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Even when the woman had already left, Rosamund could still feel an icy grip around her heart. She somehow maintained her composure, her back rigid and her chin lifted as they were ushered into the hotel’s private drawing room.

The servants deposited their luggage and left. The double doors were left wide open to preserve decorum as the Duke and Rosamund were left alone for a moment. He poured a glass of water and drank from it before turning toward her, as she removed her gloves.

“Are you angry at me again, Lady Rosamund?” he asked, his tone serious.

“I am not angry, Your Grace,” she said simply. “I merely find your past rather exhausting.”

“My past?”he asked, lifting an eyebrow. “Because an old acquaintance remembered a game of cards from two Seasons ago?”

“You know that it is not what I meant,” she replied, exasperated. “It seems that everywhere we go, there seems to be a reminder of your past exploits, and they do not relate to card games, Your Grace. I would have been tired of carrying so many past light acquaintances.”

“Would you have preferred that I spent the best part of my twenties reading sermons?” he asked, with a laugh.

She was not amused, and replied, ‘One sermon might have done you a world of good.”

This time, the Duke barked out a laugh. It was a sound that was so unexpected, aloud, and also so charming that it made her pulse race. Rosamund hated that her body often betrayed her whenever she was with him. Then, as quickly as he broke in loud laughter, the amusement faded from his features. It was replaced by something more serious and more intense. For Rosamund, it was more dangerous whenenver he turned this way.

“Listen, Lady Rosamund,” he said, lowering his voice, “There is no woman from my past to whom I remain attached. Not Lady Forsworth. Not anyone from the villages back home. Not anyone from London. Whatevr flirations or affairs he had were precisely what they appeared to be. They were meaningless and transient.”

“Why are you tellig me this?” Rosamund asked, swallowing hard. Her heart flipped in her chest a few times.

“Because,” the Duke murmured, leaning down to level his eyes to hers, “you looked hurt.”

“I looked hurt?” she echoed, looking incredulous. “I do not care how you spent your evenings in Brighton and elsewhere!”

“You are an atrocious liar, Lady Rosamund,” he whispered.

The air felt taut around them, as if it would snap at any time. He held her gaze boldly, and she would not lose the battle, staring at him back. Finally, the rustling of Alice’s skirts in the hallway broke the spell. It seemed like they had more and more of these close encounters.

During their search the following day, they had a breakthrough when they finally found the house Eleanor Vale used to live in. An elderly lady with silver hair answered the door. She blinked at the group standing n her doorstep, her eyes immediately scanning each one and the fancy clothes they wore, especially that of the Duke’s and Adrian’s. She gae them a quick curtsy.

“Good day, Mrs. Watson?” the Duke asked.

“Yes, I am Mrs. Watson,” the old lady confirmed. “How may I help you, my lord?”

“We hear that a woman named Eleanor Vale resides here,” Rosamund said. “Does she still do?”

“Eleanor?” The old lady’s face lit with recognition. “It has been years since anyone asked for her.” She stepped back, and gestured them to come inside. “Come inside, my lords and ladies. It is a humble place, but it will keep you away from the cold.”

They all entered obediently, crammed in the narrow parlor. All around them, they could smell lavender and something sweeter mixed with the odor of old paper.

“So, you do remember Miss Vale, Mrs. Watson?” Rosamund prodded, her hands beginning to tremble on her lap.

“Of course I do, my lady,” the old woman said. “She came to me in desperate circumstances. She had not a shilling to her name, and seemed frightened. Then, she lived in the top floor room for years.”

“Did she have any visitors?” the Duke asked.

“Only one gentleman,” Mrs. Watson replied, without hesitating. “From what I heard, he was from Ashbourne. Looked like a proper gentleman, and he always brought her money. She used it to pay her rent, buy her food, and more.”

Rosamund’s throat went dry. She assumed that the gentleman was her father. It made sense.

“Was Miss Vale his mistress?” Rosamund asked, tasting the bitterness of her own words and voicing the fears that had gathered within her.

Mrs. Watson looked surprised, gaping at her. “His mistress? I have seen many a man keeping women in homes, but their relationship seemed too cold for that. They were too formal with each other, and the meetings always ended in arguments. Sometimes, Eleanor would even scream at him. I could still remember the exact words because she often shouted them at him: You are only doing this to protect her even after her death.”

Rosamund gasped. Her mind couldn’t help but turn to her mother. Eleanor Vale must have been speaking about her mother, the late Countess of Ashbourne. But why would her mother have needed protection? And what kind of protection could a dead woman need?

“She was not alone, either, when she first arrived, more than twenty years ago,” Mrs. Watson said thoughtfully. “She had a little girl with her. A quiet little thing, perhaps five or six years old.”