It was the straw bonnet she had worn to her wedding—and every day since.

“And so we return to London,” she said. “I can face it now.”

“London can wait a day or two longer,” he said. “We are going to Bath.”

“Bath?” She raised her eyebrows.

“I want to see that orphanage of yours,” he said. “And I want to meet that . . . friend of yours.”

“Joel?”

“Joel, yes,” he agreed. “And we will pay our respects to Mrs. Kingsley and Camille and Abigail.”

She stared at him, her heart thumping uncomfortably. “But will they receive us?” she asked him. “Will they receive me?”

He handed her a large linen handkerchief and she realized that two tears were rolling down her cheeks.

“The Duke of Netherby is received everywhere,” he said quite in his old manner. “He is a man of enormous consequence. The Duchess of Netherby will be received with him. Besides, Anna, there is the family connection, and Mrs. Kingsley at least will be curious to meet you.”

“She is the former countess’s mother,” she reminded him.

“Yes,” he agreed, taking the handkerchief from her hand and drying her cheeks and eyes with it.

* * *

Mrs. Kingsley owned a house on the Royal Crescent, the most prestigious address in Bath, curving in graceful, classical lines at the top of a hill with a panoramic view down over the town and the countryside beyond. Kingsley had been a wealthy man—hence the marriage between his daughter and the late Earl of Riverdale. Avery sent his card up with the butler early in the afternoon of the day following his arrival with Anna, and they were shown up to the drawing room a few minutes later and announced with formal dignity.

Avery had met Mrs. Kingsley once or twice before. She was a tall, white-haired, formidable lady. She came toward them across the room, greeted Avery cordially while shaking his hand, and then turned to look steadily at Anna.

“Duchess,” she said in chilly acknowledgment of his introduction. “It would be unjust to blame the sins of the father upon the child. You are welcome to my home.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Anna said, and Avery, turning to look at her, was not surprised to see her calm and dignified, her hands clasped before her. He would wager, though, that if he could see through her gloves he would find that her knuckles were white. She had toyed with both her breakfast and her luncheon after eating heartily for the past week.

Camille and Abigail were both present, and both were on their feet. Neither made any move toward the door, however. Camille was looking thinner and paler, Avery thought, while Abigail looked merely pale. He bowed to them and strolled closer.

“When passing through Bath,” he said, possessing himself of the handle of his quizzing glass, “one feels the desire to call upon one’s cousins by marriage.”

“Not even that, Avery,” Camille remarked.

“Ah,” he said, “but your father and my stepmother were brother and sister. That surely makes us cousins of sorts. And never tell Jessica there is no connection between you. Not only would she weep an ocean; she would also throw a horrid tantrum and strain my nerves to the breaking point. How are you, Camille? And you, Abigail?”

“Well,” Camille said curtly.

“Yes, well,” Abigail said. “And much obliged to you for calling on us, Avery. I trust you left Aunt Louise and Jessica in good health?”

“I did,” he said, “but in high dudgeon too over the fact that Anna and I chose to marry quietly and secretly rather than be subjected to all the delights of a Wedding with a capital W. Will you greet my wife? She will be very unhappy if you will not, and then I will be unhappy too. It is a dead bore to be unhappy.”

Abigail looked at her and greeted her with a little curtsy. Camille looked gravely at her as they all seated themselves.

“I had a letter from Jessica a few days ago,” Abigail said, “though the announcement in the London papers had already been brought to Grandmama’s attention. I wish you happiness, Your Gr—” She stopped briefly and frowned. “I wish you well, Anastasia. I wrote back to Jessica to suggest that perhaps it is time to let go of bitterness. I ought to take my own advice.”

“Thank you, Abigail,” Anna said. “We have just spent a week in the village of Wensbury with my maternal grandparents, whom Avery discovered for me. They thought I was dead. My father wrote to them not long after he brought me to the orphanage here to inform them that I had died of typhoid.”

“Oh,” Abigail said.

Camille frowned at the hands clasped in her lap.

“Mr. Kingsley was very set upon marrying Viola to the Earl of Riverdale’s heir,” Mrs. Kingsley remarked. “His head was quite turned at the prospect of having a future countess for a daughter. And she was willing. He was a handsome young man. I was opposed from the start. I did not like him. I considered him selfish, and I saw that his charm concealed a lack of character. I kept my peace for years after my misgivings were brushed aside, but no longer. He was a wicked man.”

“I am pleased,” Camille said stiffly without looking up, “that you have rediscovered your grandparents and they you.”

“Thank you, Camille,” Anna said. “Have you heard from Harry? Is he safe?”

Harry had arrived safely in Portugal after being one of the few passengers on the ship not to be seasick and had apparently sent a brief, very enthusiastic letter to his sisters—as he had done to Avery. He was looking forward to his first battle and the chance to have a go at Napoleon Bonaparte’s armies.