"I could not ask Drake. But I thought that thou might knowest . . . the truth. I must discover the truth."

INSIDE RICHARD WAS railing at himself, for all the stupid mistakes he had made, for the courage he lacked-courage such as he saw in this gentle Quaker woman. He had been shocked at first to realize that she was a Quaker. The Drake he knew would never have chosen such a woman. But after hearing her story and spending time in her company, he understood. Understood so very much. And he was glad for some of it. Glad Drake had stepped into the shoes of the poor and the enslaved . . . even if it was only for a little while. And glad heaven had sent him this angel, whose wings had been clipped but could be mended and sent out to love his son again.

His son.

How to tell her?

But then, she already suspected. That letter . . . he had wondered whatever became of it. It was the only one he had ever written to Helena. He'd thought it thrown into the fire or dissolved in the tears he knew it had caused, destroyed just as surely as it had destroyed their love. He would forever mourn those misbegotten decisions of his youth and the wreckage of human life they had caused. But how to tell this sweet girl, his daughter-in-law?

He had been staring sadly at her for some time. Seeing the tears she held at bay, he remembered her question. "Truth? I must tell you, Serena, my dear, you are the first to have asked for it." He looked down at his hands hanging limp between his knees. "I thought Drake might come here one day, as you have, demanding answers. But I hadn't expected this." He smiled at her again and took a fortifying sip of tea.

"Since you have been so brave as to seek it out, I will tell you. What I know of it, anyway. Helena and I met just before she married my brother, Ivor. She had been betrothed to him for years, a most desirable family alliance, you see, but she had never met him." He gazed at the painting as he continued. "When she came to Alnwick, in Northumberland, she was so young. We all were, looking back on it. She was innocent and my brother . . . well, let's just say he was much older and experienced of the world. She had ideals about marriage that he had no intention of fulfilling. He told her so, and she tried to end the betrothal. By chance or fortune, I met up with her one night in the garden. I had only seen her from afar and hadn't fully appreciated her effect on me until that night. She was . . . so full of life. I was enchanted, and she was disillusioned and vulnerable. Together we . . . consoled one another."

"But you said you loved her."

"I did, as only a twenty-year-old who thinks himself a man could. But I didn't understand the cost of such love, or even the meaning of it, until it was too late." He took another sip of tea. "The marriage went ahead as planned. I was . . . we were both heartbroken. She swore to me she would have nothing to do with him, but we both knew it was a lie. A month pa.s.sed and Ivor left for one of his many excursions abroad. She knew by then that he went to gamble and dally with his current mistress. He had many mistresses over the years and wasn't very discreet about it. It was then, while he was away, that she begged me to come for a visit. I did, and as you may have suspected, fathered Drake that long wonderful month we were together.

"We both pretended it would never end. And that it was perfectly natural for me to be there-right, even. We convinced ourselves that we were a world apart, not needing or wanting the outside. We hoped my brother would never return, but he did. And it didn't take him very long to guess that we had been together. I suppose it was written on both our faces. He threw me out with a broken rib and more than a few bruises." Richard shrugged. "I can't say that I blame him. Helena was his wife and I never should have touched her. I received a letter from Helena a month later saying she was with child. She said Ivor had threatened to beat the child from her body if she didn't a.s.sure him the babe was his. Helena lied the best she could, but we knew. We both knew the child was ours. There had been signs even before I left."

He stood, unable to sit still a moment longer as the terrible memories a.s.sailed him. "When I wrote that letter, the one you read, I thought I was doing the wise thing. The n.o.ble thing. I convinced myself that the best I could do for my child was to relinquish all rights as his father and allow him to grow up an heir to the dukedom. I had watched my brother, groomed since birth for the position of wealth and power he would someday reign over and . . . I was envious. I thought if my son could inherit that world, it would be worth the sacrifice of Helena's and my love. What choice did we have really?"

He swung around to face Serena again, unable to keep the harsh tone from his voice. "But I did have other choices. Choices Helena hinted at, but I was unwilling to see. Choices involving hardship and lack and hard work. I could have taken them both away . . . to the colonies . . . to Holland . . . somewhere. I could have made a life for the woman I loved, and for my son. Instead, I choose the comfort of cold familiarity."

There. It was out. As ugly in revelation as it had been within him. "Serena, I tell you what I have admitted to myself many times in the dark lonely hours since: I was a coward."

"No-"

Richard stopped her.

"If that were only the worst of it." He looked back at Helena's portrait. The same portrait he looked at every day, silently begging her forgiveness. "She wasted away . . . slowly . . . like a flower whose petals dropped off, one by one, leaving a thin and lifeless stem. Until that, too, turned pale and dead."

The pain sliced through him as he set free the truth he'd held back all these years. "I am responsible for her death."

SERENA COULD SIT no longer. Striding over to Richard Weston, she placed a hand on his shoulder. "Sir, thou must not torture thyself like this. Thou mayest have made some mistakes, but only G.o.d knows to what degree thy choices affected her life. She might have died in Holland, onboard a ship to the colonies-any number of things could have happened. Thou only played a part. Like Drake and I, we are both responsible for where we now stand. Helena made her choices, too, and I am certain she would not want thee to carry this burden thy whole life." The tears she had held back during the telling of the story now spilled forth. "Thou must forgive thyself."

Richard stared into her clear eyes. "Does Drake know what he's found in you?"

She thought he had, hoped he had. Believed with all her heart he'd known how rare their love was. How it needed to be cherished and protected.

But now . . .

Now she could only bow her head and fight back the sorrow that threatened to overwhelm her. Sorrow for what Drake's mother and this good man had lost. And for all she feared she had lost as well.

Chapter Twenty-Four.

It was a relief, telling all of it to someone. Like a weight had been lifted and now his head felt light. Richard laughed, a little self-conscious. "But you didn't come here to hear all of that, did you, Serena. You want to know if Drake is telling the truth about his ident.i.ty." He hated to tell her he didn't know, but he must.

"To the world and to himself, Drake is the son of Ivor, the Duke of Northumberland and his only heir. I have not seen my brother in many years. Honestly, I don't know whether he is dead or alive, but if he died I can't imagine why I would not have been so informed. I would have certainly attended his funeral. So . . . that leaves a very big question. If, indeed, Ivor is dead as Drake told you, why doesn't anyone else know about it?"

Serena wondered aloud, "But why would he lie to me about his father? And why would he pretend to society that I am his-" she nearly choked on the words-"father's wife and not his own."

There was the pain of it, betrayal and hurt in her eyes. Richard wished he had some answer that would erase that look, but he didn't. "Only Drake can answer those questions. You will have to face him at some point. You know that, do you not?"

Serena shook her head. "How can I believe anything he tells me?"

Richard walked closer to her. "His game is up, my dear. I believe he will tell you the truth now. Whatever he is playing at, he had to have had good reason. Drake is not one for frivolous undertakings, as I'm sure you're aware. He's a careful man, a planning man. He will have compelling reasons why he's done this to you."

Serena searched his eyes. "How compelling can they be? To pretend I am his stepmother? It is . . . it is disgusting!"

Richard could only agree with her. "Does he know where you are?"

She shook her head. "II left suddenly, without any thought beyond finding thee." Her eyes grew round. "I did not even bring any money beyond the coach fare. Might I stay here tonight?"

"Of course. For as long as you wish." He smiled at her. "You may find yourself tiring of an old bachelor like myself, and when you do, I will escort you back to London. You'll not have to face him alone, Serena. It is past time the truth about my part in all this came out."

"Yes, Drake needs to know who he is. He thinks he knows, but there is something missing. He is so . . . restless. But I cannot go back there. Not now." Helplessness and fear shone from her eyes. "Perhaps never."

He patted her shoulder. "A day at time. That's how we'll manage this." He knew of what he spoke. It was how he had lived the last thirty years of his life.

DRAKE PACED BACK and forth between the bedchamber and Serena's dressing room. Stopping at the mess in front of her armoire, the mess he had made days before while searching her room, he cursed. Where to look next?

His worst fear had come true. She had left him.

He lashed out by pulling more jewel-encrusted gowns out unto the floor. Kicking them aside, he studied the contents of the empty shelves. Where had she gone? How could she leave without even coming to him and demanding to know what he'd done? Why hadn't she asked him if all Lady Chamberlain said was true?

When he thought of Maria Louisa Chamberlain, the vicious smile in her eyes as she told him about her little conversation with his "stepmother," Drake ground his teeth. Whatever Serena had believed from that conversation was enough to drive her away. By the time he arrived home, she had vanished without a trace. The servants had not seen her leave and had no knowledge of where she went. Her dressing room looked, at first, untouched, but upon further investigation Drake found a few things missing. That's when he started to panic. It would be so like her to take only her belongings from before . . . before her life with him.

Slowly it had sunk in that she'd left him. Three days now with no word, no clues. Every avenue of questioning had turned up nothing. When he thought of her alone in London, so naive, without money and his protection . . . his stomach lurched. It was as if the earth had opened up and swallowed her.

He stared into the room, scarcely able to move or put two thoughts together to form a plan of action. What else could he do, aside from this wretched waiting?

Pacing back to Serena's desk he sat hard in the chair, staring at the top. She hadn't even left him a note. He opened the top drawer again, staring at its emptiness. As he began to close the drawer once more, he heard a piece of wood rattle in the back. He frowned, then pulled the drawer all the way free and set it on the top of the desk. Further investigation revealed the desk had a false back. The wood had come loose and, with a little prying, it easily opened. There in the corner lay something that he pulled out. A crumpled page. He smoothed it out, staring at the yellowed paper. Could Serena have found this?

He read it.

Then he read it a second time, and then a third before he slowly laid the paper down on the drawer and drew a deep breath.

So. It was true.

He was illegitimate.

Something inside him shifted and then slipped into place, like a wandering thought now finding its resting place. Richard's words from the letter rolled about in his mind, how he'd urged Drake's mother to allow their son to be raised as Ivor's rightful heir. Drake could understand such a request; it was what he would have done. It was, in a twisted way, what he was trying to accomplish now. Richard had not wanted Drake to bear the stigma of illegitimacy.

Drake expected to feel searing pain at the truth. It was a shameful state of being, illegitimacy. Yet, as if he held a mental poker, he gently prodded his emotions and found there wasn't anything of the sort there. Curious, all thoughts of Serena suspended in this new moment of ident.i.ty, he explored his feelings and found only dumbfounding relief.

Ivor was not his father.

It was as if some chain that had held him fell away. He stood, light-headed with the freedom of it, and took a deep breath. The man he had tried to please, had tried to mold himself after, was not his father! He didn't have to be like him. He didn't have to be the Duke of Northumberland.

But he wanted to be the Duke of Northumberland, didn't he?

Drake couldn't answer that question right now, but just the fact that he had thought it brought many other questions to mind. Turning back to the desk, he focused once more on the most important question.

"Where are you, Serena?"

He looked at the letter again. Wait a moment . . . that night at dinner, she had asked him all those questions about his family. About his uncle. She must have found this letter. Of course! There was no other place she could have gone. She didn't know anyone in London, hadn't made any close friends-he had seen to that. She must have gone to his uncle's-no, his father's-home in Bristol. He would check the coach stations first thing in the morning. If they yielded any clues to confirm his suspicions, he would follow her and tell her everything.

He could live with the truth of his birth. And, he was realizing, he might even live without the t.i.tle of duke.

But there was one thing he would not, could not live without.

Chapter Twenty-Five.

There was no denying the truth.

In the two weeks since coming to Bristol, the morning sickness only worsened. She could no longer blame it on traveling. She was with child.

Standing over the commode, Serena waited for the retching to stop. Sweat beaded on her forehead as she wondered if she might faint. "G.o.d help me not to faint," she prayed, already on her knees, the cold, hard floor beckoning to her.

Weak but feeling temporarily better, she struggled back to the bed and pulled the covers to her chin. She would like to be angry-angry with Drake for stealing the joy she knew she would have felt about this child. But however rightfully deserved, she couldn't muster the energy. Sleep, that's what she needed. Just a few more hours of sleep.

She had just closed her eyes and settled deeper into the downy pillow when the door opened and the maid Richard insisted on a.s.signing her curtsied in.

"Pardon, your grace," Dolly whispered, bobbing her head up and down like a pigeon. "Lord Richard wished me to ask if ye would be dining with him this mornin' or havin' breakfast in your chamber again?"

Serena roused herself enough to lift her head. "Oh dear, no breakfast please." Just the thought of food made her stomach queasy. "I am not feeling just the thing this morning . . . again."

The maid nodded and dipped again. "He said if you weren't feeling well, to ask if a doctor should be sent for. I think he is worried about you, your grace."

Serena gave her a weak smile. "No doctor, but have Richard come up at his convenience. I do need to speak with him. And wake me ten minutes before, so that I may dress."

She had been putting off telling him. As a bachelor she doubted he suspected, but it would be obvious soon enough and she wanted to tell him before he guessed.

Richard arrived a little while later with a soft knock. She was wearing a dressing gown and cap, sitting up in the bed, her back propped up with pillows. When he entered she smiled at him and patted the mattress beside her. He had been so kind. How would he take the news that he was to become a grandfather?

"How are you feeling?"

She laughed a little at the anxiety in his eyes. "Not so bad, now. I am so very sorry for putting thee and thy household to such a degree of trouble. II am not unwell, really."

He took her hand. "Are you overcome with sadness? Is there anything I can do?"

Serena shook her head. "Richard, I am not depressed . . . I am with child." There, she'd said it. She watched the emotions-first surprise, and then utter delight-cross his face.

"You are certain?"

Serena nodded. "My mother had seven of us, of which I am the eldest. I have seen the signs many times before and am quite certain. The babe will be born in the month of May, I believe.

Richard squeezed her hand, laughing. "Spring. That's wonderful!" His brow creased. "It is wonderful, is it not? Are you happy?"

She nodded. "Yes, II used to daydream about having a child with Drake. I used to think about how I would tell him and imagine his reaction." She smiled sadly. "My dreams never envisioned this. I know I shall have to talk to Drake soon. This is not something I can keep from him."

Richard shook his head. "I expected him to find his way here by now. I know you said you left no clues, but I thought perhaps . . . he would find us out."

"I suppose I will have to write to him. Much as I dread it."

"Let me write to him on your behalf. It's the least I could do."

Serena was relieved, but unsure. "Let me think about it. We shall decide tomorrow."

Richard nodded. "You must rest. I had planned a little excursion that I thought you might like this afternoon, but you should stay abed."

Serena brightened. "Oh no, I feel much better. 'Tis only in the mornings that I feel so unwell. The remainder of the day I only feel as if I have been run down by a carriage." She grinned at him. "Please, I would love to get out and enjoy some fresh air."

"Very well. Meet me downstairs in an hour and we will go. I think you will enjoy this."

DRAKE RODE A fresh horse as he galloped toward the little seaside town of Bristol. It had been years-decades, even-since he'd seen it, and he wondered if his memory would serve. He tried to drum up a picture of Richard. He had only seen him once, when his grandmother, the dowager d.u.c.h.ess, had died. He cringed remembering how he had treated Richard, rather like he was below Drake in rank and status, which, at the time, he thought was true. Richard had been younger and much quieter than his father, but he'd had a kind smile for Drake. Now Drake would see him in a new light.

Drake was hardly a mile from the town when he came upon a coal mining site. Coal, he knew, was becoming more and more important to England and new uses were being discovered for it all the time. With the rise in demand had come the need for people to work in the deep tunnels in the earth.

Curious, he turned his horse toward the site. As he rode into the miners' camp, he had to wonder if his eyes were deceiving him. He felt as if he'd stumbled upon a poor village in Africa. Men, women, and children-many of the latter naked and covered in black from the coal-swarmed the camp. As he neared, there was a sharp cry to his right. Drake turned his head and saw a young boy of about ten being set loose from a metal girdle. Long, thick chains hung from the girdle between his legs and lay for many more feet in a pile on the ground. Behind him, attached to the ends of the chain was a large tub full of black coal. Had the child dragged that load of coal out of the mine's tunnels on his own? Drake could hardly tear his eyes away from him, so strong was his shock. Outrage boiled within him as he rode over and dismounted in front of the boy. Drake could see the boy's b.l.o.o.d.y hips through the torn shreds of a cloth he wore around his waist. Naked, stark pain shone from his sunken eyes.

"What is the meaning of this? You men, do you use the backs of children for work such as this?" He stalked over to the tub and lifted one side. It must have weighed over two hundred pounds.

A man, standing naked except for the rag that hung from his lower body, looked up into Drake's eyes. Old eyes, tired as the earth he had been working in, stared back at Drake. He coughed suddenly before he answered, and Drake's heart sank to see black spittle in the man's hand.

"The boy'll be aright. He's new is all, sir."

Drake's eyes swept the community, taking in the details, each one piercing him as nothing he had ever seen-and Drake had seen much. Poverty, filth, the dregs of humanity-he had seen it all. And yet this sight gripped him as nothing before.

The men stared back at him, frozen by his presence, as though he were some other being-a G.o.d, perhaps-and they couldn't make out what he was doing there. So many children, some looked as young as five, their eyes ranging from lifeless to wretched. The women were as bad off, one round with child and so tired, swaying where she stood, that he found he could not continue looking at her. The men were at least men! They could handle hard, even terrible work . . . then he really looked at them, saw their misshapen bodies-short, stooped, with long arms that seemed almost deformed despite bulking musculature from the years of pounding the earth. Drake wanted to sit among them and cry.

He walked back to the boy. The lad stood in front of him, shivering in spite of the late summer heat. The cloth that hung about his waist was wet and dripping dirty water onto the thin patch of gra.s.s below his bare feet.