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spirits.”
    She resumed playing, and excellently, Forde realized. She had to have studied with a master, so, yes, Doddsworth’s opinion of her gentility was not far-fetched. And yet she grew turnips and kept goats.
    After a long, difficult piece, played to perfection, Mrs. Cole switched to popular songs. Roland and Louisa sang a duet to her accompaniment, not for the first time, it sounded. Then Susannah raised her clear voice in a lovely rendition of “Greensleeves.” Forde applauded with the others, genuinely appreciative of the picture the sweet young woman made—and her mother, leaning over the keys so her gown fell a bit lower, with a touching look of pride on her face.
    He missed his boy. And a woman.
    The same female servant, Mrs. Tarrant, wheeled in a tea cart. Mrs. Cole got up to pour, while Susannah handed the cups around and carried plates of biscuits.
    When she reached his chair, Forde casually said, “I was wondering what ship your father was sailing on when he perished.”
    The teapot thumped as Mrs. Cole set it down. “I do not like to speak of my dead husband, and Susannah was too young to know him.”
    “Your pardon, ma’am. I merely thought I might know some of the men who served with him. Susannah might like to meet them, to hear their recollections.”
    “I doubt it. That is, she has never asked.” Before the girl could, Katie said, “Here, Susannah, take the platter of raspberry tarts around again. You know they are Lady Martindale’s favorite.”
    Forde carried his cup closer to where the widow sat, so the others would not overhear. “I am sorry if I upset you.”
    “I find it difficult to speak of Mr. Cole.”
    “John.”
    “George,” she corrected.
    “Ah. Did you meet him in London? Or at your home in . . .?”
    She pushed the teapot away. “Please, this is too painful.”
    “Odd. I have no trouble discussing my late wife, and she has not been gone nearly as long. You must have loved James very much.”
    “George. I did. And I cherish his memory to this day.” Katie clasped her hands together to keep them from trembling.
    “Yet you do not share your memories with your daughter—his daughter. What of her grandparents? If they are sending funds, as Gerald told me, surely she has met them?”
    “A bank handles the matter. They are both deceased.”
    “What of your own family, then? The reason I ask such personal questions is that I wonder why Susannah has not been brought to London. Brookville offers a solitary kind of life for a young lady, especially a beautiful, talented one like your daughter. She could do far better than Gerald if someone were to present her to Society.”
    “She has never been interested in the city or the beau monde. And, no, I have no family, either. Would you like more tea? A biscuit?”
    She might not have spoken. “Ah, you were born under a cabbage leaf? Left for the fairies to raise? Your musical ability was not learned at any orphanage.”
    He was not going to stop. “Very well, since you insist on bringing up distressing topics, my family is dead. The Brownes.” Which was the most common last name in all of Britain. “And we moved around a lot when I was a child, so, no, you will not know our home. My mother was an accomplished performer who taught me what little I know.” She got to her feet. “Now I must bring Lady Martindale a fresh cup of tea.”
    “Let me.”
    “You are too kind,” she said through thinned, lying lips. “May I offer you another cup also?”
    Forde declined. He wouldn’t be surprised if there was rat poison in it. And he wouldn’t be surprised if her story had more holes in it than a fishnet. Devil take it, he had to find out the truth about this woman. For Gerald’s sake.

Chapter Six
    E veryone was leaving, except the one guest Katie wished gone the most. Susannah was helping Cook clear the tea things in the parlor, but he was waiting by the front door. Gerald’s uncle appeared strong and confident and