two long strides forward, the suddenness of the movement like the strike of a snake. He reached to snatch the paper from her grip. Just as his fingers grasped the edge of the document, Jane yanked it from his reach. Thrusting it back into her pocket, she turned and ran. His low, guttural curse ripped through her ears.
Not daring to try to move past him, Jane headed for the narrow back staircase leading up to the gallery. As she passed the natural history display, she ducked around a diorama featuring mounted birds. Grabbing the document from her pocket, she shoved it behind the spread wings of an eagle before heading to the gallery with the intent of reaching the stairs on the other side that led back to the main floor.
Glass-fronted cases, desks, tables, and bookshelves packed the spaces of the gallery. As Jane maneuvered around them, she tried to look over the railing to find Mr. Hall, but there was no sign of him amid the massive displays.
Panic shot through her. If he’d gone home already… no. Mr. Hall wouldn’t leave without her.
Jane quickened her pace, not daring to look behind her as she skirted around a table piled high with scrolled maps. She was halfway across the gallery when her foot caught on something. She fell hard to the floor, a gasp jamming in her throat. Pain shot up her right wrist as she tried to break her fall with her hands.
Keep going. Keep going.
With a panicked sob, she tried to push herself to her feet. Then a man’s shadow fell across her, long fingers curling around her arm. Dr. Cole spoke through gritted teeth, his grip tightening to the point of pain.
“Foolish girl,” he hissed.
Jane tried to scream. No sound emerged before his hand clamped over her mouth.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Alexander startled, taking a step away from her. Fresh, raw pain coursed through Lydia’s chest. She averted her gaze but felt the shock that held him immobile.
“Your… your daughter?”
Lydia nodded, experiencing a sense of relief at having finally told him the truth. No matter how he reacted, at least she no longer bore the burden of such a secret.
“But Jane is—”
“Eleven. She was born when I was almost seventeen.”
She lifted her lashes to risk a glance at him. He remained still, his hands curled into fists at his sides, his expression rigid.
“Tell me,” he ordered.
“It is not a pleasant story.” She paused. “Far from it.”
“I don’t care. What happened? Is he Jane’s father?”
“Yes.” Her fingers clenched on the letter.
“He didn’t… did he…” Alexander swallowed, his fists tightening.
“No. No.” Beneath her fear, shame began to simmer inside Lydia. She attempted to contain it, knowing she owed him the full story in all its sordid details. “It… it was a… a mistake, Alexander, a hideous one, but I was a willing participant. And I promise I will tell you whatever you want to know, but I must speak with Jane first. Please. I… I didn’t think he’d ever find us again. I don’t know if he’s tried to contact her, if he would—”
Her voice shattered on the cusp of a speculation too horrific to name. She covered her face with her hands, dimly aware of the anger beginning to tear through Alexander’s silence.
“Where did Mrs. Driscoll say she’d gone?” he asked.
“To her piano lesson with my grandmother.” Lydia swiped at the perspiration on her brow. “I… It’s imperative I speak with her—it’s the reason I needed the locket back. All of this—”
“I’ll collect her from Rushton’s. You wait here. I do not wish there to be a scene at my father’s house.”
He turned and left. Lydia stared at the closed door. A bead of perspiration trickled down her neck, sliding beneath her narrow collar.
She went upstairs to her room, splashed water on her face, and fixed her hair. Nervousness twisted in her stomach. She went down the corridor to the schoolroom where she and Jane had spent countless hours together.
Jane’s possessions and creations were scattered everywhere—paintings, dolls, toys, drawings, a world globe, books, bits of crochet, and embroidery samples.
Lydia picked up an old rag doll that Sir Henry had once given Jane for Christmas. The doll stared sightlessly back at her, one button eye missing, the stitches of its mouth beginning to tear.
“Lydia?” Wariness infused her grandmother’s voice.
She turned. “Is Jane with you?”
“No.”
Lydia frowned. “Where is Alexander?”
“I don’t know. What is going on, Lydia?”
“He was on his way to collect Jane from her piano lesson,” Lydia said. “Didn’t you take her?”