“God.” Hodges had turned noticeably pale. His hands were white-knuckled on the arms of his chair. “But I remember her well enough to know she was perfectly sane, even though she could not read or write. Did they believe she was not? Was that why she was kept locked up most of the time?”

“I think,” Alexander said, “it was her appearance.”

Lord Hodges lurched to his feet, crossed the room to a sideboard, picked up a decanter, changed his mind and set it down again, and came to stand facing the fireplace, one hand gripping the mantel above his bowed head. “I was only five or six when she was taken away,” he said. “I remember so little about the events surrounding it. I know I cried when I heard she had died and lost faith in the power of prayer and healing. I used to kiss her face better whenever I went to see her and pray for a miracle. I am sorry. That is an embarrassing childhood memory to blurt out. It was her appearance, then? The strawberry mark? It was for that she was locked away and to be sent to an asylum?”

They were not questions that called for answers. Alexander did not offer any. But he did say something. “Perhaps your childhood prayers were answered,” he said. “Do you remember your aunt?”

“Not really,” Lord Hodges said. “I remember that she came and then took Rowena away to the doctor a few days later. I cannot recall anything else about her. She was kind to Rowena?”

“She and her husband showered her with love and acceptance,” Alexander said, “and saw to it that she was properly educated. When she showed an interest in the glassworks, her uncle trained her to take his place and left the business to her in his will. She is a superbly successful businesswoman.”

Lord Hodges said nothing. He had his eyes closed.

“You do not live with your mother,” Alexander said.

“No.” The young man opened his eyes.

“Has she mentioned the evening at the theater?” Alexander asked.

“Not to me,” Lord Hodges told him. “I do not see a great deal of her. I do not see her at all, in fact, except when I run into her by chance at some entertainment. But I will say no more on that subject. It is a family matter.”

“I understand,” Alexander said.

“A family matter.” Lord Hodges laughed suddenly. “You are family, are you not? You are my brother-in-law.”

Yes. Alexander had not thought of that until now.

“Keep her away from my mother,” Lord Hodges said, his voice low. “Does she still have the mark?”

“The purple remains of it,” Alexander said. “She is beautiful.”

The young man half smiled and turned away from the fireplace. “My mother will not like that,” he said. “She will allow only unmarred beauty in her orbit, and that beauty she will enslave if she is given the chance. Keep Rowena away from her.”

“For your mother’s sake?” Alexander asked.

Lord Hodges drew breath to speak but released it and waited a few moments. “My father escaped by dying,” he said. “My elder brother escaped into alcohol and died as a result when he was younger than I am now. My eldest sister is a shell of the woman she might have been. My middle sister married an Irishman when she was seventeen, escaped to Ireland with him, and never returned. I stayed with an uncle and aunt during school holidays after my father died and in Oxford while I was at university. I moved here to these very rooms afterward. Rowena was rescued by Aunt—God, I do not even recall her name.”

“Megan,” Alexander said.

“By Aunt Megan,” Hodges said. “Keep her away from my mother. That is dashed unfilial, Riverdale, and I always try to preserve decorum, even inside my own head. Honor your mother and father and all that. But Rowena is my sister and you are my brother-in-law. Keep her away.” He returned to his chair and sank down onto it while Alexander regarded him silently. “Is it true, then? Is she really alive? Has she been alive all these years?”

“Will you come and meet her?” Alexander asked.

“Oh, God,” Lord Hodges said. “She must hate me.”

“She remembers you,” Alexander told him, “as the only person in her first ten years who ever showed her kindness. She remembers the kisses on the damaged side of her face. She remembers you turning the key in her door and coming in to play with her. She remembers playing outside with you once.”

“I was told I must never do it again.” The young man was frowning in thought. “I had forgotten. I was told she was ill and must not go out. I remember reading stories to her because she could not read herself. I must have only just learned.” He looked at Alexander. “Will she hate me?”

“No.” Alexander got to his feet. “I am going home now. Will you come with me? I cannot promise she will be there, of course.”

“I will come.” Lord Hodges stood too. “I was on my way out somewhere, but I cannot for the life of me remember where. I will come. God. Rowena.”

Alexander had no idea if he was doing the right thing. He would find out, he supposed.

Viola and Abigail were to return home the following day, taking Harry with them. Today Wren had gone to see the Tower of London with Viola and Lizzie while her mother-in-law called on her brother and sister-in-law and Abigail went to spend the morning with Jessica and to see the baby—her niece—once more. Harry was borne off by the Duke of Netherby to practice some light swordplay in an effort to get the strength back in his arm, which was otherwise healing nicely. They were all back home by the middle of the afternoon, however. Jessica had come with Abigail and was going later with her and Viola and Harry to dine with the dowager countess and Cousin Matilda.

Wren was feeling a bit exhausted, as she did much of the time these days. She had gone out unveiled but not unnoticed. And at home she seemed always to be surrounded by people—well-meaning people, it was true, people of whom she was growing increasingly fond, but people nonetheless. Elizabeth and her mother were to attend a soiree this evening. Perhaps, Wren thought hopefully as the drawing room about her buzzed with cheerful teatime conversation, she would have the chance of a quiet evening alone with Alexander. How blissful that would be. And she did not believe he would mind. He had told her that for several years he had hardly come to London at all but had spent his time at Riddings Park. He still preferred the quiet of country life to the bustle of life in town.

She sat back in her chair, sipped her tea, enjoyed the company, and longed for the evening. When the drawing room door opened and she saw Alexander, her heart lifted. But he did not close the door behind him or advance far into the room as he greeted everyone.

“Wren,” he said, “will you come down to the library with me? There is someone I would like you to meet.”

Again? Who now? she wondered in some dismay. Had she not met enough strangers in the last week or so to last a lifetime? He was surely being unfair.

“Of course,” she said, getting to her feet. She would not reproach him in front of everyone else. She almost asked him who it was when they were on their way downstairs, but she would soon see for herself.

He was a young man, tall and slender, smartly dressed, blond haired, and very handsome. He was turning from a bookcase when they entered the library, and he was looking as ill at ease as Wren was feeling. She was feeling something else too—dread? His eyes were riveted upon her from the first moment.