0764213504 by Roseanna M. White Page B

Something has always made it clear that the claims were false. Information did not match up.”
    “Ought you not to look for that now?”
    He chuckled and turned them back toward the house. “We are more alike than you think, my dear. I already have—in the time since Lord Abingdon first came to me. I found nothing to make me doubt the truth of your story. Still, I knew the true test would be meeting you.” Feet still moving steadily, he looked over at her. Lips unsmiling, his eyes gleamed with certainty. “I have no doubts. And the fact that my sister agrees—well, that is miraculous enough to speak for itself.”
    Brook smiled and let the silence of the fog wrap around them as they crossed the wide expanse of lawn.
    Once in the garden again, he cleared his throat. “I called you Little Liz when you were a babe. Even then, you looked so much like her. Which pleased me to no end.”
    Little Liz  . . . like in that letter. His hand had penned those words to his love. She tried to picture this cynical man fawning over an infant and had to grin at the image. “That is very sweet.”
    “Your mother didn’t think so.” A corner of his mouth quirked up. “She insisted you would be your own person. She . . . she called you Brook.”
    “Truly?” The green life inside opened a little more. And its root shot down into the earth beneath her feet.
    “Truly.”
    They said no more, traveling the garden path in a quiet uncannily comfortable. When they reached the house, a beam of sunshine arrowed through the mist and painted its gold upon the red brick.
    A warming sign to chase away the lingering chill of that terrible dream.
    “Shall we take breakfast with the others?”
    She hadn’t realized they had been out so long. “Am I presentable?” A quick check of her dress proved it unsoiled by her walk, if damp, and he chuckled when she lifted a hand to her hair.
    “You look perfect.”
    She grinned and let him guide her toward the dining room, from which welcoming voices spilled. The chandelier glowed above the polished cherry table, and a cheerful fire crackled in the hearth. Her aunt and cousins and Lady Thate sat already, plates before them. Thate pulled out a chair as they entered, and Justin was still at the sideboard, selecting a rather suspicious-looking piece of . . . meat?
    Her father let go her arm, and she smiled at him, then went to Justin’s side. “What is that?” she asked in a whisper.
    He chuckled. “Kippers—smoked fish. If you ask anyone from Yorkshire, Whitby is the only place in the world where you can get them in their right proper form.”
    She was saved the need to respond when Lord Thate made a noise like a wheezing animal. She looked over in time to see him lower his steaming mug and reach for a goblet of water.
    “Good heavens, Bing—how do you drink that stuff?”
    Brook arched a brow at Justin, who grinned and motioned toward the smaller of two carafes upon the sideboard. “Apparently the chef has an espresso machine.”
    “ Incroyable .” She bypassed the plates and headed for the coffee cups.
    “Drink it at your own risk, my lady. Stiff enough to stand aspoon in.” Thate coughed, widened his eyes, shook his head. “I shan’t sleep for a week.”
    An added benefit, if it fended off more of those dreams.
    Her aunt chuckled and then blinked in a way that Brook suspected was a warning. “You returned just in time, Ambrose. The girls and I were discussing the need for a house party.”
    Whitby grunted. “The words need and house party should not be uttered in the same sentence.”
    Brook grinned.
    Not so her aunt, who loosed a sigh bright with frustration. “Do be reasonable, Am. We must introduce Brook to the families of import, and it is far too long until next Season to wait until then. Though we must begin planning her debut now, along with Melissa’s. With King George’s coronation set for next summer, absolutely everyone will be in Town.”
    “Debut?” Her father