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“I am sure when he is ready, your papa will find a wife.”

Tatiana hugged her back. “I hope so.”

They spoke for several more minutes before Jane escorted the girl back to her room down the hall. Knocking quietly, she waited hand in hand with Tatiana until the door opened to reveal the black-haired beauty she had observed earlier that day.

“Miss Thompson? I believe I have something of yours.”

The woman was lively, and although she must have been close to fifty to have a Tatiana as a granddaughter, her olive face was barely lined. Her high cheekbones and flawless skin spoke to a Mediterranean heritage, while her thick black hair fell to her waist in a gleaming plait. She had risen from bed, her brown eyes bleary and unfocused—until she caught sight of her granddaughter peeking from behind the skirts of Jane’s wrap. She looked back into the room to the cot near the bed, as if expecting to see a replica of the girl lying there.

Turning back, she wailed, “Tatiana! What are you doing out of bed?”

Jane noted a slight Mediterranean lilt to the older woman’s voice. “She came to find me in my room.”

Over the next few moments, they made their introductions. Jane led the child into the room, and then, with a nod of her head, gestured that she needed to speak in the hall with the grandmother.

Miss Thompson understood her. After tucking Tatiana back into the cot, she followed Jane from the room and closed the door behind her.

Jane told her of the conversation that they had had. When they parted ways, the grandmother had a look of worry on her face, but Jane felt better for meeting the woman, who appeared genuinely concerned about Tatiana’s request. She was certain that the woman would address the matter.

Walking away as the door clicked shut behind her, Jane visited the library in search of a new book. She was wide awake in the middle of the night, and recent evenings had taught her it would be some hours before she fell asleep once more. With no sister left in residence, a good novel was needed to keep her company.

* * *

Barclay leaned on the ledge of his bedroom window, staring up at the moon which cast a silver light across the landscape. The chamber behind him was quiet, the hearth embers long gone to ash, and the only sound was the soft stir of the drapes as the breeze moved through the crack in the casement. Pale ribbons of moonlight spilled across the polished floorboards, and from somewhere in the distance came the solitary hoot of an owl.

He pondered what Natalya would say about this recent turn of events.

They had acquired a whole new family. An important earl, his various relations, and tonight, at dinner, he had met the Duke of Halmesbury and his duchess. The man had been imposing in stature, several inches taller than Barclay, who was himself six feet. But the big, blond Viking had a steady manner and calm gray eyes, and appeared genuinely honored to meet him.

After dinner, the earl and the duke had met with him in the study to converse—the younger brother with the smooth manners and even smoother tongue had departed earlier in the day with his new bride.

Once in the study, the duke had taken the time to explain their connection. The late earl, whom no one seemed to remember with any relish, was the younger brother of the duke’s late mother. As Richard had stated, Barclay was indeed a first cousin to the duke, which was still a fact he was having difficulty assimilating.

If Natalya had been by his side tonight, she would have been so pleased on his behalf. His late wife had never been tolerant of anyone who socially snubbed the Thompsons because of Barclay’s parentage, and she would have heartily approved of the earl’s decision to find him and acknowledge him as kin.

With that thought, his memories turned to his young wife.

When Barclay had been a much younger man, Tsar had sent him to negotiate new contracts with suppliers in St. Petersburg. He had arrived in late spring, when the Neva River shimmered beneath nearly endless skies and lilacs bloomed along the embankments. The light never seemed to fade, and the scent of warmed stone and birchwood drifted through the city streets, where merchant families in fine carriages passed beneath rows of wrought iron balconies and bell towers.

He had stayed in the home of a respected merchant—an old friend of his grandfather—where he met the merchant’s youngest daughter, recently returned from finishing school.

Natalya had caught his attention at once, acting as his interpreter at social events. He still recalled what she had worn that first night—a gown of soft lilac silk, the hem embroidered with tiny white wildflowers, and a sheer shawl fastened with a silver filigree brooch. Her hair, the color of moonlight, was plaited into elegant coils and adorned with a carved ivory comb. Her manner was warm and graceful, her voice low and precise as she translated jokes and proposals with equal poise. She smelled faintly of rose attar and orange blossom water.

To her, his parentage had meant nothing. She had not blinked at the mention of his unmarried mother. She only cared for him.

Her father had considered the match an honor—uniting with the family of Tsar was no small matter, even if Barclay bore the stain of illegitimacy. The man had looked beyond society’s snubs and seen a future son-in-law worthy of his daughter.

Barclay had intended to stay a month. He had remained for three.

And when the ship set sail for home, his Russian bride had stood beside him—his Natalya, silver-haired and smiling, her hand wrapped tightly in his.

When Natalya had accepted his proposal and embarked on a new life in England, they had both known their days together were numbered. She suffered from a weak heart, but she had refused to allow her condition to hold her back. She had been determined to live life to its fullest, and Barclay was grateful for every moment he had shared with her on this earth.

When she had decided to have a child—something the doctors had cautioned her against—his wife could not be dissuaded. She had wanted to leave a piece of herself behind.

“You must allow this, Barclay. One day I will no longer be here, and then you will be grateful to have our child to remember me by.”

He had reluctantly agreed, and Natalya had bravely taken the journey of motherhood, taking every precaution to protect herself during that time. And she had been proved right in her quest. She had survived the ordeal to bring Tatiana into the world and lived another six years as her mother. Long enough to see their daughter walk for the first time, to hear her laugh, and to watch her grow from a tiny babe into a spirited young girl.