dead along with your poor parents?”
Rafe wished those bloody chairs weren’t so far away. He feared he was about to collapse too.
“Rafe?” Selina pressed herself to his side and put her arm around his waist. She wiped her hand over her brow. “Who are you?” she asked the woman.
“I’m Mrs. Gentry, the housekeeper here.” She rose, her gaze warm and kind. “You poor dears, this is a shock to you, I can see. What can I do for you?” She turned her gaze to Rafe. “My lord?”
My lord.
His knees felt weak. Selina seemed to know it as her hold on him tightened.
“Our father was the earl?” he managed to ask.
Mrs. Gentry nodded. “Yes. He was Lord Stone’s older brother.” She shook her head. “My apologies—you are Lord Stone. Oh my goodness, what will your uncle say?”
His uncle. His real uncle.
Rafe swiped his hand over his face. Good God, he was a fucking earl. Absurdly, he thought of all the people he’d known over the long years of his childhood, when he’d commanded a small army of thieves and later when he’d overseen a dozen receiver shops from Saffron Hill to Petticoat Lane. Or those who had known him as the Vicar.
Selina pivoted with him and pushed him down on the chaise. He pulled her down with him, needing her at his side.
“Would you like a drink?” Mrs. Gentry asked. “Perhaps some port?”
“No. Maybe.” Rafe shook his head. He couldn’t think. And he bloody well needed to. He directed an intense stare at the housekeeper, uncaring if he frightened her with his fierce need to understand. “You’re certain I’m—” What the hell was his name even? “Stone’s heir?”
The housekeeper shook her head.
“You aren’t certain?” Selina asked tentatively, her brow creasing.
“I am. I beg your pardon, this is a shock for me as well. You are not, however, Stone’s heir. You were, but now you are Lord Stone. Raphael Jerome Mallory is your name—Jerome was your father—I have always included you in my prayers. But you were addressed as Lord Sandon, of course. Your father called you Sandy, but your mother called you Rafe.”
Sandy. The name roused something in him. A horrible sound erupted from his chest—part gasp and part sob. He clapped his hand over his mouth and looked away.
When he’d reined in his emotion, he turned his head back to housekeeper. “Tell us about the fire.”
“There you are.” Harry Sheffield, Selina’s husband, took that inopportune moment to interrupt as he walked into the gallery. “I’ve been looking all over for—” He stopped abruptly. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, Harry.” Selina let out a sound similar to the one Rafe had made.
Sheffield rushed forward and crouched down before her. “What is it, my love?”
Selina threw her arms around his neck and began to cry. Rafe stared at her, feeling as overwhelmed as she looked but also somehow frozen.
Sheffield’s gaze met Rafe’s over Selina’s shoulder. “What the hell is going on?”
“We’ve had a bit of a shock.” That was all he could say?
“Come, we must go downstairs and find Lord Stone.” The housekeeper frowned. “Er, Mr. Mallory.”
Selina pulled back from Sheffield and wiped at her eyes before looking to Rafe. “Should we?”
“You must,” the housekeeper insisted. “He’ll want to know you aren’t really dead.”
“I require an explanation,” Sheffield said. As a constable, he was always on a quest for answers.
Selina touched the side of her husband’s head. “You know our parents died in a fire. Mrs. Gentry”—she nodded toward the housekeeper—“recognized Rafe—the orange mark in his eye. She knows who our parents were—the Earl and Countess of Stone.” Her voice broke on the last word. Rafe put his hand on her shoulder.
Sheffield’s eyes widened, and he gaped at Rafe. “You’ll need proof to claim that.”
“I’m the proof,” Mrs. Gentry said, sounding a bit cross. “And I’m certain the other members of the household who were here when they were children will agree he is Lord Stone. Furthermore, there are bound to be several people at Stonehaven who can do the same.”
“Stonehaven?” Sheffield asked.
“The Stone family seat.” My family seat, Rafe thought. He was a goddamned earl. And he had no idea when—or if—that would sink into his brain.
Sheffield narrowed his eyes at Mrs. Gentry. “You’re certain it’s him?”
“She is,” Rafe answered tersely. “Just as I’m certain that I’ve been here before—that we lived here. I knew what the house looked like before I came inside, and I took Selina directly to a portrait of our grandfather.”
“Harry, he knew it was him,” Selina said softly. “Then