Munro had never helped a woman select a frock. His mother employed a seamstress and neither she nor Jewel bought garments in local markets. Slightly bemused, he watched Mary haggle with the mercer once she’d made her choice. He supposed it was in her nature to risk losing the chance to buy a garment she so obviously wanted for the sake of saving a halfpenny. He was paying for the blessed thing in any case.

Of course, he’d never had to worry about money, whereas Mary…

He clenched his fists when she grinned at him triumphantly. He had no idea what she’d meant by her comment about being buried in a new frock. The old woman was clearly losing her wits. And what was there to think about? He loved Sarah and wanted to marry her. Mary should be ecstatic her widowed daughter had caught the eye of an earl’s son.

“Give the man threepence,” she declared as the scowling mercer bundled up the frock and tied it with string.

“Highway robbery,” Old Brown hissed when Munro handed over the coin in exchange for the bundle.

Mary clutched it to her breast. “I thank thee,” she gushed, grinning uncharacteristically, “first new frock I’ve had in…”

When she stopped abruptly and eyed him, Munro stifled the urge to shake her and demand she reveal Sarah’s secret.

Mary nodded in the direction of St. Martin’s. “We’d better go to the church,” she said. “I’d like to meet Reverend Grove.”

Befuddled, Munro followed in her wake. “I thought you knew him.”

“No. Sarah asked him to keep in touch with folks in Chepstow. That’s how she found out Harry had died.”

A terrible foreboding washed over Munro. Not only had Sarah lived apart from her parents, she hadn’t kept in touch with them. Perhaps it was to be expected a girl abandoned at a tender age would sever all ties. There was definitely something about her father Sarah didn’t want him to know. And it had to do with the Civil War.

“Was Harry in the Parliamentary army?” he asked. “If so, that’s neither here nor there. My father served in Cromwell’s army, but eventually worked for the restoration of the monarchy. Whatever happened during the war—”

Mary stopped in her tracks and glared at him. “Harry was a firm believer in republicanism. At the start of the war he raised a cavalry regiment and served as their colonel. He was soon appointed governor of Reading, and later of Aylesbury.”

The pride in her voice gave him pause, but still the news came as a relief. It seemed Harry was a man of action, a father to be proud of, yet…

Then Mary added, “The problem lies elsewhere.”

They wandered through the church, eventually tracking Grove down in the vestry. He smiled at Munro, nodding thoughtfully when he cast eyes on Mary. “You’re Sarah’s mother,” he said. “I’m glad to meet you at last.”

“And I thee,” she replied. “Thou must tell this young Scotsman the truth about Harry.”

Munro suddenly found himself watching a strange tableau. Mary swayed, clutching a cheap frock that seemed to have become her most prized possession. The frowning cleric clenched his jaw and stared at her. Munro was confused as to what role he was supposed to play.

Mary finally spoke. “He wants to wed Sarah, so he has a right to know.”

Grove brightened. “That’s good news. I assume he has your blessing?”

“I might be old, but I’m not daft,” she replied. “Of course he does. Now tell him. He’ll understand.” She wagged a finger at Munro. “But thou cannot let her know. She must tell thee herself.”

His hopes rose. He recognized now what his role was. He would learn Sarah’s secret and declare that it made not a whit of difference.

Grove cleared his throat. “Sarah’s father was Colonel Henry Marten.”

The name meant nothing. He was hoping someone hiding in the wings would give him a cue so he could speak his next words when an unpleasant memory rose unbidden in his brain.

Glutton and whoremonger.

He should know what to say next to the ashen-faced woman who clutched the bundle ever more tightly, but a thousand bees buzzed in his ears.

Chepstow.

He shook his head. “I’m afraid…”

“The regicide,” Grove supplied.

In his mind’s eye, Munro saw a desolate beach below Dunnottar Castle where a brave young Highland lass waited for a basket to be lowered—a basket containing the crown jewels of Scotland that she was about to whisk away from under Cromwell’s nose. Hannah Kincaid.

Sarah’s father had signed the death warrant of the king whose coronation regalia his mother had risked her life to save from destruction.

He’d been assigned a part he couldn’t play. “Forgive me,” he muttered as he turned for the door, afraid he might retch if he didn’t get outside in the fresh air.