If this could all be believed.
“But I never lived anywhere near Kenmarsh,” she said. “I was raised as a ward of Margate School until just four years ago. That was when I came here to teach music lessons.”
“And before Margate, where were you?” Lord Drewe asked.
“I haven’t any clear memory, unfortunately. I asked my schoolmistress for details.” Goodness, had her horrid interview with Miss Paringham only been that afternoon? “She told me I was abandoned.”
Kate stared at the woman in the portrait. Her mother, if this could be believed. Had she died? Or given her baby up, unable to care for a child on her own? But it was plain from the way the woman’s hand draped affectionately over her rotund belly, she’d loved that infant in the womb. How amazing, Kate thought, to think she could be in that painting, underneath the skin of it, fetal and wriggling and . . .
Loved.
“You poor thing,” Lark said. “I can’t imagine how you must have suffered. We can’t undo those years, but we will do our best to make up for them now.”
“Yes,” Drewe agreed. “We must install you at Ambervale as soon as possible. When I’m home tonight, I’ll send a lady’s maid to help with your packing.”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary.”
“Did you already have your own lady’s maid?”
Kate laughed, astonished. “No. I haven’t that many belongings to pack. What I meant was, it’s not appropriate for you to invite me to your home.”
Lord Drewe blinked. “Of course it’s appropriate. It’s a family home.”
A family home.
The words made her breath catch painfully. “But . . . wouldn’t I be an embarrassment?”
“Absolutely not,” Harry said. “Our brother Bennett holds the position of family embarrassment, and he jealously guards it against all would-be usurpers.”
“Why would you embarrass us, dear?” asked Aunt Marmoset.
“Even if all you say is true . . . I’m your illegitimate second cousin, by a tenant farmer’s daughter.”
Kate waited for the import of her words to sink in. Surely people at the Gramercys’ level of society didn’t associate with bastard relations?
“If you’re concerned about scandal, don’t be,” Lark said. “Scandal comes with the Gramercy name—along with enough wealth that no one much cares. If there’s one lesson Aunt Marmoset instilled in us from our youth, it’s—”
“Beware of spice drops,” said Harry.
“Family above everything,” countered Lord Drewe. “We may be a motley assortment of aristocrats, but we stand by one another through scandal, misfortune, and the rare triumph.” He pointed to the parish register. “Simon claimed his daughter and gave her the family name. So if this infant is you, Miss Taylor . . .”
A dramatic pause thickened the air in the room.
“. . . then you are not Miss Taylor at all. You are Katherine Adele Gramercy.”
Katherine Adele Gramercy?
Like hell she was.
Thorne clenched his jaw. He wasn’t a man of words. This situation called for eloquence, but he could only think of action. Chiefly, he wanted to fling open the door and turn all these queerly chattering aristocrats out on their arses. Then he’d lift Miss Taylor in his arms and carry her upstairs to have the restful lie-down she’d been needing for the past several hours. Her cheeks were deathly pale.
He would want to lie down next to her, but he wouldn’t. Because unlike these presumptive intruders, he had restraint. Thorne had heard of aristocratic inbreeding being to blame for imbecility and bad teeth. This family seemed to have contracted a sort of verbal cholera. Everything they spouted was rubbish.
He couldn’t believe these people proposed to take Miss Taylor away. He couldn’t believe she’d consider going with them. She had sense.
And she promptly displayed some of it.
“You’re so kind. But I’m afraid I can’t leave Spindle Cove so hastily. I have obligations here. Lessons, pupils. Our midsummer fair is just a week or so away, and I’m responsible for all the music and dancing.”
“Oh, I love a fair.” The youngest one bounced in her seat again. She had an irritating way of doing that, Thorne noticed.
“It isn’t much, but we have a good time with it. It’s a children’s festival, mostly—up at the ruined castle. Corporal Thorne and his militiamen are helping, too.” After throwing him a hesitant look, Miss Taylor continued, “At any rate, surely you’d wish for this . . . connection . . . to be more official before inviting me to your home? If we find that your suppositions are wrong, and I am actually not your relation . . .”
“But the portrait,” the young lady protested. “The register. Your birthmark.”