The sand seemed to shift beneath Hannah’s feet. She glanced up to find both men watching her.

“What brings you to our fair shores, Miss Cowles?” Mr. Hodges asked, his gray eyes revealing nothing but polite enquiry.

“I—my father was born here. In England.” Her words stumbled over each other, making them sound inane. Silly. She took a deep breath, torn between her publicly stated reasons and her private dreams.

Her longing to see where her father had been born, to find a true home—someplace where she could settle down and not be yanked from one inn to another—tightened her throat. That was her cherished reason for her trip, though she kept it hidden for fear that if she spoke the words out loud, it would evaporate like the dew under the hot sun and remain forever out of her reach.

But her soul ached for her own place in the world. Her father had always blithely claimed that one’s heart made any place a home and had never wanted to settle down. He’d always hungered to see what was down the road or over the next hill, and his wife agreed.

Hannah was different, though. She hated the constant travel, never feeling like she belonged anywhere, but she’d remained silent. She’d never told her parents that she was tired of their ceaseless travels and wanted to stay in one place, where she could find friends and contentment in the familiar things surrounding her.

While she loved both of them, they were different. They disliked the ordinary and craved the excitement of the unknown territory that lay just beyond the next hill. But she craved a routine—a commonplace life—and friends she could actually visit, instead of simply writing letters to them.

And now, she wondered if the wreck of the Orion had destroyed even that small, private dream.

“I see. Was your father acquainted with Lady Blackwold, then?” Mr. Hodges asked politely, turning to wave at the dowager.

She waved back with her handkerchief, the feathers of her bonnet bobbing as she nodded.

“No. At least, I am not aware of any acquaintance between our families,” Hannah answered, acutely aware of the closeness of Blackwold.

She couldn’t trust him, she reminded herself sharply. He wore that ring.

In fact, she couldn’t trust any of them. Her gaze bounced from one man to the other before coming to rest on a small, smooth stone near her right foot. Her mind raced furiously, sorting through the facts she thought she knew. But the facts warred with her feelings.

Despite his doubts about her character, she’d liked Blackwold. He intrigued her with his sense of humor and his bearlike appearance seemed more endearing than frightening. But she knew no more of him than he knew of her.

He wears a ring! Her mind insisted.

“She was on the Orion,” Blackwold said, stepping further away and eyeing the men laboring on the beach. “If that answers your questions, Hodges.”

“Ah, I see.” Mr. Hodges nodded and touched her forearm lightly with sympathy. “I am so sorry. I heard the news this morning. It must have been a terrible ordeal.” He shivered with sympathy. “Should you not be resting?”

Hannah shrugged and looked away, lowering her arm to avoid his lingering touch.

“Well, it shows great strength of character that you are here and able to view the sad evidence of your recent tragedy.” Mr. Hodges paused to adjust the cuff on one sleeve and brush off a speck of sand. “And, I beg your pardon, but did I hear mention of a trunk?”

“Yes—my trunk. I was hoping to find it, if it washed ashore. It has my name, Hannah Cowles, engraved on it.” She studied the thin, frayed jackets of the scavengers. “I am not concerned about the gowns; if the villagers want them, I will not object. I simply want the trunk itself.”

“Generous and intriguing…” Mr. Hodges murmured. His eyes glittered strangely and a small, secretive smile curled his lips. “Shall we see if such a trunk has been found?” He held out his arm to her. “Our industrious scavengers may have seen it, or pulled it out of the sea.” His contempt for the men on the beach came through clearly in the curl of his thin upper lip and emphasis of the word scavengers.

When she glanced at Lord Blackwold, he was already walking away to join the villagers.

He’s one of them. It must have been him, last night. And how many of the other men scattered over the beach were there, as well, clubbing the survivors?

White and gray gulls shrieked overhead, eyeing the intruders on the beach and landing on nearby rocks to search for tempting bits of sea life left behind by the storm. They were scavengers, too, fighting and screaming over remains of the Orion.

The thought sickened her, and she swallowed, forcing down the knot in her throat. Slowly, with reluctance, she slipped her hand through Mr. Hodges’s elbow and let him escort her to the growing pile of goods the men had collected from the wreckage.

One large, aggressive gull kept landing on the pile, only to flap away when one of the men approached.

“Where did you come ashore, Miss Cowles?” Mr. Hodges asked as he assisted her around rocks and broken planks from the Orion.

“Come ashore?” she repeated the question, stopping to glance around. “Not here—I must have been swept further south and away from the house.”

“One of our villagers must have assisted you; it would have been difficult to avoid the rocks during a storm.” He shivered elaborately at the thought. “I am accounted to be a decent swimmer, but even I would have had difficulties finding my way to shore safely anywhere except this small scrap of beach.”

“No one assisted me,” she replied sharply. “I saw no one—if anyone was trying to assist us, the storm hid them from view. I had to do the best I could with a broken spar to aid me.”

“Regrettable,” Mr. Hodges murmured. “I’m sure you would have gained a much better view of our quaint little village and its inhabitants if they had been able to assist in your rescue. We are not a callous and inhospitable race, I assure you, and I sincerely regret our failure.”

“There is nothing to regret. I’m sure they would have come to my aid if they’d seen me.” Even if that aid consisted of a club to the head.

As they neared the pile of refuse, the gull flapped away again. Hannah’s heart twisted as she recognized bits and pieces that belonged to the crew and passengers aboard the Orion. A small wooden chest with brass hinges had been thrown heedlessly midway up the left side of the pile.

It had belonged to her companion, Mrs. Lawrence.

Pulse racing, Hannah paused, almost tripping over a broken board. Should she try to claim it? Mrs. Lawrence had no family, no one to notify of her death, and no one to care what happened to the contents of that small box.

“Do you see something you recognize?” Mr. Hodges asked, turning to look at her. Speculation turned his eyes to smooth gray stones, like those washed onto the beach by the tide.

She glanced away, rubbing her arms with cold hands. Fear tasted sour in her mouth as she heard the low murmurs of the men around her, men who cast enigmatic glances at her as they worked. How many of them had been present last night? What would they do if she tried to claim a few of the items she recognized?

Before she could decide how to answer Mr. Hodges, Blackwold loped over and picked up the small box. He flashed her a shy grin before striding over.

“Something of yours?” Blackwold held the box out to her.

A few of the men paused, scowling in their direction.

She shook her head and clasped her hands at her waist. “It belongs to Mrs. Lawrence—my companion.” Her voice broke, and she pressed her fingers against her lips, struggling to regain her composure. Warm tears stung her cheeks, and she blinked rapidly. “Belonged to Mrs. Lawrence, that is,” she said in a stronger voice.

Mr. Hodges glanced away, pretending to be fascinated by the efforts of three men to drag a large crate to shore, thereby giving her a moment of privacy.

“I’m sorry,” Blackwold said, thrusting the box at her again. “A keepsake, perhaps?”

“The villagers may want it. To sell,” she replied, struggling for a light tone. Chest tight, she tried to take a deep breath, but it came out as a shuddering sigh before she pressed her hand to her mouth again.

One of Blackwold’s brows rose. “Is it valuable, then?”

“The box, perhaps. Mrs. Lawrence—” She broke off again, swallowed, and cleared her throat. The sharp pain of her companion’s death cut deeply—too deeply to let her say her name easily. Suddenly, she felt terribly alone. Mrs. Lawrence had been with her for so long that she could barely remember a time when her calm presence hadn’t been there to give her guidance when she needed it and hug her when she desperately craved comfort.

She cleared her throat and lifted her chin. “My companion didn’t have much of value. I don’t know what she kept in that little chest.”

Without asking, Blackwold reached over and plucked a long, elaborate hatpin out of her hat. Her hands fluttered up to hold her borrowed bonnet in place, sudden anger whipping through her in outrage at his overly familiar gesture.

But her protest died on her lips as he delicately inserted the pin in the brass lock and wriggled it. His first attempt to open the box failed. He frowned in concentration before a sudden click rewarded his efforts.

“There you are.” He held the wooden box out to her with his left hand and shoved the hatpin back into her hat with his right.

Once again, her hands flew to her head as her bonnet slid back under his assault, and she readjusted the pin to hold the hat more securely on her head before accepting the small box.

Staring down at the box, she calmed herself. I won’t cry—I won’t! She flipped open the lid to find a small bundle of papers inside. They were damp, and the ink had seeped through in a few places where the sea water had moistened the paper.

“Just letters,” she said, glancing up. From her husband—Hannah felt sure, remembering her companion’s few remarks concerning her loss.

Blackwold was studying the growing pile of salvaged goods while his cousin was looking at her with a strange expression of distaste. Or perhaps scorn. Hannah couldn’t decide, but it made her feel embarrassed about the show of emotion she’d been helpless to control.

She plucked the letters from the box and held them against her. She could read them later, in private. “Here. The others can have the box, if it is of value to them.” She shoved the box into Blackwold’s hand, once again noticing the ring on his finger. A chill slipped down her neck, and she looked away, fixing her gaze on the gray, restless waves pounding against the rocks and sending up spumes of frothy white foam.

More gulls screamed and wheeled above them, their wings flashing white against the blue-gray sky.

“Surely, you mean to keep it,” Mr. Hodges said. “The villagers have salvaged enough from the sea. That small box is of no use to them.” His thin lips twisted. “Since it is clearly empty of any valuables.”

“Bereft of valuables for them, perhaps,” Hannah replied abruptly before pressing her lips shut.

“Of course,” Mr. Hodges said smoothly, brushing one hand down the front of his coat. “Your tender sensibilities do you credit, Miss Cowles.”

Instead of feeling flattered, Hannah felt a surge of irritation at Mr. Hodges’s remark. He clearly intended it to be sympathetic, but it felt condescending. Nonetheless, she forced herself to smile and nod her head in thanks, precisely like the empty-headed English lady he clearly expected her to be.

Perhaps Mr. Hodges, like his grandmother and cousin, had an unfortunate way of expressing his thoughts. She shook her head. She was so tired and overset with warring emotions that she might have interpreted his words in the worst way possible.

She doubted it, but it remained a remote possibility.

Without explanation, Blackwold thrust the box back into her hand. The ring on his finger flashed in the gray, wintery light. Once again, she felt a stab of deep fear and doubt, although her hand closed automatically upon the box.

Could this amiable man really be the same one who had given orders for Officer Trent to be clubbed? It seemed impossible. She would rather believe it of Mr. Hodges than Lord Blackwold.

The marquess certainly appeared to be on good terms with the villagers, though. While she could not prove that any of the shabbily dressed men had participated in the events of the night before, it did seem likely.

Before she could express her thanks, Blackwold turned away. “Turner!”

A gray whiskered man straightened, lifted his cap, and ran his forearm over his glistening bald head. Then he moved toward them with a rolling, bandy-legged gait. “Yes, my lord?”

“A guinea for the box. Agreed?” Blackwold held out a coin.

The old man’s pale blue eyes locked on the box with the air of a connoisseur judging a fine painting. He pursed his wrinkled lips and scratched the rough gray whiskers of his cheek.

“There was nothing of value in it except some old letters,” Blackwold pointed out before pulling back the proffered coin a few inches. “At any rate, you would have sold it, so it should not matter to you if I am the purchaser. But if you are not interested…” His hand holding the coin descended toward his pocket.

“Aye, my lord. A guinea would suit me fine. Just fine.” Turner held out a grubby hand. When Blackwold tossed the coin to him, Turner caught it with an adept movement and shoved it into his pocket in the blink of an eye. “Thank you, my lord.”

The old man gave the box one last, speculative glance.

Before he could move back to the pile of salvage, Hannah stopped him. “Mr. Turner,” she said. “Do you know if anyone has seen a trunk? It is a round trunk, covered in leather, with brass tacks and iron handles. The tacks on the lid form a design incorporating my initials, HCC. It is unmistakable.”

“Can’t say as I’ve seen it, Miss.” Turner shrugged and took a sideways step toward the rapidly increasing stack of goods.

“Inform me if you do,” Blackwold said.

Turner eyed him and scratched his whiskered cheek again.

“For suitable recompense, of course,” Blackwold added.

“Aye, my lord.” Turner grinned and ambled off toward a fresh pile of detritus rolling over the beach, dragged forward and back by the waves.

“Thank you, Lord Blackwold. That was very generous of you—too generous,” Hannah said, wishing she didn’t feel like a poor relative being tossed a few scraps. She slipped the letters back into the box.

“I’ll get a locksmith to replace the lock. Tomorrow,” he replied, his gaze fixed on the restless, dark gray ocean.

“There is no need,” she started to say, but she was speaking to his broad back.

Lord Blackwold’s long stride carried him quickly down the beach.

Mr. Hodges touched her arm. “Perhaps you will permit me to escort you back to the house? Although you are as lovely as ever, this must have been a strain for you. You must need rest to refresh yourself.” His thin mouth twisted into a smile. “My grandmother is sure to demand your attendance at supper, so you may not have another opportunity for privacy today.”

“Thank you, you are very kind.” Hannah allowed him to draw her back to the path and help her to ascend, although she’d felt safer on her own without his hand in the center of her back encouraging her forward.

“This trunk you mentioned,” he said in an offhand way.

The path was too precipitous for her to glance over her shoulder at him, though she wished she could see the expression on his face. “Yes?”

“You must have some valuable belongings in it. It must be distressing to lose everything to the storm.”

“Yes—but it is not merely the loss of my gowns that concerns me.” Her jaws clamped shut. She must have explained the matter of her trunk and documents a dozen times, and the subject was becoming exceedingly annoying. “There are papers inside—documents that establish that I am indeed Hannah Cowles and that grant me access to the funds my lawyer in Boston transferred for me to the Bank of England. On Threadneedle Street.”

The silence behind her made the vulnerable nape of her neck tingle.

They were within ten yards of the top of the cliff when Mr. Hodges said, “Your chest must be found, then, Miss Cowles. I would not have you left impoverished by the storm.” He gripped her elbow as they stepped onto the firm grassy ground.

When she glanced at him, he smiled at her.

“Though I doubt anyone truly questions who you are,” he added.

“Clearly, you underestimate the suspicious nature of Lord Blackwold and the dowager.”

He laughed and shook his head over the foibles of his relatives as he led her over to Lady Blackwold.

“I see you have met another of my grandsons,” the dowager said with a grin. She held out a gloved hand to Mr. Hodges and drew him close enough to kiss his cheek as he bent over her hand. “Handsome devil, isn’t he?”

Hannah murmured a vague reply, not wishing to get into a discussion about the relative appearance of Mr. Hodges versus his cousin, Lord Blackwold.

“Help me to the house, Henry. This breeze has chilled me to the bone.”

“I hope you have not caught a chill, Grandmother. I cannot imagine what possessed you to sit here at the edge of the cliff for so long.” Mr. Hodges assisted his grandmother to rise and tucked her hand through his elbow before he thrust out his other arm for Hannah.

She swallowed back a sigh.

Mr. Hodges was trying so hard to be kind and gentlemanly to her, and he was the only one who’d neither questioned who she was nor insisted she was ruined simply because she had the misfortune to survive the wreck. But as perverse as it was, she preferred his ridiculous cousin who clearly failed to trust her and was most likely a cold-hearted wrecker who’d murdered the rest of the survivors.

“I wished to see if they’d found anything of interest on the beach,” his grandmother replied loftily.

“And did they?” Mr. Hodges asked, obviously humoring her.

“Not that I could see. Although Miss Cowles has brought back a box of some sort.” The dowager peered around Mr. Hodges to grin at Hannah. “Is that the chest you were so anxious to find?”

“No.” Hannah cleared her throat at the sudden stab of pain over the loss of Mrs. Lawrence. “It belonged to my companion. And friend. I didn’t see my trunk among the wreckage.”

“Don’t give up hope, Miss Cowles,” Mr. Hodges said. “It may yet appear. Tomorrow morning, I will personally go to the village and enquire about it. Someone may have already transported it there.”

“I would sincerely appreciate that, Mr. Hodges.”

As they neared the terrace doors, Hannah paused to allow Mr. Hodges to assist his grandmother to ascend the shallow steps and enter the house. She glanced out across the wide expanse of the sere gardens and lawn, noting once again the proud spears of green thrusting their way through the earth.

Dark clouds were gathering over the gray Atlantic, and a cold, brisk wind was whipping the waves into a froth. Gulls swooped and screeched, flashing white, black, and gray against the sky. From a distance, they were beautiful and sleek, despite their harsh noise. Over the ocean, the vast expanse of sky grew blacker as she watched.

Another storm was brewing. Hannah drew her shawl more closely around her shoulders and smiled gratefully at Mr. Hodges as he helped her into the house.

“Will you stay for supper, Henry? It will not be much—we had dinner earlier, and there will only be cold meats and whatever was left,” the dowager asked as she began the tedious process of removing her bonnet, gloves, and multiple shawls. One after the other, she handed the items to the butler, who already had his arms full with Mr. Hodges coat and hat.

“If I may,” he bowed to her, grinning.

Lady Blackwold snorted and gave his forearm a light slap. “He is a charming rogue, isn’t he, Miss Cowles? One can never be sure what he will do.”

What was clear to Hannah was that the dowager had a soft spot for Henry Hodges, unaccountable though it was. He was far too glib and too sleek for Hannah’s taste. In some strange way, with his gray coat and black gloves, he reminded her of the gulls wheeling over the beach outside.

As he drew off his gloves and placed them on the top of the pile of garments in Hopwood’s arms, a ring on his right hand flashed. Hannah stared at it, a shiver trembling down her back.

“What is it, Miss Cowles?” the dowager asked. “You have gone quite pale.”

“Just a draft from the door,” Hannah replied quickly, her gaze locked on the ring.

The piece of jewelry appeared to be identical to the one Lord Blackwold wore.

“The day has grown quite cold. I suspect we shall have another storm this evening.” The dowager patted Mr. Hodges’s arm. “You must stay the night, Henry. You cannot ride home in the rain.”

“It is not that far, but I shall do as you wish.” He smiled and kissed his grandmother’s wrinkled cheek.

When she turned to Hannah, she caught the direction of Hannah’s gaze. With a grin remarkably similar to Mr. Hodges’s, Lady Blackwold said, “You have noticed the family ring, I see. Each of my sons wore one—a conceit of my late husband’s to give each of our sons a ring with the griffin’s head from our family seal.” A shadow of pain crossed her face, deepening the wrinkles around her mouth and sad eyes. “My two eldest sons are gone, so Adam and Henry have inherited their rings.”

“Naturally, as the son of the second son, the jewels in my ring are merely rubies. Blackwold’s has diamonds,” Mr. Hodges said in a deprecating tone as he held up his ring and tilted it to catch the candlelight. The griffin’s eyes flashed blood red.

Hannah moved closer to the fire, crackling merrily in the library’s wide fireplace. “So there are two rings,” she murmured, relieved that the cruel man on the beach need not have been Lord Blackwold after all. Some of the tension gripping her chest eased.

“Four,” Lady Blackwold said. “I had four sons, and two are still living. Brian has the sapphire-eyed griffin and Carter—the youngest—has the topaz.” Her eyes brightened and she smiled. “Brian was a captain in the navy—we were all so proud of him.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Hodges said, gazing at the fire, his brows drawn together over the bridge of his nose.

Hannah thought he looked less proud of his uncle than mildly irritated.

“And his daughter, Georgina, is due to come to me at the end of the week,” the dowager continued, her voice rising with pleasure and excitement. “We will be leaving shortly thereafter for London. I am to present her to Society as her mother—poor, weak thing that she was—died when she was born.” She winked at Hannah, her hands fluttering to the ribbons of her lacy cap. “And I trust you will join us, Miss Cowles?”

“I—well, perhaps—if my trunk is found.” Hannah stumbled over her words. What was she going to do if her trunk was never found? She couldn’t cling to Lady Blackwold forever.

Lady Blackwold caught her grandson’s arm. “Did I tell you that Miss Cowles is the daughter of Richard Cowles?” Her gray brows rose, touching the fringe of gray curls framing her forehead.

Mr. Hodges smiled politely, but his eyes were devoid of comprehension.

Lady Blackwold’s grip on his sleeve tightened, and she shook his arm. “Richard Cowles,” she repeated. “That silly man who decided that wandering about in foreign parts was more important than his title. The Baron—Lord Rothguard! Or he would have been Lord Rothguard, if he’d bothered to apply for his title.”

“Ah,” Mr. Hodges nodded and gently pried his arm loose from his grandmother’s grip. “I begin to see the importance of this trunk, Miss Cowles.”

“I am not interested in the title.” Hannah crossed her arms. “I merely want to settle all questions concerning my identity.”

“Of course,” Mr. Hodges agreed politely, though the speculative gleam had returned to his eyes. “Well, I beg your forgiveness, but I have other matters to attend to.”

“You will join us for dinner, though, will you not?” his grandmother replied swiftly.

Mr. Hodges smiled and gave his grandmother a reassuring kiss on the cheek. “Of course, my dearest. How can I resist such charming company?”

A flush of pleasure brought color to the dowager’s round cheeks. She grinned and said, “You are a tease and flatterer, but you have my permission to abandon us ladies to our own devices.”

He bowed to her and Hannah and strode out, shutting the door behind him.

When Hannah turned back to Lady Blackwold, the dowager’s gaze was fixed on her. “Now Henry would not mind a bit of scandal, Miss Cowles. It would not matter to him in the least, assuming you can locate this trunk of yours.”

Hannah felt her cheeks grow warm and stepped closer to the fire, hoping the dowager would believe it was the heat from the flames that brought the color to her face.

The last thing she wanted to do was to attract Mr. Hodges, if that was what the dowager alluded to in her comment about her grandson. Hannah felt no interest in him and wasn’t about to sacrifice her freedom for the dubious safety of marriage with someone she barely knew.

“Come, Miss Cowles, it must have occurred to you—you must consider your future.”

“Perhaps my trunk will never be found,” Hannah replied demurely. She smiled at the dowager. “Perhaps I could become your companion.”

The dowager laughed. “You are not placid enough to engage in that employment, even if I wished it.” Her face seemed to crumple, though, and her eyes grew sad as she moved over to sit in a chair by the fire. Leaning on her cane, she waved to the wing chair next to hers. “Please sit, my dear. I am a silly old woman at times, as you already know.” She sighed and shook her head. “I wish I could offer you better gowns than my old cast-offs. If I had the dressing of you, you would look magnificent. But Blackwold keeps me on a strict allowance.” Her voice drifted off as she stared into the crackling flames.

Reaching over, Hannah gave the dowager’s wrist a squeeze. Despite the dowager’s sharp tongue and bluster, she was clearly lonely and sad. Hannah couldn’t forget Blackwold’s claim that his grandmother had been hurt before—cheated by other women who just wanted to get what they could from an old woman, who was clearly too kind-hearted and generous for her own good. Her sharp words were merely a thin disguise for a tender heart.

Loneliness had made her easy prey, and it bothered Hannah deeply that Blackwold thought she was of the same stamp as the tricksters who had taken advantage of Lady Blackwold and left her nearly destitute.

“Lady Blackwold, it does not matter to me in the least. You have been very generous to me when I am virtually a stranger to you. I am exceedingly grateful to you, and am very pleased with the wardrobe you’ve granted me.”

The dowager sniffed, holding her handkerchief up to her nose, and laughed sadly. “It is little enough. It is simply too bad that Henry has such a superb eye for fashion. He will surely recognize my old gowns, and I’m sorry for it. Still, you are a handsome girl, despite your scrapes and bruises.” Her eyes gleamed in the firelight. “We must have our lawyer look into this title of yours—it may yet be salvageable.”

When Hannah opened her mouth to protest, the dowager slapped her wrist.

“Oh, you cannot claim it—you are only a female, after all. But I have heard of cases… Are you the only living child of Richard Cowles?”

“Yes, but—”

“Excellent. I have heard of cases where the husband of the last child remaining alive might apply for and be granted a title.” Her smile widened, and she clapped her hands before clasping them tightly in her lap. “It would be a marvelous thing for Henry to claim a title—even the title of baron. And he would be an excellent husband, my dear. Very considerate and exceedingly fashionable. You could do far worse.”

“I’m sure I could,” Hannah replied in a strangled voice. Suddenly, she hoped her trunk might never be found. “But that would only be possible if I could prove I am the daughter of Richard Cowles beyond all doubt.”

“Naturally, my dear. But once Henry is made aware of what might be gained, I am very sure he shall comb the village most diligently. We will find this missing trunk. I have no doubt of it.”

“Or perhaps I should concentrate on learning how to behave as a proper companion,” Hannah said. “Which strikes me as a much more practical solution.”

The dowager laughed. “Nonsense. Your reputation is in tatters, thanks to my gossiping coachman and the villagers. No one wants a scandalous companion. But a wife—a touch of scandal would not bother anyone in the least—particularly the wife of a baron. After all, you have no need to apply to those stuffy patronesses of Almack’s if you are already engaged to be married. You would have security and a home—it would be ideal.”

“Ideal,” Hannah repeated in a faint voice, much of her previous sympathy for the dowager fading.

Dinner was an informal affair and, feeling drained, Hannah excused herself as quickly as possible to retire to her room. Unfortunately, when she awoke the next day, she felt just as exhausted as she’d been the previous night, and an ache hovered behind her eyes and in all her joints.

The dowager was pleased, however, that Henry decided to spend the day at Blackrock. As if sensing Hannah’s dilemma, Mary allowed her to assist in altering more of the dowager’s old gowns, saving Hannah from the responsibility of entertaining him for several hours.

By evening, her eyes burned, the ache in her head had spread to her joints, but Hannah’s attempts to excuse herself from dinner proved fruitless. The dowager simply ignored all of Hannah’s efforts.

“Well, it is getting late—we should prepare for dinner. Thank goodness you still have your jewels. Henry may not notice you are wearing one of my gowns if your neck is graced with diamonds and emeralds.” She frowned thoughtfully, her forehead creasing. “Although perhaps that is too much for an unwed girl… Pearls! You must wear your pearls. They are beautiful enough for even the most discerning eye and entirely appropriate for a young woman. You must wear your pearls, Miss Cowles!”

“Yes, Lady Blackwold,” Hannah replied, feeling doomed. She almost wished she hadn’t stumbled onto the road and been rescued by the dowager. Drowning was reputed to be a gentle death, after all.

She helped the dowager to rise. Lady Blackwold leaned heavily against Hannah’s arm as they crossed the room and headed for the staircase.

“I truly wish I had a new gown to give you,” the dowager said as they climbed the stairs.

A new gown was the last thing Hannah wanted. “Don’t worry, Lady Blackwold. There is no need for such extravagance. After all, I may never be able to prove who I am.”

“Do not be absurd, Miss Cowles. We shall, and we will do so.”

Was it too late to quietly walk into the ocean? She didn’t want to be a churlish and ungrateful guest, but suddenly, she dreaded dinner at Blackrock.