“What a bore!” she had grumbled to her prim Aunt Isobel Moore, a sister of her late mother who had been with her since the death of her parents.
Aunt Isobel, tall and thin with a dried-up face which belied her kindly nature, replied, “You have no right to neglect your small duties. The estate brings you a fine income every year.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Della had smiled at her aunt. “But I’d counted on going to the dressmaker’s today. All my new summer clothes are waiting for fittings.”
Aunt Isobel, as drab in dress as of feature, said, “You’ll have other days for that. You must be here when Sir Roger Drexel arrives.”
“I will be,” she promised.
Standing by the velvet drapes at a window overlooking the square, she gazed out at passing horse-driven carriages and sighed.
Aunt Isobel sat primly in a high-backed chair by the fireplace of the high-ceilinged, elegantly furnished living room. The old woman said, “If your sister Irma had lived it would all have been different for you.”
Della, who was wearing a chic green linen suit, glanced at her aunt over her shoulder and said, “Much would surely be different if that were true.”
And so it would have. Twenty years earlier the dark shadow of tragedy had come to hang over the family. A wicked governess had vanished in the night, taking with her Della’s twin sister, Irma. When the loss was discovered in the morning every step was taken to find the vindictive woman and recover the child. But to no avail.
Police and private investigators alike gave up attempting to find out where the woman had gone and what had happened to the missing two-year-old. All the wealth of Delia’s parents had been useless in the face of this tragedy. It was as if the woman and her child captive had vanished from the earth.
In the end that was the opinion of most. It was felt that perhaps the woman had accidentally drowned and the young Irma had perished beneath the waters of the Thames with her. The woman was known to have an admirer of dubious character who worked on a river scow. But he could not be found either.
Delia’s mother had been a frail person and the loss of a beloved child had not helped her health. When a bout of pneumonia swept the city in 1876, she was one of the plague’s victims. It was said that she had died pleading with her husband not to give up the search for the missing Irma which, at that time, had already been in progress for years.
Della had been only eight at the time and her Aunt Isobel, who had been called in during her mother’s illness, had remained with her and tried to console her. But Della would always remember her tall, mustached father coming out of her mother’s bedchamber with a look of shocked sorrow on his aristocratic face.
Seeing her, he impulsively fell to his knees sobbing and took her in his arms. She began to cry as well, for she knew that her mother must have died.
And so she had. Aunt Isobel remained in the fine house which now was somber and silent. The servants moved about on tiptoe for weeks after the death of a beloved mistress. Delia’s father began to be absent from the house more and more, and all too frequently when he returned he was in a drunken state.
There were periods when he seemed to repent his fall into drunkenness and then he would remain at home and be most attentive to Della. These were times of unbelievable happiness for her, all the more so because she knew they wouldn’t last.
Nor did they. Invariably he returned to his drunken ways and brought sorrow to them all. Somehow he managed to look after the family business so they did not suffer financially. And he kept his word to his dead wife by continuing to employ private agents to locate the little kidnapped girl, whom everyone else believed to be dead. He would not give up if only because he must fulfill his late wife’s dying request.
Aunt Isobel had protested petulantly, “It is wrong! A foolish quest! And it keeps the tragedy continually with him! No wonder he drinks.”
“But Mother pleaded that he not give up the search,” Della reminded her aunt.
“She was delirious and dying when she made the request,” Aunt Isobel said tartly. “He should have ignored it!”
“Father wouldn’t,” she said quietly. She had great love and respect for her sole surviving parent.
“I warn you it will lead to no good,” the prim older woman predicted.
And unhappily her prediction proved all too true. One evening about a year later word was brought to the mansion in Doane Square that her father had suffered an accident. He had toppled down the winding stairway of his club and been taken unconscious to a hospital.
Della and Aunt Isobel at once rushed to the hospital. By the time they reached her father’s side he was dead. She learned the tragic fact that his fall had taken place because he was drunk. So she was now alone except for Aunt Isobel and some distant cousins.
Della had been numbed by this second bereavement. But Aunt Isobel had stood by her and instilled courage in her. This had always been a characteristic of the stout-hearted maiden lady and she was not going to allow Della to grow up without infusing her with some of it.
As a result Della became a lively, adventurous young woman with many admirers rather than a meek, sorrowful and shy girl. Life took on an even, pleasant tone in the old mansion and the search for her missing twin was dropped. It was agreed by Aunt Isobel, Sir Roger Drexel and even by Della that it was a sad, futile business and there was no point continuing it.
At twenty-two, Della still had not found a young man whom she wished to marry. Aunt Isobel had accused her of being too much of a flirt and too difficult to please.
“Watch out or you’ll end up an old maid like me,” Aunt Isobel had threatened.
“Perhaps I might enjoy that!” she’d said with a smile.
“You might now,” the older woman said. “It’s all fun when you’re young and able to turn every male head. But when you’re older and less attractive, it’s a different matter. You’ll wish you had a husband.”
Della had raised her chin in a show of confidence and said, “I know many wives, some young ones, who don’t appear all that happy!”
“And a good many more that are! A husband and babies! What else should a woman ask for?”
“Romance, for one thing!” Della declared. “And a little fun as well!”
“You’re spoiled!”
Della laughed. “If I am, dear Aunt Isobel, then you are wholly to blame since you have been both mother and father to me all these years!”
Aunt Isobel’s dried-up face showed the hint of a smile, but she said, “I haven’t put such ideas in your head. It’s those wicked, romantic novels you’ve been reading!”
“They’ve taught me a good deal about life and men!”
“I’ll warrant that! But all the wrong things!”
“I wouldn’t say so!”
“I will,” Aunt Isobel insisted. “You went with that young lawyer apprenticed to Sir Roger’s firm for most of a year. I thought it would be a match. And then you dropped him!”
Della’s cheeks crimsoned. “I don’t wish to discuss that!”
“Just the same, Henry Clarkson was a good-looking, pleasant young man.”
“He had no vision or true humor and a head full of dull law!” Della exclaimed.
“There are no perfect men!”
“There must be some better than Henry Clarkson,” Della said, turning away so her aunt could not study her expression. The fact was she had liked Henry Clarkson a great deal, but there had been an unfortunate circumstance that had ended their budding romance.
While driving with a girl friend in a carriage in the park one day, she had happened to look across the road and seen Henry Clarkson at the reins of a carriage drawn by a frisky black horse and with an equally frisky, black-haired young woman at his side.
Later, when she had challenged him about this, he had behaved most guiltily and insisted that the girl was a school friend of his sister. He had agreed to show her some of London. But the more she probed the more she learned about his attentions to this girl. It had not been a matter of a single afternoon, friends of hers had seen him with the dark girl at other times and places.
So, in spite of his protests that it had all been most innocent, she had broken off with him abruptly. He’d made several requests to see her since, but she’d always refused him. When they met at parties she did her best to avoid him. But it had been difficult for her and she’d needed all her courage to put on a brave front and turn to other swains who interested her not at all.
This was her situation at the moment. She rarely went out with a young man twice. And since she knew hosts of the most eligible young fellows in London and because she was lovely enough to capture their fancies, she had no lack of male companions. The price she was paying was to be considered a heartless flirt!
And this was too bad. Since she was anything but that. Often she sat alone mourning the unhappy twist of fate that had parted her from the one man she’d truly cared for. But she let no one else guess.
So now she found herself in the great living room with her aunt, awaiting the arrival of Sir Roger Drexel. She respected the tall old man with his craggy face, heavy white hair and sideburns and booming voice. In a way he had become a kind of father figure to her.
Sir Roger arrived exactly at four as he had promised. He had the military bearing of the former cavalry officer he was and made a magnificent figure in his gray trousers, fawn vest and brown frock coat. His cravat was also of dark brown. He approached Aunt Isobel with a smile on his face and bowed and kissed the back of her hand.
“You look in good health, Miss Moore,” he boomed in his loud voice.
Aunt Isobel’s dried face showed pleasure. “I’m as well as I can expect for one of my years!”
“Years! Ha!” the grand old man said, dismissing her age with the gesture of a huge hand. “You are in the prime of life, ma’am.”
“I’d hardly say that!” Aunt Isobel replied.
“I say you are,” the big man said, his eyebrows almost meeting as he frowned. “For I’m a good many years your senior and I’m not about to pop into my grave!”
Della laughed and went to kiss him dutifully on the cheek as he leaned down to her. “I can’t ever imagine you doing that, Sir Roger!”
“Well, the Sudanese tried to do me in when I was in the army but without any luck,” the big man laughed. “I enjoy life.”
“I know you do,” Della said, taking one of his huge hands in hers. “Now do come and sit by the fireplace with Aunt Isobel.”
He drew back. “No,” he said. “I’d rather you sat down. I’d like to stand for a little.”
“Truly?”
“Yes. I’ve been seated in my office all day until now,” Sir Roger Drexel said. “By the way there’s some talk about town that the Queen has a cold.”
“I hope it’s not serious,” Aunt Isobel said with some alarm.
The white-maned Sir Roger shrugged. “Well, at her age any illness is to be considered. But the direct word from the palace which came my way suggested she’s resting as comfortably as can be expected.”
“Then she is likely in no danger,” Della said. “She is such a sturdy old woman. We’ve come to think she’ll live forever.”
“And she’d better and stop that rogue of a son from taking the throne,” Aunt Isobel said with some anger.
“Edward?” Sir Roger inquired mildly. “What have you against the poor man?”
“He has too many women for one thing!” Aunt Isobel said.
Sir Roger sighed. “Well, temptation is often thrown in his way. He’s waited a long time for his chance to be King. I like the man and I sympathize with him.”
A knowing look wrinkled Aunt Isobel’s face. “For all I admire you, Roger, you are a male. So I’d expect you to favor him.”
Sir Roger chuckled. “Well, there you have it. But let me get down to the serious business of my being here.”
“Why did you come?” Della asked.
The big man’s face became grave. “I don’t think either you or Miss Moore can possibly guess.”
“Out with it, man,” Aunt Isobel insisted.
Sir Roger took some papers from an inner pocket, lifted the pince-nez that hung from a velvet cord about his neck, and adjusted them on the bridge of his nose. He said, “I only received these papers hours ago, and so I have not had too much time to study them.” Turning to Della, he added, “I ask you to prepare yourself for a shock, my dear.”
“What sort of shock? Have we suffered some grievous business loss?” she asked.
“No, I wish it were as simple as that,” the old lawyer said. “The fact is I received this message only early this morning that your long-missing sister, Irma, is alive and well.”
Nothing he might have said could have come as more of a shock. Both Della and her aunt rose to their feet. Della was the first to recover her voice. “You can’t mean it!” She gasped.
“I’m completely serious,” the old man said.
“Explain!” Aunt Isobel begged him.
“After twenty years! And all that searching!” Della said tautly. “Where is she?”
“In Italy,” Sir Roger said.
“Italy!” Aunt Isobel echoed.
“In Rome, to be precise,” the old lawyer said. “It appears she has been there all these years. No doubt some of the investigators must have come close to discovering her and just managed to miss doing it.”
Della stared at the lawyer. “She’s twenty-two! My own age! My twin! And most surely a stranger to me!”
“That is so,” Sir Roger said. “As I follow it, the woman who stole your sister went to Rome. There, she found employment in the house of one Prince Sanzio.”
“A prince!” Della said in amazement.
“There are a good many of them over there,” Sir Roger said. “Much more common than in England.”
“Did my sister grow up a servant in this man’s house?”
“No. Because she was attractive and he a childless widower, he adopted her. The woman who did the kidnapping pretended the child was her own and offered her to the Prince.”
“How dare she do such a thing,” Aunt Isobel said in annoyance.
Sir Roger said, “She felt this was the best way of concealing the child. And she kept her secret until after her death.”
“How did Prince Sanzio find out?” Aunt Isobel asked.
“The woman died recently and left a written confession,” the old man said. “This was not immediately found, but as soon as it was I received this communication from Prince Sanzio.”