against impostors, a secret held by generations of Thortons—until now. Grayson went on reading.
“‘The life of an innocent young woman may mean nothing to you, but have no doubt that the world will know your dirty secrets if you fail to follow my future instructions to the letter. Do nothing—contact no agency—until then.’ And it’s signed, ‘The Justicier.”’
“What does it mean?” Sara asked after a moment fraught with heavy silence.
Before taking it upon himself to answer, Lance Grayson glanced at the Grand Duke, who turned to lean both arms against the mantlepiece, presenting his bowed back to the room. Grayson folded his hands, feet braced wide apart in a familiar stance. “Obviously the kidnapper considers him or herself the dispenser of justice, which I expect takes a monetary form. Otherwise, he or she would merely leak this young woman’s existence to the press and be done with it.”
“You’re saying this person, this alleged Thorton daughter, exists,” Rafe stated unequivocally.
Lance Grayson said nothing to that, merely looked pointedly at the Grand Duke. Victor slowly straightened, tugging at the hem of his eggshell-white, military-style ceremonial coat. Turning, he extracted something from a pocket, a photograph. Looking down at it, he seemed to struggle for a moment. When he looked up again, he had eyes only for his wife.
“It only happened once,” he said stiffly, “long ago, and her name was, indeed, Maribelle.”
Sara lifted a trembling hand to her mouth. In that moment, she appeared as something less than the Grand Duchess of Thortonburg. Instead, she looked, for all the world, like every loving wife facing her worst moment of betrayal. Roland felt his hands curl into fists, but by sheer habit the anger that his father all too often aroused in him remained carefully, tightly controlled. Rafe glanced his way before stepping forward to address their father.
“You’re telling us that we have a sister?”
“I’m telling you that it’s possible, even probable.” With that, Victor handed over the photograph. Rafe stepped close to Roland and lifted the small, camera-developed snapshot. The resemblance was unmistakable. Dark hair, blue eyes, patrician features in an oval face. She was smiling, the photo obviously having been taken in an unguarded moment. Roland felt his heart lurch. His sister. A surge of fierce protectiveness surprised him.
“She looks to be about my age,” he said.
“A year older, I would expect,” Victor confirmed. He turned to his wife defensively. “It happened over twenty-seven years ago. We married for duty, Sara, but love came later, didn’t it?”
She nodded, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with a linen handkerchief that had appeared from somewhere. “I remember,” she said. “We were…estranged.”
“Yes. It was so hard to understand and admit that the marriage of duty into which we had entered had become so very…emotional.”
“I suppose it was my fault,” she said, looking up at him through her tears. “I changed the rules on you. I was the one who wanted, needed, more.”
The duke bowed his head momentarily and cleared his throat before saying, “That’s not entirely true. I just didn’t know how to deal with changes in my own feelings. I…ran away.”
“To Glenshire,” Sara added, remembering, “the old hunting lodge.”
“I met Maribelle there in Glenshire,” he rasped. “I thought that an affair with her would restore my perspective, and it did, only not in the way I expected. She was dear and lovely and lonely, I think, and we both knew that I would never stay with her. When I ended it, I knew that the only woman I would ever again want was waiting for me at home.”
Sara chuckled tearfully. “You pursued me—courted me, really—after eight years of marriage. I didn’t care why. Then.”
“I won’t ask you to forgive me,” Victor said stiffly, “only to support my efforts in this. Whatever I’ve done, the girl is innocent.”
For a long moment, Sara Thorton said nothing, merely stared sadly at her husband, but then she lifted her hand to her face and skimmed away her tears. “Roland came after that reconciliation. You’ve given me two wonderful sons, one out of duty and one out of love. But I always wanted a daughter, and you gave her to another woman.”
Victor pursed his lips, obviously fighting his own emotions. “I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said finally. “I wanted to spare you this knowledge. I wanted to spare us both this moment. I never knew about the child, but if she’s mine, and it seems that she is, I must find her.”
“It could still be an elaborate hoax,” Grayson pointed out, his even tone not quite hiding his discomfort at witnessing such a personal exchange. “The girl may not be a Thorton at all. We have to find out what has become of this Maribelle and whether or not she even has a daughter.”
Sara briskly dried her eyes. “Yes, yes, you’re right, of course, Mr. Grayson. That should be our first step.”
Roland glanced down at the photo that he had taken from his brother’s hand. His gut told him that this was no hoax, but they had to be sure. Meanwhile, they had to consider what to do next. The trouble was that his own mind was whirling. You gave me two wonderful sons, one out of duty and one out of love. Roland couldn’t help wondering if his brother had picked up on that statement. Personally, he was having a little trouble thinking of himself as the love child in the equation.
“Could I see that, please, Roland?”
The sound of his mother’s voice brought his gaze up from the face in the photo. He slid a look at his father, not really contemplating withholding the snapshot but wanting the duke’s full acquiescence anyway. Victor walked across the room, his hand held out for the photograph. Roland slid the snapshot into his father’s hand and waited with Raphael to take in his mother’s response. Victor delivered the photo gently and stood awaiting his wife’s reaction. Sara cupped the likeness in her hand and studied it for a long while.
“She’s very beautiful,” the duchess said at last, “and every inch a Thorton.” She looked up at the assembled group and asked, “Who could do this, kidnap an innocent young woman and hold her for ransom?”
The atmosphere in the room changed somehow, coalesced with a fresh, strong sense of purpose. They were banded together as a family in that moment, united in support of their own, as they never had been before. His mother might not have forgiven her husband’s long-ago infidelity, but she had accepted his secret daughter as one of the family. Roland felt an almost overwhelming sense of pride. Victor clasped both hands behind his back and lifted his chin regally.
“Enemies are the price of ruling,” he said. “We are not without ours.”
Grayson shrugged. “I would categorize most as rivals, rather than true enemies.”
“Rivals and enemies,” Victor mused, eyes narrowing. “Charles Montague.” He turned his head to impale his youngest son with a sharp gaze. “The shipping contract. You met privately with the Deputy Minister this morning. The ransom note had already been delivered.”
Roland nodded, thinking it through. “The note doesn’t mention money, only that you are to follow instructions. It could be that, not knowing the matter is already resolved, Charles Montague means to force you to withdraw your bid. But why?
