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Thate said it was strange that he had found such a steadfast friend in a girl seven years his junior. But it had never seemed so. At first she had simply amused him, and he had fancied her a sister to replace the one he’d barely known. Then it had been entertaining to teach her all the sport he shouldn’t have. And now . . . now they had thirteen years of shared history.

The guards let him pass with no more than a nod, and the footman merely pointed him toward the prince’s private library. Once he reached the room, the sweet voice spilling out in an Italian aria brought him to a halt.

Odd how much like Collette she sounded, though they shared no blood. Her maman had trained her well. He leaned into the doorway and saw Brook at the piano, accompanying herself as she sang, while Prince Albert lounged in his favorite chair. Her flaxen curls were twisted into some sort of chignon, an embellished band setting it off. As always, she wore the gold and pearl necklace Collette had said was her mother’s. Its twin strands of links and pearls met at the filigree in the center, from which two dangling pearls drew attention downward.

Justin forced a swallow. She had grown into a young lady
too beautiful for his peace of mind. The notion of courting her had begun to niggle in the last few months. But he knew well she didn’t look at him like he had begun to look at her. He would have to convince her. Win her. After she settled with her father at Whitby Park, after she had come to terms with being Baroness of Berkeley. After he was better grounded in his duties in Gloucestershire . . . then he would try to make her see that they could have so much more than friendship.

When she finished the song with a flourish, Justin joined his applause to the prince’s. She stood with one of those heart-stopping smiles of hers aimed his way. “Justin!”

As always, the greeting made him smile. Only his closest family ever used his given name in England, and they never attempted the proper French pronunciation. “
Bon soir, mon amie
. Your Highness.”

The prince smiled, but Justin scarcely had time to note it, given that Brook came his way with her hands extended. He took them in his and leaned down to exchange the customary cheek kissing. And grinned at the thought of how her English family might react to the French ritual. “You look lovely tonight, Brook.”

An understatement, but it nevertheless brought a pretty blush to her ivory cheeks. “
Merci
. It is the new dress.” She released his hands and did a pirouette worthy of the stage. “From Paris. Grand-père had it commissioned.”

“I told her she would be the envy of all the ladies in England.” Prince Albert stood with an indulgent smile. Justin didn’t miss the sorrow around its edges.

“Indeed.” Yet it wasn’t the gown that would set her apart—it was her spirit. No other lady he’d met in England laughed with such abandon, moved with such grace, put such passion into her every pursuit.

He prayed that spirit, and the faith beneath it, would be enough to sustain her through the transition ahead.

As if the same thought had possessed her, her smile dimmed, as did the diamond gleam in her emerald eyes. “You’ll join us for dinner,
oui
?”

“I would be delighted.” For now, he led her to the settee and took the cushion beside her. “Has it sunk in yet?”

Her fingers toyed with the dual pearls dangling from her necklace. If there were a surer sign of her perplexity . . . “What if I am not this baroness? What if they turn me away?”

The prince huffed. “That is simple. Then you will come home.” He came to them and sat on the settee, resting a hand on Brook’s shoulders. He had fought for her, fought to move her into the palace after Collette’s death, though the rest of the family thought it a mistake. Because by then Brook had already been his
fifille
—his little girl. Prince Albert would always be her grandfather.

Although even if she were not the baroness, Justin had no intentions of bringing her back to Monaco. He would convince her to stay, somehow or another. The thought of not seeing her for years wasn’t to be borne. “We are not mistaken, Brooklet. Had I not been sure about this, I never would have said anything.”

“But—”

“There is no reason to doubt, and every reason to believe this is who you are.” He held out his hand until she put hers in it, then covered her slender fingers with his. “You have a father eager to love you. An aunt to usher you into society. Cousins near you in age waiting to become your friends. The Lord has prepared your place. There is no need to fear.”

He could see the trust returning to her eyes, the sparkle that brought light to the flecks of amber around her pupils, to the rings of sapphire around the emerald.

His chest went tight. What would it be like to gaze into her eyes every day? To hear her laugh, her voice, to share stories
whenever they pleased? To have the right to draw her into his arms and see if her lips were as soft as they looked?

Maybe he wouldn’t wait to declare himself. Maybe he could win her heart now and deliver her to Whitby as his fiancée—and use the wedding to lure Father home.

Hurried footsteps intruded, startling enough to warrant the frown on the prince’s face. When a footman charged into the room, the look of horror he wore brought Justin to his feet, Brook along with him. If some crisis of state were about to be announced—and with the revolt of a few months ago still fresh in their memories, he wouldn’t discount it—he would take his leave so the prince could attend to business.

But the servant looked to
him
. “
Excusez-moi
, Lord Harlow. Forgive me for bringing such news, my lord, but . . . your father. There has been an accident on the mountain road.”

His fingers went lax within Brook’s tightened grip. Clouds gathered before his eyes. “What kind of accident?”

Three

W
HITBY
P
ARK
, N
ORTH
Y
ORKSHIRE
, E
NGLAND

D
eirdre O’Malley held the fresh sheets to her chest and sent an amused look toward the housekeeper. How much longer could his lordship’s sister keep pacing the halls like a caged beast? Lady Ramsey had intercepted Deirdre nearly half an hour past to keep her from carrying out Lord Whitby’s command to ready the Blue Room, but she had yet to decide which one ought to be prepared in its stead.

Though Mrs. Doyle pressed her lips tight to suppress a smile, she sent Deirdre a wide-eyed, cautionary look. “The Rose Room, my lady? Is that one far enough from Lady Regan and Lady Melissa?”

The marchioness sighed and pressed a hand to her brow. “It is
too
far. If we put the girl in there, my brother will know exactly what we’re about. I don’t want her
near
my daughters, but we can’t put her at the opposite end of the wing.”

“It would show her plain as day what we think of her,” Deirdre murmured into the sheets, though she knew she ought to keep the thought to herself.

But her ladyship smiled and let her jet-clad wrist fall to her side again. “Ah, but my brother is convinced this one is real.”

“As he hoped the last three times.” Mrs. Doyle started back toward the end of the hall nearer the stairs. “We all know how those ended.”

That they did—in each pretender being kicked to the drive. And with the earl becoming more a recluse than ever.

“What about the Green Room?” Mrs. Doyle opened a door halfway down the hall.

Lady Ramsey peered in. “It is awfully grand.”

The way the housekeeper’s spine snapped even straighter than usual would have been more amusing had Deirdre not caught a glimpse of the clock on the chamber’s mantel. Her half-day off duty would begin in another fifteen minutes, but she could hardly leave in the middle of a task without getting a scolding. Though, if she didn’t make it into the village by two . . .

“My lady, of course it is grand—they all are. This is Whitby Park, after all.”

“So I am aware.” Her ladyship chuckled and touched a hand briefly to Mrs. Doyle’s arm. “Very well, then—the Green Room it is. I will let my brother know I have changed his arrangements.”

Much as she liked Lady Ramsey, Deirdre breathed more easily once the lady had gone back down the stairs. She followed Mrs. Doyle into the bedchamber and set the sheets down. When she turned, the older woman was pulling off the coverlet. “Oh, you needn’t trouble yourself, ma’am!”

Mrs. Doyle didn’t so much as pause. “Nonsense, Deirdre. Beatrix is putting the drawing room to rights, and making the bed yourself would take too long. With the earl’s nieces here, you must be back from the village in time for the dressing gong.”

“Then I thank you.” She unfolded the first of the sheets and
handed one side to the housekeeper. “He swore after the last one that he wouldn’t entertain any more pretenders.”

A long sigh accompanied her superior’s brisk movements. “This one comes on the recommendation of Lord Harlow, a future duke. It is hard
not
to make an exception, given that.” She tucked a corner with precision Deirdre had learned from her years ago. “Wish as we may that his lordship wouldn’t have to go through this again, it is already set. The girl is coming. All we can do now is pray she leaves the earl’s heart intact when she is dismissed.”

“Aye.” They worked in silence for a moment, but Deirdre met the woman’s eye again when they shook out the top sheet. “I have always wondered why his lordship didn’t just remarry and hope for a son.”

A wistful smile settled on Mrs. Doyle’s lips. “You would understand had you seen him with Lady Whitby. He’ll mourn her for the rest of his life.”

“I suppose it’s never easy, losing one’s spouse.”

Mrs. Doyle fluffed a pillow and put it in place. “How is your mother faring these days?”

“Getting on.” As best as to be expected, anyway. Mum couldn’t move past Da any more than the earl could his long-gone countess. She helped pull the coverlet back up, smooth it out, position the decorative pillows. “There we are.”

“And off you go. Remember—back by the dressing gong.”

Not wasting time on anything more than a curtsy and a smile, Deirdre hurried out and up the back stairs, untying her apron as she went. The sparse room she shared with Beatrix was silent and empty, so Deirdre laid the white apron carefully upon her bed and took up her coat, hat, and handbag. Inside the last she’d already tucked the letters she needed to post—one for Uncle Seamus in India and another for Mum and her siblings, including the pound notes.

Half past one already. Heavens, but she had better hurry. Praying she didn’t meet with Mrs. Doyle or Mr. Graham, the butler, to be scolded for her too-quick step, she flew belowstairs and headed for the back door.

“Deirdre, wait! I’ll walk with you to the village.”

She oughtn’t to have to stifle a groan, not over Hiram. And any other day she would welcome the company of the second footman. Just not today.

Still, she paused a step away from escape. Noise from the kitchen filled her ears, and its scents reminded her that she would miss tea—and she hadn’t put aside any of her pay for frivolities like a biscuit from the baker in town, not this month. It would all head to Kilkeel. Little Molly would need a new coat for the coming winter, Mum had said.

Hiram tugged a hat onto his head as he joined her. “Shall we, then?”

“Aye.” Though as soon as they were out in the cool air, she reached up to straighten his hat for him. “Much better.”

He laughed and skewed it again. “Stop your fussing, Dee. I’m not expected to look as polished as the silver when on my own time in the village.”

“Mr. Graham would disagree.” A grin tugged at her lips.

“I don’t see him about, do you?” He checked over each shoulder to be sure, though, as they headed around the drive. “Safe and free. Have you any big plans this afternoon?”

Her fingers tightened around the frayed strap of her handbag. “Letters to post, a bit of this and that by way of errands. You?”

“As it happens, my cousin is on his way through the area, and we’re grabbing a bite at the pub.”

Praise be to heaven—he’d be paying no mind to her, then. “Oh, won’t that be a treat for you.”

“Aye.” Hiram shot her a grin that faded to a comfortable silence. He took up a whistle as the long drive went round a bend.

His ditty proved lighter than the sunshine flitting in and out of the clouds, warmer than the autumn air. She fussed with her jacket’s buttons and tried not to sigh. How did he do it? Stay so bright and cheerful all the time, as if his parents were still alive, as if his brothers hadn’t all been scattered, as if he hadn’t been passed over for first footman when Mr. Graham’s nephew arrived?

As if life were fair?

But she couldn’t recall ever seeing Hiram frown for more than a minute, and they had both been working at Whitby Park for nigh onto seven years now. Made her wonder if there weren’t a screw loose somewhere in that pleasant-looking head of his.