girl claiming to be Philomena Armstead was the worst, bringing tears to Angelina’s eyes. She’d always pictured her sister content, the laughing golden cherub she remembered. Why shouldn’t Mena be happy, taken in by the next thing to royalty? The image had sustained Lena through her own years of abject misery. But the Duke of Kirkbridge hadn’t kept his beautiful little grand-daughter; he’d sent her away to a foster home somewhere within the week. Why, Lady Sophie spent more time than that finding a good home for one of her strays. Then the dastard duke had the nerve to die without leaving a scrap of information behind. Mena might be dead, too, or worse.
* * * *
Corin forgot all of his intentions. His firm resolve dissolved with one salty tear. “What’s wrong, Lena? Did someone hurt you? Harm one of your dogs?” She might be a thorn in his side, but Lena Armstead was his thorn, and Corin wasn’t about to let anyone else torment her.
Without inquiring too deeply whence this protective streak, the viscount simply told himself that since she was on his property, Miss Armstead was his to defend. And comfort.
He opened his arms, the most natural thing in the world, and she fit perfectly, dampening his shirt collar.
Some women could look attractive when they cried, dewy-eyed and interestingly pale. Not Miss Armstead. She went all splotchy and swollen, and her nose dripped. Corin thought her adorable. He handed her his handkerchief. “Was it the woman I passed on the way in? Did she insult you?”
Angelina blew her nose and shook her head, too overcome to look up at the viscount. “She wasn’t my sister.”
“Lud, I should hope not! That female was a... That is, she...”
“Was no better than she ought to be,” Angelina supplied, still sniffling.
“She blew me a kiss on her way out.” For a moment he’d feared she was Mercedes Lavalier, arrived before-times, in a blond wig. But the woman today was taller and broader and, no matter the danger, Mercedes would not masquerade as a common whore. She might be a prostitute, but she was anything but common. “What the deuce was a female like that doing here anyway?”
So Angelina twisted his handkerchief into a wad and told him about looking for the sister who’d been lost without a record. “Who knows what happened to her? She could be dead, too, or forced into a life of shame like that unfortunate female.”
“Plaguey things, sisters,” he said, trying to console her. “Always nagging at a fellow. Moody, conniving—and you can’t wallop one like you could a brother. Trust me, you’re better off without.”
“That’s easy for you to say with all your aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews. But I have no one. No one in the whole world to call my family.” And she started weeping again. So Corin started patting her. He got to touch those little curls clinging to her nape; they were as silky as they looked.
Angelina stepped away before Corin could disgrace himself by taking advantage of her unhappiness and vulnerability. “I have to find her,” she said, sniffling. “I just have to, to know that she’s safe. Now that I have funds, I could help her if she needs me.”
“But you said they must have changed her name when your grandparents gave her up for adoption, so how will you know it’s your sister? Surely you don’t expect to recognize her after, what? Fifteen years? Children change too much. Their hair gets lighter or darker, even the color of their eyes can alter with time.”
“I’ll recognize her by our shared memories, the pet names my parents had for us, a million things no stranger would know. Surely Mena would remember something.”
“But what if she doesn’t? You said she was younger. I understand little children often forget memories that are too painful to recall.”
“She’ll remember the happy times with our parents. I do, and I am only a year older. If by chance she does not remember being adopted at all, if the new
* * * *
Corin forgot all of his intentions. His firm resolve dissolved with one salty tear. “What’s wrong, Lena? Did someone hurt you? Harm one of your dogs?” She might be a thorn in his side, but Lena Armstead was his thorn, and Corin wasn’t about to let anyone else torment her.
Without inquiring too deeply whence this protective streak, the viscount simply told himself that since she was on his property, Miss Armstead was his to defend. And comfort.
He opened his arms, the most natural thing in the world, and she fit perfectly, dampening his shirt collar.
Some women could look attractive when they cried, dewy-eyed and interestingly pale. Not Miss Armstead. She went all splotchy and swollen, and her nose dripped. Corin thought her adorable. He handed her his handkerchief. “Was it the woman I passed on the way in? Did she insult you?”
Angelina blew her nose and shook her head, too overcome to look up at the viscount. “She wasn’t my sister.”
“Lud, I should hope not! That female was a... That is, she...”
“Was no better than she ought to be,” Angelina supplied, still sniffling.
“She blew me a kiss on her way out.” For a moment he’d feared she was Mercedes Lavalier, arrived before-times, in a blond wig. But the woman today was taller and broader and, no matter the danger, Mercedes would not masquerade as a common whore. She might be a prostitute, but she was anything but common. “What the deuce was a female like that doing here anyway?”
So Angelina twisted his handkerchief into a wad and told him about looking for the sister who’d been lost without a record. “Who knows what happened to her? She could be dead, too, or forced into a life of shame like that unfortunate female.”
“Plaguey things, sisters,” he said, trying to console her. “Always nagging at a fellow. Moody, conniving—and you can’t wallop one like you could a brother. Trust me, you’re better off without.”
“That’s easy for you to say with all your aunts and uncles, nieces and nephews. But I have no one. No one in the whole world to call my family.” And she started weeping again. So Corin started patting her. He got to touch those little curls clinging to her nape; they were as silky as they looked.
Angelina stepped away before Corin could disgrace himself by taking advantage of her unhappiness and vulnerability. “I have to find her,” she said, sniffling. “I just have to, to know that she’s safe. Now that I have funds, I could help her if she needs me.”
“But you said they must have changed her name when your grandparents gave her up for adoption, so how will you know it’s your sister? Surely you don’t expect to recognize her after, what? Fifteen years? Children change too much. Their hair gets lighter or darker, even the color of their eyes can alter with time.”
“I’ll recognize her by our shared memories, the pet names my parents had for us, a million things no stranger would know. Surely Mena would remember something.”
“But what if she doesn’t? You said she was younger. I understand little children often forget memories that are too painful to recall.”
“She’ll remember the happy times with our parents. I do, and I am only a year older. If by chance she does not remember being adopted at all, if the new
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