somewhere. Just where, though, she couldn’t recall.
Lord Lotharian and Lady Upperton approached the woman and began to speak with her. But Mary’s eyes were fixed on Rogan, and she paid the woman no heed.
Rogan released the lady’s arm and politely left her side to come to Mary. “Mary, I must speak with you.”
Lady Upperton turned and snared both of them by the arm. “There will be time, all the time in the world, for the two of you to speak. But right now, it is time that we hear from Lady Jersey.”
Only now she was older. Her hair gray, not chestnut. Her skin pale, rather than vibrant. “Lady Jersey! B-but, how?”
Graciously, Lady Jersey allowed Lord Lotharian to escort her to the settee, and she sat down.
She raised her eyes to Mary and gazed at her as if assessing her. “I knew the late Duke of Blackstone quite well. His son, here, asked me to come to speak with you about a Kashmir shawl of mine that you might have found.”
Mary’s eyes went wide. “Yes, we did find a shawl amongst my father’s belongings after he died.”
Lady Jersey raised her thin brows. “I do not believe I know you, gel.”
A jolt rushed through Mary as it occurred to her that if the Old Rakes’ story was true, this woman would have preferred her and her sisters…
Lady Upperton quickly made the requisite introductions.
When appropriate, Mary curtsied hesitantly, for her bones felt as though they had been replaced with ice.
“Miss Royle?” Lady Jersey narrowed her eyes. “Your name is somehow familiar to me, though your face is not. Have we met before? At the theater, or a rout, perhaps?”
“No, my lady. Perhaps you met my father and know his name? For a time, he was the personal physician to the Prince of Wales.”
Mary watched for a flicker, anything that might belie the story of her and her sisters’ births.
But there was nothing.
“I do not recall him specifically, no.” Lady Jersey’s tone remained even. How odd that she could speak through her teeth without moving her mouth but the smallest amount. “The Prince maintains the services of a number of physicians. Both in years past, and now.”
Lotharian brought forth the shawl, likely realizing, as Mary did, that Lady Jersey’s patience with them was waning. “This is the Kashmir shawl the duke mentioned,” he said. “It has been noted that you were wearing one of the very same design in the portrait now hanging in the Harrington gallery. Is the shawl yours?”
Lady Jersey leaned forward and peered at the shawl. “It appears to be one of the several Kashmir shawls I owned.”
Lady Upperton’s eyes were flashing. “Lady Jersey, the shawl is badly stained…with what appears to be dried blood. Can you tell us how that came to be and how Mr. Royle might have come into possession of your shawl?”
An uncomfortable smile spread over Lady Jersey’s mouth. “There is only one instance I recall when my clothing might have become stained.”
She flicked the shawl with the edge of her reticule, turning it over on the tea table before her. Then she looked up at Lady Upperton and laughed.
“I should not say, but since this particular shawl seems to hold great interest for your party, I will tell you. It happened many years ago. The Prince of Wales was feverish and could not be consoled after Mrs. Fitzherbert left him for a term. The physicians had no choice. He had to be bled.”
Mary swallowed deeply and listened.
“I was a close friend of his at the time, so I sat with him to ease his nerves whilst a physician opened his arm. He jerked, though, and blood began to spurt rather than trickle. The physician, needing to act quickly, snatched my shawl from my shoulders and tied it around the Prince’s arm to slow the bloodletting.”
“And the shawl?” Rogan prodded. “What became of it?”
Lady Jersey stood up. “I never saw the shawl again. Nor did I care to. I had others.” She looked up at Rogan. “Now, if there is nothing else, Blackstone, I should like to be returned to my lodgings, please.”
Rogan bowed, then turned to his brother. An exchange of glances was all it took for Quinn to take Lady Jersey’s arm and escort her outside to his waiting carriage.
“Well, I am sorry her report was not more encouraging, Miss Royle,” Lotharian sighed loudly.
“It changes nothing for me. It is not my past that interests me…but rather, my future.” She allowed her gaze to touch Rogan’s face. “Though my sisters might be rather disappointed.” Mary looked at Lady Upperton and smiled. “But our stay in London is not finished, and, I daresay, with Elizabeth and Anne poking about, there will be other clues.”
“Mrs. Fitzherbert still lives,” Rogan broke in. “I could approach her for you and your sisters.”
“Thank you, but no.” Mary turned, and her gaze locked with Rogan’s. “My sisters and I agreed that we would never approach such an esteemed woman with our story-without irrefutable evidence. We have nothing.” After speaking, she allowed her gaze to linger.
Lady Upperton saw the intimate exchange of glances. “Lotharian, might I speak with you in the passage for a moment?”
“What, whatever for-”
