Georgiana’s parents were still in the library. They both looked up when she entered.

Georgie closed the door and stood with her back to it.

“Darling?” Lady Dalrymple said. “Where’s Alexander?”

“He’s gone.”

Lady Dalrymple’s eyebrows twitched down. “Gone?”

“May I ask your advice about something?”

“Of course,” her father said.

Georgie turned the key, locking the library door. Her father’s eyebrows lifted; her mother’s drew even further down.

Georgie crossed to the sofa, with its damask upholstery and lion-paw feet, and sat in the very middle of it. Her father came to sit beside her. Her mother stayed standing, hands on her hips, frowning.

“What is it?” her father asked.

“If I tell you something, will you promise not to tell anyone else?”

“You have my word,” her father said.

“Mama?”

Her mother made a brisk, dismissive gesture with one hand. “Of course.”

Georgie organized her thoughts and then said, “Vic found his father’s diaries last night. Just before he died the old duke was worried that he’d rescued the wrong child and that Vic was someone else’s son.”

There was a moment of silence while her parents took this in, then Lady Dalrymple said, “What? Of all the nonsensical things I’ve ever heard! Leonard had a bee in his bonnet if he thought that.”

“Alexander’s concerned, is he?” her father said. “Would you like us to speak with him? Set his mind at rest?”

Georgie shook her head. “There’s more, Papa. Vic asked me to dream about it tonight, like I did with Hubert. And I said I would.”

This time the moment of silence went on for much longer.

“Well, that’s a little unexpected,” Lady Dalrymple said. “But I fail to see where the problem lies. You tell Alexander that he’s Leonard’s son, and that’s the end of this foolishness.”

Georgie took a deep breath. “The problem is that Alexander St. Clare is dead. He drowned in a creek on the Vickery estate in Kent. His body must have washed out to sea; his bones are on the seabed.”

Lady Dalrymple opened her mouth . . . and then closed it. “Oh, dear,” she said weakly and came to sit on Georgie’s other side.

“Gypsies stole the boy and drowned him?” There was shock in Lord Dalrymple’s voice, disbelief, revulsion.

Georgiana rearranged her father’s question in her head. Where are the men who drowned Alexander St. Clare? The answer wasn’t what she’d expected. She tried again. Where are the people who abducted Alexander St. Clare? And then a third time: Where are the gypsies who were in the woods on the Vickery estate in Kent on the day Alexander St. Clare drowned?

“No one drowned him,” she told her parents. “Or stole him. There weren’t any gypsies in the woods that day.”

“But . . .” her mother said, and then fell silent.

Georgie asked herself another question: Where were Alexander St. Clare’s nurserymaids when he drowned? She saw a grassy glade in her mind’s eye. It was nowhere near the creek. “I think the nurserymaids lost him. They weren’t with him when he drowned.”

Her parents considered this statement for a moment. “Did they know he’d drowned?” her mother asked.

Georgie rephrased this question. Where are the nurserymaids who knew that Alexander St. Clare had drowned? “No,” she said. “They didn’t know.”

“If you were a servant,” the viscount said quietly, “and the child you had charge of vanished, what would you do?”

Georgie didn’t know what she’d do, but she knew what Alexander St. Clare’s nurserymaids had done: they’d lied.

“Dear God,” her mother said. She pressed her hands to her face. “Poor Leonard. If he’d known . . .”

Georgie looked down at her lap. She pleated a fold of muslin between her fingers. “Vic is a farmer’s son. He was born in Cornwall and both his parents are dead. I don’t know what to tell him. I don’t want to ruin his life.”

Lady Dalrymple lowered her hands and looked at her husband. “Francis?”

Georgie’s father was silent for the best part of a minute. “Alexander has taken his seat in the House of Lords. At this point it doesn’t matter who his parents were. He’s the Duke of Vickery.”

“Even if he’s not the last duke’s son?” Georgie asked.

“Legal challenges have to be made before a man takes his seat in the House. It’s too late now.”

Some of the miserable tightness in her chest eased. “You’re certain?”

“Absolutely,” her father said. “The House of Lords can’t reverse peerage decisions. Alexander legally is the Duke of Vickery.”

“Then it’s clear what you should do,” her mother said. “Tell Alexander that he’s Leonard’s son. It will be easier if he doesn’t know the truth.”

Easy? To look Vickery in the eye and lie to him? No, it wouldn’t be easy at all; it would be quite unbearably painful.

“So everything’s all right, then,” her mother said. “Thank God for that.”

No, Georgie thought sadly. Everything’s not all right.

Her mother’s smile faded. “Darling? What’s wrong?”

What’s wrong was that she’d been stupid enough to fall in love with Vickery, and stupid enough to imagine that he’d fallen in love with her. “Nothing,” Georgie said.

Her mother gave an unladylike snort. “Pish pash.”

“What is it, sweetheart?” her father said. “You can tell us.”

The urge to cry ambushed her suddenly, triggered by her father’s tone of voice, the gentle concern on his face. For a dreadful moment Georgie thought she was going to burst into tears. She clenched her jaw. I am not a watering pot.

“What is it?” the viscount said again, laying his hand on hers.

That was all it took: her father’s hand on hers. Despite her earnest desire not to, Georgie found herself crying.

Her father put an arm around her and gathered her close.

Georgie leaned against him and sobbed into his shoulder, choking on a painful mix of emotions: grief, loss, loneliness. Some of the emotions were because of Hubert. Hubert who had loved her and asked her to marry him, and had been dead these past five years. The rest were because of Vickery, who hadn’t asked her to marry him, and whom she loved quite as deeply as she’d ever loved Hubert.

Finally the storm of tears quietened. Her father handed her his handkerchief. Georgie mopped her eyes and blew her nose.

“Darling,” her mother said. “Please tell us what’s wrong.”

Georgie inhaled a shaky breath. Her breath hitched in her throat. “It’s just that I want to marry Vic,” she whispered. “And I don’t think he wants to marry me.”

“You want to marry him, do you?” her father asked. “Even knowing what you do about his parentage?”

Georgie nodded miserably against his shoulder.

“Then it’s just as well we gave him our permission, isn’t it, Miranda?”

Georgie lifted her head. “What?”

“He spoke to us yesterday about it, asked for leave to pay his addresses. Most proper of him.”

“Vic did that? He truly did?”

“He truly did,” her mother said.

The library suddenly seemed much brighter, as if it were flooded with sunshine. “Oh,” Georgie said. She almost burst into tears again. And then a dreadful thought struck her. “You won’t change your minds, will you? Now that you know about his birth?” And then she remembered that she was twenty-four years old and she didn’t need her parents’ permission to marry.

Her mother pursed her lips thoughtfully and then gave a little shrug. “He’s wealthy, that’s all I care about.”

Georgie gave a gasp of outrage and sat bolt upright. “Mother! How can you say such a thing?”

“Your mother’s having a little joke,” Lord Dalrymple said mildly.

“It wasn’t funny!” Georgie said. “I don’t want to marry Vic because he’s a duke; I want to marry him because he’s Vic.”

“I’m glad to hear it, my dear.” Lord Dalrymple put his arm around her shoulders again. “We’ve watched that boy grow up. He’s a good man, and he’ll be a good husband. Which is all we want for you.”

Her mother patted Georgie’s knee. “Yes, dear. We just want you to be happy.” And then she said, irrepressibly, “And wealthy. And a duchess.”

This time Georgie didn’t rise to the bait.

Her mother waited a moment, hopefully, and then abandoned her teasing. “Don’t worry your head about Alexander,” she said briskly. “I have no doubt that he’ll propose once you’ve set his mind to rest.” She shook her head and tutted. “The poor boy. What a shock that diary must have been for him.”

Georgie looked down at the wet, crumpled handkerchief she was gripping and came to a decision. “I’m going to tell him the truth. About everything.”

She felt her mother stiffen beside her on the sofa. “I beg your pardon?” Lady Dalrymple said.

“I’m going to tell Vic about his parents, and about my magic.”

“You most certainly are not going to tell him about your magic,” Lady Dalrymple said in her most quelling tones. “I utterly forbid it! How many times do I have to tell you how dangerous it is, Georgiana? You could be hanged as a witch!”

Georgie met her mother’s gaze squarely. “You told Father before you were married.”

“I had no choice! He saw me walk on air.”

“I won’t lie to Vic,” Georgie said, lifting her chin.

“The risk—”

“I won’t lie to him!” Georgie said fiercely. “And I don’t think you would have lied to Father, either, even if he hadn’t seen you.”

Lady Dalrymple closed her mouth.

“Could you have lied to him your whole life?” Georgie demanded. “Could you?”

Lady Dalrymple looked past Georgie at her husband. Her expression was one that Georgie had never seen her wear before: uncertainty.

“I don’t think you could have, Mama. I think that if you love someone and you lie to them, it must taint everything. I think such a marriage would be like . . . like an apple that looks perfect on the outside, but has a rotten core.”

Her father huffed out a faint laugh. “Our daughter has a way with words.” And then he said, more soberly, “She’s right, Miranda. I would hate to think there’d been a secret of such magnitude between us.”

Lady Dalrymple said, “But . . .” and then halted.

“I wouldn’t have known you had a secret,” Lord Dalrymple said. “It wouldn’t have altered my feelings for you in the slightest, but you would have known, and it might have altered you.”

Lady Dalrymple eyed him.

“I agree with Georgiana on this,” her father said. “We can trust Alexander. He won’t send either of you to the gallows.”

Lady Dalrymple blew out her breath. “Very well,” she said, with a gesture of defeat. “When?”

“Today,” Georgie said. “This afternoon. After our ride.”