“But this house isn’t new, and our house burned down. Didn’t it?”
“May I help you?” a feminine voice asked pleasantly.
Rafe and Selina turned in unison. From her garb, the woman was a servant. Her mostly silver hair was pulled back severely from her round face and tucked beneath a cap. Her dark eyes settled on them with curiosity. “May I escort you downstairs to the ballroom?” Her mouth turned down, and she stepped toward them. She looked from Rafe to the portrait, her eyes widening, before returning her attention to Rafe.
“It can’t be,” she breathed, moving even closer, and stared up into his face. “You are the mirror image, but—” She blinked then squinted slightly. “Your eye…the orange spot…”
Rafe leaned toward her slightly, widening his eyes. “In my right eye, yes.”
“Dear Lord.” The woman went completely white before crumpling to the floor.
“Bloody hell,” Rafe muttered.
“The chaise,” Selina said, gesturing to the other end of the gallery.
Rafe bent down and swept the woman into his arms, bearing her to the chaise, where he carefully laid her atop the cushions. “She recognized me.”
“I think so.” Selina sounded as breathless as Rafe felt.
The woman’s eyes fluttered open. She blinked at Selina before looking at Rafe. Lifting her hand to her mouth, she shook her head. Tears gathered in her eyes and spilled down her cheeks.
A cascade of emotions rioted through Rafe, but none so strong as the desperate need to know. “Why are you crying?”
“It’s you—it has to be.”
“Who am I?” He glanced toward Selina. “Who are we?”
The woman’s tear-filled gaze moved to Selina. “And you must be wee Selina.”
Selina’s throat worked. “You know my name,” she croaked. Rafe wanted to reach for her, but he was unable to move. He could barely think.
The woman sat up and swung her feet to the floor. She wiped the backs of her hands over her cheeks. “Yes, I was a new housemaid when you lived here as children.” Deep furrows marred her brow. “You were looking at your grandfather’s portrait.”
If they had, in fact, lived here and that portrait was their grandfather… Rafe tried to take a breath and couldn’t. “Who were our parents? We don’t remember. They were lost to us in a fire, but this house clearly did not burn down twenty-seven years ago.”
“No, the fire was at your family seat—Stonehaven in Staffordshire. We thought you had died. How are you not dead along with your poor parents?”
Rafe wished those bloody chairs weren’t so far away. He feared he was about to collapse too.
“Rafe?” Selina pressed herself to his side and put her arm around his waist. She wiped her hand over her brow. “Who are you?” she asked the woman.
“I’m Mrs. Gentry, the housekeeper here.” She rose, her gaze warm and kind. “You poor dears, this is a shock to you, I can see. What can I do for you?” She turned her gaze to Rafe. “My lord?”
My lord.
His knees felt weak. Selina seemed to know it as her hold on him tightened.
“Our father was the earl?” he managed to ask.
Mrs. Gentry nodded. “Yes. He was Lord Stone’s older brother.” She shook her head. “My apologies—you are Lord Stone. Oh my goodness, what will your uncle say?”
His uncle. His real uncle.
Rafe swiped his hand over his face. Good God, he was a fucking earl. Absurdly, he thought of all the people he’d known over the long years of his childhood, when he’d commanded a small army of thieves and later when he’d overseen a dozen receiver shops from Saffron Hill to Petticoat Lane. Or those who had known him as the Vicar.
Selina pivoted with him and pushed him down on the chaise. He pulled her down with him, needing her at his side.
“Would you like a drink?” Mrs. Gentry asked. “Perhaps some port?”
“No. Maybe.” Rafe shook his head. He couldn’t think. And he bloody well needed to. He directed an intense stare at the housekeeper, uncaring if he frightened her with his fierce need to understand. “You’re certain I’m—” What the hell was his name even? “Stone’s heir?”
The housekeeper shook her head.
“You aren’t certain?” Selina asked tentatively, her brow creasing.
“I am. I beg your pardon, this is a shock for me as well. You are not, however, Stone’s heir. You were, but now you are Lord Stone. Raphael Jerome Mallory is your name—Jerome was your father—I have always included you in my prayers. But you were addressed as Lord Sandon, of course. Your father called you Sandy, but your mother called you Rafe.”
Sandy. The name roused something in him. A horrible sound erupted from his chest—part gasp and part sob. He clapped his hand over his mouth and looked away.
When he’d reined in his emotion, he turned his head back to housekeeper. “Tell us about the fire.”
“There you are.” Harry Sheffield, Selina’s husband, took that inopportune moment to interrupt as he walked into the gallery. “I’ve been looking all over for—” He stopped abruptly. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, Harry.” Selina let out a sound similar to the one Rafe had made.
Sheffield rushed forward and crouched down before her. “What is it, my love?”
Selina threw her arms around his neck and began to cry. Rafe stared at her, feeling as overwhelmed as she looked but also somehow frozen.
Sheffield’s gaze met Rafe’s over Selina’s shoulder. “What the hell is going on?”
“We’ve had a bit of a shock.” That was all he could say?
“Come, we must go downstairs and find Lord Stone.” The housekeeper frowned. “Er, Mr. Mallory.”
Selina pulled back from Sheffield and wiped at her eyes before looking to Rafe. “Should we?”
“You must,” the housekeeper insisted. “He’ll want to know you aren’t really dead.”
“I require an explanation,” Sheffield said. As a constable, he was always on a quest for answers.
Selina touched the side of her husband’s head. “You know our parents died in a fire. Mrs. Gentry”—she nodded toward the housekeeper—“recognized Rafe—the orange mark in his eye. She knows who our parents were—the Earl and Countess
