cloak, Lydia went into the drawing room, closing the door behind her to keep Alexander out. She sank into a chair beside the window, her heart pumping terror instead of blood through her veins. With trembling fingers, she turned the letter over, broke the seal, and unfolded the paper.
Her suspicion solidified into painful acceptance as she read the neat penmanship and tried to remind herself that she had feared this day for years. She should be grateful it hadn’t dawned before now.
Every square matrix is a root of its own characteristic polynomial.
She refolded the letter and slipped it into her pocket.
Think, Lydia. Think.
The door opened and Mrs. Driscoll left the tea tray on a table before departing. The smell of biscuits caused a swirl of nausea. Lydia tried to drink a cup of tea but managed only two sips before her stomach rebelled.
She grabbed a decorative bowl and retched, sweat breaking out across her forehead, her hands shaking as they gripped the porcelain edges.
“Lydia?”
Her heart plummeted. Tears stung her eyes, blinding her. Alexander’s hand rested warm and heavy on the back of her neck.
“Lydia, go upstairs. I’ll send for the doctor.”
“No, I—”
“You’re ill. If you don’t—”
“No!” Her strident tone made him step back.
Lydia closed her eyes and breathed, trying to suppress the violent storm of emotions that would, if unleashed, drown all coherent thought. She fumbled for the teapot as Alexander took the soiled bowl out. Lydia took a drink, her stomach still roiling.
Alexander’s booted steps moved almost soundlessly across the carpet. Lydia forced herself to look up. He stood with his arms crossed, his expression impenetrable but his eyes dark with both concern and frustration.
A crack split down the middle of Lydia’s heart, jagged and sharp. She remembered when she had once believed Alexander capable of withstanding any truth, any confession she laid before him.
Now the time had come for proof—and Lydia thought for the first time in her life her theory would prove wrong.
She dug her hand into her pocket. Without speaking, she extended the letter toward him.
Alexander took the paper and opened it. His expression didn’t change as he read the contents—the contents Lydia knew by heart even after reading the letter only once.
Dear Lydia,
Congratulations on your engagement. I have anticipated the event, considering your acquaintance with Lord Northwood.
Through several colleagues, I have learned of his lordship’s family history and the divorce of his parents. It seems Lord Northwood has been committed to putting the scandal to rest.
What would his lordship say, I wonder, if he were to learn of your secret?
A secret of such immense proportions that if it were divulged among his circle, his name would be damaged beyond repair? Moreover, it would destroy the credit of his entire family, which he has attempted so valiantly to restore.
I do not delude myself by thinking you’ve already told him. We must meet privately to determine the lengths to which you will go in order to keep your secret.
Alexander must have read the letter ten times before he finally lifted his head to look at her. A muscle ticked in his jaw, the cords of his neck tightening.
“What is this about?” he asked.
Lydia took the letter back, sweeping her gaze over it. Memories pushed hard at her consciousness, her heart waging a constant, unending battle with her mind, the desperate desire to belong to something, someone. To stop thinking. To start feeling.
“He wrote it,” she said. “Joseph Cole.”
“Who, exactly, is he?” His voice began to vibrate with apprehension.
“He was a professor at the University of Leipzig. My professor.”
“And what secret is he threatening to divulge?”
He still watched her, wary and distant. Emotions swamped her—love, pain, fear, sorrow, guilt, regret. And yet as she looked at the man she so desperately wanted to marry, a strange sense of calm began to descend over the chaos, settling her heart, calming her blood. She drew in a breath and spoke in a steady voice.
“Alexander, Jane is not my sister.”
“Not your—”
“She is my daughter.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
A rustle of movement filled St. Martin’s Hall as exhibition workers and curators worked on numerous displays. The light of dusk blurred the windows. Flames diminished in the fireplaces; lights dimmed in the huge candelabras.
Jane stood near a display of natural history educational objects. Glass cases sat along the walls filled with dried plants, animal bones, and various things preserved in glass jars. The tables bore remarkable cases of insects and butterflies, spread wings and beetle shells shimmering. She picked up a bottle containing the carcasses of