Mrs. Gentry faced her employer with determination. “I’ve—we’ve—a matter of grave importance to discuss with you. Might we remove to a more private location?”
A look of stark annoyance flitted across Deborah’s face. She pursed her lips and glared at the housekeeper, who seemed to shrink. Anne wished she was standing near Deborah so she could elbow her again.
“Yes,” Deborah said, surprising Anne by agreeing with Mrs. Gentry. “We should excuse ourselves. I have so many questions for Selina. My apologies, Mrs. Sheffield.” The look she gave Selina could have stripped the wallpaper from the ballroom. And Selina’s answering stare would have sent puppies running in terror.
“I can’t just leave my own picnic,” the earl said crossly. “Regardless of whatever drama is trying to unfold here.” He cast an irritated look toward Deborah. “We were about to eat.”
“Let them eat while we adjourn to the library. I doubt this will take long.” Deborah’s malicious smile returned.
Anne had never seen her behave quite like this. It wasn’t just frightening; it was horrifying.
Lord Stone shook his head. “This must wait.”
“I’m your nephew,” Rafe blurted. It was as if the air in the room thinned, and everyone in the small circle stopped breathing.
Anne watched the color drain from her godfather’s face. She felt a similar shock. Rafe was his nephew? How was that possible? Her godfather didn’t have any living siblings, and the children of the only one who’d survived to adulthood were also dead.
“My what?” The earl’s shock echoed inside Anne.
“They are your brother’s children,” Mrs. Gentry said urgently. “Raphael and Selina. Surely you can see it. Just look at his eye.”
Rafe widened his eyes, and it was impossible to miss that definitive orange spot. “Uncle, it seems I am the rightful Earl of Stone.”
Chapter 5
The earl—no, not the earl, but Mallory or Uncle, hell, Rafe didn’t know what to call him—led them to the library. Stepping over the threshold, a rush of familiarity swept over him. He’d spent time here. With his father. A tide of emotion nearly engulfed him.
“Are you all right?” Anne had managed to find her way to his side and whispered the question. Her gaze was soft with concern.
“No.” He saw no reason to lie. At least not to her. Damn if that wasn’t as complicated as this entire bloody day.
He looked past her at the rows of books, his gaze traveling along the shelves.
“This is familiar to you,” she said.
He nodded before moving, as if drawn by a magnet, to the corner. Without thinking, he reached up and pulled on a thick, dark blue book. The entire shelf sprang open. He grinned, then brought his hand to his mouth. Beyond the door was a small secret room.
Turning, he looked at his sister. “Do you remember this, Lina?” She shook her head—of course she didn’t. She’d been far too young. He hated that she recalled none of this, that she’d been robbed of even a fraction of her childhood. Rafe at least had that much.
He surveyed the rest of the occupants of the room. Everyone stared at him except Harry, who was, rightly, focused on his wife. Anne’s gaze was full of wonder, while Mrs. Gentry’s contained joy. Mallory and his daughter stared at him in shock.
His daughter had known Selina. How? More importantly, what could she expose? Fuck.
He and Selina needed to make sure their stories aligned. They both wanted to bury the past twenty-seven years, but now, doing so was critical. If Rafe was to be an earl, he couldn’t very well be known as a criminal moneylender or a thief. And his sister couldn’t be exposed as a swindler, especially since her husband was a bloody constable.
“But you remembered it, my lord,” Mrs. Gentry said, addressing him as he supposed was right, even if it sounded utterly wrong to his ears. He saw his uncle flinch.
Rafe took a moment to study the man. He’d seemed oddly familiar when they’d met earlier, but Rafe had attributed the feeling to being at the folly. He was shorter than Rafe, with light brown hair that formed a widow’s peak on his forehead. His eyes were the same blue as his own, but without the orange mark.
That mark.
He’d cursed its oddity over the years, but now it identified him indisputably as Raphael Mallory, the Earl of bloody Stone.
“How did you know that was there?” Lady Burnhope asked with a dubious glower.
Rafe shrugged. “I just did. Just as I knew how to find the gallery and the portrait of my grandfather. Our grandfather,” he amended.
Lady Burnhope’s disgruntled gaze darted to Selina. Rafe didn’t like the woman’s animosity one bit. She was going to cause trouble.
“I don’t understand how this is possible,” Mallory said, wiping his hand back and forth across his brow. “Jerome’s children died in that fire. We buried them.”
Mrs. Gentry stepped toward him, her expression pleading. “You can’t deny they are those children. Just look at them. If the mark in his eye isn’t enough, you can surely see how closely he resembles your father in that portrait upstairs. And their names are Rafe and Selina. That is too much of a coincidence. What’s more, he knows so much about Ivy Grove, as he demonstrated with the bookcase.”
“You must accept it,” Sheffield said. He’d put his arm around Selina, who looked so stiff that Rafe feared she might break. He looked to Mrs. Gentry. “Presumably, there are others here at Ivy Grove or at Stonehaven who will testify in support of Mr. Bowles’s claim to the earldom.”
“But he doesn’t have to claim it. By law, he is dead.” The words left Mallory’s mouth in a rush. He looked at Rafe. “Do you even want to be the earl? You wouldn’t know how.”
Rafe wanted to tell the man he could learn to
