banished, the clutter put away. All Nellie’s doing. And the shirt she’d been mending was one of his too. He dropped onto the nearest settee, and as soon as he hit the cushions a grey cloud rose up from his clothes.
“My goodness, you’re covered in ash.” Nellie tapped the sleeve of his coat, eliciting a further puff of dust. “Where have you been?”
“In the city, sifting through the remains of a burnt-out house. It belonged to a retired jeweller, a Mr. Cazalet. He died in the fire, in his bedroom upstairs.”
“That’s terrible. When did this happen?”
“Last night. I went to visit him today, but it was too late.” He rubbed his gritty eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as frustration welled up once more. “Too damned late.”
Nellie’s skirts rustled as she stood. He heard the chink of glass against bottle, and a moment later she nudged a tumbler of brandy into his grimy hands.
“Tell me what happened,” she said as she reseated herself.
Nursing the tumbler between his hands, he gazed at her, grateful for her presence. After the horrendous hours he’d passed, she was a gust of fresh air, a drink of pure water. She was the one person he wanted to confide in. Needed to confide in.
He dug into the inner pocket of his frock coat and pulled out a small brooch. “See this? I was left on the doorstep of this house wrapped in a plain woollen shawl and nothing to identify me except this brooch.”
He handed it to Nellie.
“It’s not particularly valuable in monetary terms,” Julian continued, “but it’s the only link to my true parentage.”
Nellie nodded slowly as she traced the circle of tiny diamonds surrounding the ruby. “A delightful piece, nevertheless. It must be a comfort to you, knowing that your mother left this with you, that she didn’t abandon you out of choice.”
Grimacing, he took a swallow of brandy. Was it a comfort or a curse, possessing that brooch? Wouldn’t it have been better if his mother had left no clue? Plenty of newborn babes were abandoned by their mothers. He would have grown up happy and grateful for Elijah’s care and love, and not spared a thought for the woman who’d given birth to him. But instead that wretched bee brooch had needled him all these years, taunting him with the promise of finding his parents, reminding him each time he looked at it that beneath his veneer of success he had no history, no antecedents, no identity.
“Six months ago I decided to try to track down the owner of that brooch,” he said, his voice roughening as he recalled his quest. “I trudged from one jeweller to the next, making endless enquiries. As I’ve said, the brooch isn’t very valuable, so few people were willing to trawl through their records of twenty-odd years ago. I almost gave up, until I met Mr. Cazalet. He was retired and had plenty of time on his hands. He was happy to go through his old books, and eventually he found that yes indeed he’d repaired that very brooch more than twenty-five years ago.” He paused as he realised he was coming to a crucial part of the story. He sat up, the better to gauge Nellie’s reaction. “The person who brought in the brooch was a young woman called Ophelia Ormond, the sister of Thaddeus Ormond.”
Her skin paled, throwing her scars into rough relief. “Ouch.” She winced as she pricked her finger on the pin of the brooch. A tiny bead of blood welled up on her fingertip. “I know nothing about Ophelia Ormond,” she muttered, averting her eyes as she dabbed at the blood with a handkerchief.
“You don’t?” He kept his gaze fixed on her. “She’s been dead many years, but I thought perhaps Sir Thaddeus might have mentioned his sister to you.”
“What makes you think that?” She tipped up her chin defiantly.
“Because I know you’re connected to Thaddeus Ormond in some way.” She twisted her head away, but he continued, “Nellie, you’ve suffered a terrible assault, and your life has been
“My goodness, you’re covered in ash.” Nellie tapped the sleeve of his coat, eliciting a further puff of dust. “Where have you been?”
“In the city, sifting through the remains of a burnt-out house. It belonged to a retired jeweller, a Mr. Cazalet. He died in the fire, in his bedroom upstairs.”
“That’s terrible. When did this happen?”
“Last night. I went to visit him today, but it was too late.” He rubbed his gritty eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose as frustration welled up once more. “Too damned late.”
Nellie’s skirts rustled as she stood. He heard the chink of glass against bottle, and a moment later she nudged a tumbler of brandy into his grimy hands.
“Tell me what happened,” she said as she reseated herself.
Nursing the tumbler between his hands, he gazed at her, grateful for her presence. After the horrendous hours he’d passed, she was a gust of fresh air, a drink of pure water. She was the one person he wanted to confide in. Needed to confide in.
He dug into the inner pocket of his frock coat and pulled out a small brooch. “See this? I was left on the doorstep of this house wrapped in a plain woollen shawl and nothing to identify me except this brooch.”
He handed it to Nellie.
“It’s not particularly valuable in monetary terms,” Julian continued, “but it’s the only link to my true parentage.”
Nellie nodded slowly as she traced the circle of tiny diamonds surrounding the ruby. “A delightful piece, nevertheless. It must be a comfort to you, knowing that your mother left this with you, that she didn’t abandon you out of choice.”
Grimacing, he took a swallow of brandy. Was it a comfort or a curse, possessing that brooch? Wouldn’t it have been better if his mother had left no clue? Plenty of newborn babes were abandoned by their mothers. He would have grown up happy and grateful for Elijah’s care and love, and not spared a thought for the woman who’d given birth to him. But instead that wretched bee brooch had needled him all these years, taunting him with the promise of finding his parents, reminding him each time he looked at it that beneath his veneer of success he had no history, no antecedents, no identity.
“Six months ago I decided to try to track down the owner of that brooch,” he said, his voice roughening as he recalled his quest. “I trudged from one jeweller to the next, making endless enquiries. As I’ve said, the brooch isn’t very valuable, so few people were willing to trawl through their records of twenty-odd years ago. I almost gave up, until I met Mr. Cazalet. He was retired and had plenty of time on his hands. He was happy to go through his old books, and eventually he found that yes indeed he’d repaired that very brooch more than twenty-five years ago.” He paused as he realised he was coming to a crucial part of the story. He sat up, the better to gauge Nellie’s reaction. “The person who brought in the brooch was a young woman called Ophelia Ormond, the sister of Thaddeus Ormond.”
Her skin paled, throwing her scars into rough relief. “Ouch.” She winced as she pricked her finger on the pin of the brooch. A tiny bead of blood welled up on her fingertip. “I know nothing about Ophelia Ormond,” she muttered, averting her eyes as she dabbed at the blood with a handkerchief.
“You don’t?” He kept his gaze fixed on her. “She’s been dead many years, but I thought perhaps Sir Thaddeus might have mentioned his sister to you.”
“What makes you think that?” She tipped up her chin defiantly.
“Because I know you’re connected to Thaddeus Ormond in some way.” She twisted her head away, but he continued, “Nellie, you’ve suffered a terrible assault, and your life has been
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