Josephine wasn’t in her bed. Martha was surprised since her sister had never been an early riser. She knew Josephine was not briefing the housekeeper or visiting with Gran who did have a tendency to wake with the sun.

Had wedding nerves kept her awake? Was she walking in the garden? She doubted Josephine had gone to the library to select a book. Another point on which she and her sister were different. Josephine didn’t like to read. In fact, she even commented that while Martha was content to read about adventures, she preferred to have them.

The maids would be in here shortly to straighten the room, close the jewelry box, collect the wadded handkerchiefs on top of the bureau, hang up the clothing strewed over the bed, the floor, or on various pieces of furniture. Josephine always left proof she’d been somewhere, as if she was a whirlwind.

Sarah and Amy both would probably be pressed into service to help her in a few hours.

A few hours. Only a few hours until the wedding.

The wedding dress was hanging outside the armoire, no doubt to prevent any wrinkles. Martha glanced at the gown, away, then back again.

The pale yellow garment was elaborate and festooned with lace, a work of art the seamstress and her four helpers had labored over for weeks. The lace was French, of course, as was the nightgown and peignoir for the wedding night, a fact Josephine had expounded on at length. No doubt they were packed in the trunk sitting beside the vanity. Another tangible bit of evidence that the wedding would be held today and the bride would depart Griffin House with the groom.

Martha removed some clothing from one of the chairs and sat, waiting for Josephine to return, deliberately not thinking of the wedding any longer.

A quarter hour later, Josephine slipped through the door, stopping abruptly when she saw Martha sitting there.

“Have you come to check on me, sister?”

Josephine’s hair was mussed, her lips slightly swollen. She looked as if she’d come from a lover’s bed.

“Do you need checking on, Josephine?” she asked.

Josephine only smiled.

“I came to ask why you did it.”

“Did what?” Josephine walked into the bathing chamber separating their two rooms.

Martha stood and followed her. “Stole the Goldfish.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you talking about, Martha.”

Josephine bathed her face and carefully blotted it dry.

“Reese didn’t know where I kept it. You had to have told him or even shown him. Why, though?”

Josephine returned to the bedroom, sat at the vanity, and began to take down her hair, one gold pin at a time.

“It wasn’t just my work, Josephine. It was our father’s, too. Did you think so little of him to simply let someone steal it?”

Josephine half turned on the vanity stool, pointing her brush at Martha.

“Not our father. Yours.”

“What?” Martha frowned at her sister.

“He was your father, but he wasn’t mine.”

She felt as if she was suddenly encased in a bubble. The world outside was normal, the servants already stirring, excitement building about the big day. In hours hundreds of people would be at Griffin House but now, inside the bubble, time was slowing then crawling to a stop.

“Tell me what you mean,” she said, feeling as if even her speech was stretched out, each separate word pulled thin.

“He wasn’t my father,” Josephine said, turning back to survey herself in the mirror. “That’s what I mean.”

Martha stared at her in the silence. Was she going to explain?

Finally, Josephine spoke again. “Maman told me when I was thirteen.”

Martha sat down on the chair she’d occupied minutes earlier, focusing her attention on the well-polished andirons in the fireplace.

She’d known her father’s marriage hadn’t been idyllic, but surely Marie hadn’t cheated on him to that extent.

“I don’t believe you,” she said.

Josephine shrugged. “It’s not important if you believe me or not.”

“Why would Marie tell you such a thing?”

“It was a present,” Josephine said.

Martha looked at her.

“When you went off to London and everyone could only talk about you. How pretty Martha was. How talented Martha was. How smart Martha was. She knew I wasn’t happy and she wanted me to know you weren’t my sister. We aren’t related at all.”

The worst part wasn’t Josephine’s comment, but the evident enjoyment with which she announced it.

“Does birth matter?” Martha finally asked. “Father treated you like his daughter. Gran treats you like her granddaughter. I’ve always seen you as my sister.”

“It matters to me,” Josephine said. “My father was an important man. A titled man. He didn’t fiddle with inventions all day long.”

“The man you so easily dismiss left you a fortune,” Martha said.

“Payment, don’t you think, for enduring this family? For putting up with your oddness and your father’s? For listening to all of Gran’s rules? Once I’m married I never have to see any of you.”

The words were said with a tight-mouthed hatred. What reason did Josephine have to feel vengeful? She’d always been the spoiled darling of the family, the princess who was never refused anything.

Martha couldn’t think of a thing to say. Not one word came to mind. Standing, she faced the woman she’d known as her sister.

Josephine had always been more concerned with herself and what she wanted than anyone else, but she’d never been actively cruel. She had more than a few saving graces. She adored her mother. She was pleasant to the servants. She ignored people who didn’t interest her instead of going out of her way to make them miserable. At least until now.

“Why did you help Reese?”

Josephine shrugged. “Why not?”

She pushed back the pain of Josephine’s betrayal and asked, “Why does he want the ship?”

“You should ask him, Martha. I don’t care.”

“Then why did you do it? Why did you tell him where the Goldfish was?”

“To keep him quiet,” she said, an edge to her tone. “He knew I wasn’t with Jordan that night at Sedgebrook.”

“How did he know that?”

“Because I was with him,” she said.

Martha stared at her sister, unsurprised. “And you were with him last night, too.”

Josephine smiled.

She sometimes thought Josephine had the appearance of a cat, especially when she cocked her head just so and glanced at you out of the corner of her eye. Now her expression was of a particularly satisfied cat, one who’d devoured a saucer of cream or a tasty songbird.

“I wanted to make sure he didn’t say anything to Jordan. Tell me,” she said, “you’ve had him, is Jordan halfway decent in bed? Or is he lame there, too?”

Martha didn’t answer her. Instead, she said, “He knows. He knows it wasn’t you that night.”

She’d never seen anyone’s face change so quickly. The smugness in Josephine’s expression vanished.

“How does he know?”

It was her turn to smile. “Because I told him.”

She looked down at Josephine.

Martha had always tolerated Josephine’s occasionally rude behavior. She’d made excuses for her sister and had endured her complete disregard of the wishes of others. She’d gone behind Josephine to try to repair hurt feelings and broken relationships. She’d reached her limit. Josephine’s actions were like a poisonous liquid spilling out over the top of her cup.

“I’ve known you since you were born. I protected you. I looked out for you. I read to you. When you were little, I endured your following me everywhere. I loved you. Now it doesn’t matter if we have the same blood or not. I’ll never think of you as my sister again.”

Turning, she walked out of the room.

“I do not have a good feeling about this, Amy,” Susan said, sighing. “I’m afraid a mistake is about to happen yet there is nothing I can do to stop it.”

Amy didn’t answer her, merely continued to help with her new hat. It was a pretty piece of confection and one flattering her aging face, but not even a new hat could cheer her up at this moment.

“Are you feeling well, ma’am?”

Susan glanced at her. “I don’t suppose the word is ill, exactly. Disheartened, probably. Aghast, most certainly. Both my granddaughters have proven to be harlots. Last night, alone, the traffic through the halls was enough to rival a bordello.”

“No one knows, ma’am. Other than the few of us. No one else knows why the duke offered for Josephine. What’s to prevent you from calling off the wedding?”

“I’m afraid it’s not my purview,” Susan said. “That’s for the duke to do. From what I understand about the man, he has a surfeit of honor.”

Amy stepped back, surveying her results.

“Would he sacrifice himself, ma’am, for his honor?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it, Amy? What matters more to him? His honor or his happiness?”

“Does he feel the same about Miss Martha, do you think, as she feels about him?”

“Another excellent question and one for which I don’t have an answer. I think only His Grace knows for sure.”

Unfortunately, the next few hours would tell the tale. Would Jordan Hamilton choose his position as the Duke of Roth over anything else? Did he love Martha? Was the emotion strong enough to overcome what he would have to face if he called a halt to the wedding at this late hour?

She didn’t want to cause a scandal. She certainly didn’t want to endure one. However, a few months of whispers and outright conjecture were much better than a lifetime of regrets.

If she’d been brave enough and strong enough, she would’ve defied her own parents. She would’ve run off with Matthew and the rest of her life wouldn’t have been plagued with what-ifs and if-onlys.

She’d been happy enough, so she had no complaints, but should a person be given only so much joy and no more? She had her family and they had, for the most part, been an unending source of happiness. Her son had been the best child any mother could ask for. His first wife had been an absolute treasure. Martha was a constant joy. If Marie and Josephine brought discord into her life, it was a small price to pay for the rest.

But this, this union between Josephine and Jordan was wrong. Based on a lie, a falsehood and a deliberate deception, it cried out to be corrected.