“In my anger and my great disappointment, I made a grave error. I moved her to a lesser Arlington property, but I did not tell her the rest of my plan. Instead, I told her that she was ruined. That I would transfer her to a remote location under lock and key and she would rusticate there in shame for the rest of her life. I meant to frighten her, for it was indeed a shameful thing that she had done. I wanted her to reflect long and hard on her conduct, and to be properly grateful for her second chance when she received it.
“But I frightened her too well. She ran away instead, with the child’s father. We were able to trace their path to Southampton. And then they disappeared into the ether. My panic was complete. I swore the governess and the doctor into secrecy, and then I set out to craft the greatest lie of my life.
“We forged her death. In his grief, my husband’s hair turned gray overnight. But I dared not tell him the truth, for fear of his disappointment in me. We held a funeral for her. Our lives went on, sadder and emptier. And I wondered every day what had happened to her, and what I could have done differently.
“And then, one fine summer day, almost seven years after she ran away, a young man came to call at Lyndhurst Hall. My husband was out on the estate. I received him alone. Awkwardly, almost stammeringly, the young man said that his cook had told him that she was the daughter of the ninth Duke of Arlington, and could that possibly be true?
“My panic returned in full force. My only thought at that moment was that my husband must not discover my deception. I showed the young man the grave that contained the body of a stranger that our physician had obtained from somewhere—I never asked where. I showed him a photograph of some other niece of mine. I offered to take him to see the same physician whom I’d sworn into secrecy. By the time my husband returned for luncheon, the young man had been thoroughly convinced that his cook was a liar. He told my husband that he had come to admire our gardens. We partook luncheon together and he left.
“The next day I went to London and hired someone to find out whether the young man’s cook was indeed our lost niece. It was such a relief to know that she was alive and well, as was her baby. But the information my detective brought back also thrust me into a new dilemma.
“I learned that Mr. Bertram Somerset and my niece had been engaged in a liaison more than two years in duration, a liaison that ended abruptly after his visit—which led me to deduce that she had divulged her parentage in order to entice him to marry her, and that my denials had placed her in a most unflattering light and led to a rupture between them.
“I was desperate to bring her back into the family. But should we acknowledge that she was alive, she was still ruined beyond even what the power and prestige of the Arlingtons could repair. For that I needed a suitably situated man who could be prevailed upon to marry her. And yet that idea went against everything I held sacred about marriage: an institution not to be entered into except gladly, reverently, by two people longing to share all they have and all they are for all their days.
“Mr. Bertram Somerset would not marry her without the benefit of an alliance with the Arlingtons. Had she not been ruined, I would have resolutely forbidden such a match. But ruined she was, and he was the best candidate at hand. I agonized for weeks on end. At last I decided that I would swallow my principles, visit Fairleigh Park, and arrange for their marriage—the day after my annual ball.
“And then something unexpected happened on the day of the ball. She made a trip to London. My man, obeying my instruction to keep a close eye on her, followed her. I need not tell you what happened on that trip, Mr. Somerset.”
Verity grew red hot. All these years, her aunt had known about her one night with Stuart—and would have thought of it every time she saw him.
“Why did you never tell me anything?” he said. “I was desperate to find her.”
“With the difficult decision I’d made, I was severely disappointed in her. How could she yet again be so rash and reckless with her person? And with an absolute stranger, no less. For what? To avenge herself upon her former lover? I could think of nothing more stupid that she could have done.”
“It wasn’t like that,” he said quietly.
“No, now I imagine not. But back then my opinion on the matter was harsh and unforgiving. I decided that she was quite unworthy of the ancient and illustrious name of Drake and that I would have no more to do with her in this life.
“But I could never bring myself to completely withdraw my detective from Fairleigh Park, and so I still received news of her and her child. Gradually I became impressed with tales of her extraordinary culinary skills and with her very promising child.”
The dowager duchess sighed. “Three years ago, when my husband was on his deathbed, I confessed what I’d done. He was overjoyed—if he hadn’t been so ill he would have gone to see her right then. I promised him that I would take care of her and the child for as long as a breath remained in me—and that Tin would take up that responsibility after my death.