“Your life will be simpler after you’re my husband.”
He laughed. “You have never uttered a more ridiculous remark.”
“Why is it ridiculous?”
“Because you are a spoiled brat, and you always have been. I will run myself ragged, satisfying your every whim.”
She grinned. “Aren’t I lucky then?”
“You will be, and don’t you forget it.” He swatted her on the rear. “Let’s get out of here. I’ll see you tonight. We eat at seven.”
He went to the door, peeked out, and rushed away.
Very soon, perhaps by the very next day, she would be betrothed. She couldn’t abide the delay of having the vicar call the banns. It would mean they couldn’t wed for another month.
She’d have to have Jacob apply for a Special License so they could wed right away. Before the week was out, she would be Margaret Sanders rather than Margaret Howell. She would shed the despised surname and adopt Sandy’s for her own.
She couldn’t wait.
“Well, well, if it isn’t Roxanne.”
Kit sneered at her. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t like her, and they couldn’t interact in a civil manner.
When Jacob’s mother, Esther, had still been alive, she’d once asked Kit his opinion about Roxanne being Jacob’s bride. Kit had practically choked, swallowing down the derogatory insults that had begged to spill out. He’d controlled himself enough to blandly explain why she’d be a very bad choice.
Esther hadn’t mentioned the notion again, and he’d figured she’d listened to him and heeded his advice, so it had come as a shock when Roxanne had sauntered in, bent on matrimony. Matters had careened downhill ever since.
It was late in the afternoon, and they were in the village. She’d just exited a shop, and he’d nearly bumped into her.
He’d been going mad at the estate and had needed to escape. He’d argued with that pompous ass, Sandy, and Margaret had eavesdropped, then scolded him as if she were a princess and he a serf. The entire episode had left him so aggrieved that he’d snuck away, eager to drink himself silly in the local tavern.
But who should he stumble on immediately but Roxanne? Was there no safe place where he could be alone for a few bloody minutes?
“Are you following me, Kit?” she asked. “I swear, every time I turn around, you’re standing there.”
“Did you hear the news from London? Were they talking about it in the shop?”
“Why would these provincial dolts be babbling about London?”
“The whole kingdom will be buzzing about it shortly, and I guess we’re peripherally attached.”
“What happened?”
“You remember Libby Carstairs, don’t you? The theater actress?”
“Isn’t she one of the girls Jacob’s father rescued on that island?”
“Yes, and it’s being reported that she’s Little Henrietta Pendleton.”
The Little Henrietta saga had rocked the nation two decades earlier. Henrietta had been Lord Roland’s baby daughter, and his deranged ex-wife had absconded with her. Though he’d searched for ages, he’d never found them. Ultimately, he’d accepted that Henrietta had to be dead, but her fate had remained a puzzle that intrigued the masses.
“Libby Carstairs is Henrietta?” Roxanne asked, and she scoffed. “Here’s a tidbit you should realize about me. I couldn’t care less about those stupid girls and they seem to be crawling out of the woodwork all of a sudden, starting with that fraudulent tart, Miss James.”
“You don’t think she’s one of them? Why not? Jacob and Margaret were certainly persuaded.”
“She’s a conniver who scams fools out of their hard-earned money.”
Kit smirked. “Miss James is very beautiful, so I detect a note of jealousy in your comment.”
“I want her gone—to a spot far, far away. How much of a bribe must I fork over so you’ll get rid of her for me?”
If Roxanne wanted Miss James to vanish, then Kit would like her to stay right where she was.
“Now, now,” he said, “Jacob and Margaret are very fond of her. Why would I help you evict her?”
Across the street, a trio of girls walked by, and they had school books under their arms, as if class had just been dismissed. They were ten or so, laughing and chatting. Kit glanced over at them, and when Roxanne glanced over too, she blanched.
“See the one in the middle?” she asked him. “Her name is Clara. Miss James tells people Clara is her niece, but they’re not related. Clara was delivered by Miss James’s aunt. Prudence James?”
“Ah, yes, I knew her well.”
“When Clara was born, her mother paid Prudence a substantial amount to make her disappear.”
“That’s a very touching account, Roxanne. Your point?”
“They came here—from Telford.”
“Oh.”
Telford was the town where Roxanne had grown up. It was where her family’s estate had been located—before her father had gambled it away, then killed himself with vice and liquor. It was also where Kit had visited his own kin in the summers, where he and Roxanne had engaged in a quick, torrid affair.
She’d been too young to have the sense to avoid their misbehavior—and deep down, she was a slattern—so she’d wound up with child. She’d spent years running and forgetting that dark period.
“Take a good look at her, Kit,” Roxanne said. “She is nine, almost ten. She was born in Telford. To a mother who couldn’t and wouldn’t raise her. The midwife was Pru James.”
He assessed the girl, the white-blond hair, the coal-black eyes, the willowy figure. He felt as if he’d been transported back in time and was studying Roxanne when she was ten. Comprehension settled in, and he sucked in a sharp breath of astonishment.
“It occurs to me that you have finally grasped the problem,” Roxanne said.
“I believe I see it clearly.”
“I have asked Jacob to move up the wedding date, but he hasn’t given me an answer. To my great horror, he’s befriended Miss James—and Clara resides with her.”
“I don’t imagine this would be the moment to mention that there’s gossip about you in London.”
“There couldn’t be. I carried on like a nun in Florence.”
He snickered derisively. “You are such a bad liar. The rumor involves two lovers. And
