Anne Barbour Read Free Page A

austerely. “Mr. Finch left the bookshop to me and I have been running it since his death.”
    “I see.” Bran shifted in his chair. “It has been a pleasure making your acquaintance, Mrs. Finch. However, I must say you have shown me no evidence other than a story that could have been made up of whole cloth to indicate that you are Felicity Marshall. Therefore, I think it is time to bring our interview to a close.”
    If he expected his statement to discommode Mrs. Finch, he was doomed to disappointment.
    “But what if I did not make it up?” she asked reasonably. “What if it is all true? Do you not think it is up to the Marquess of Canby to accept or dismiss what I have to say? It seems to me, my lord, that it behooves you to let him make that decision.”
    “Of course you would think that,” Bran retorted somewhat waspishly. This female had an extraordinary gift for bringing out the worst in him, he reflected. “You mentioned a locket,” he said after a moment. “I suppose that was conveniently lost during your travails.”
    Mrs. Finch said nothing, but smiled sweetly as she reached for her reticule.
     

3
     
    Martha struggled to conceal her exultation as she picked up her reticule. From it she produced a tiny bit of silver, which she handed to the earl.
    “Yes, my lord,” she murmured. “The locket is still in my possession, though I had some difficulty in keeping it all these years.” Tears stung her eyes as she recalled the tenacity with which she had clung to the keepsake. She’d made up stories in her head about the people in the portraits, creating elaborate fantasies in which she became a beloved daughter, the center of their doting attention.
    Martha observed the surprise in Lord Branford’s dark eyes, and watched, scarcely daring to breathe, as he turned the little silver scrap over in his fingers before opening it.
    For a moment, Bran said nothing, merely gazing at the two miniatures, his expression shuttered. He did not recognize the small piece of jewelry, but he knew the two faces as well as he knew those of his own parents. Much better, in fact. He had tried for so long not to think of his parents at all that now his memories of them were faded and fragmented. He turned hastily to his perusal of the portraits. They were copies of two larger works that hung in the family gallery at Canby Park, in Bedfordshire. The subjects were the Earl and Countess of Bennington, the son and daughter-in-law of the Marquess of Canby. Bran concealed his surprise, telling himself it was more than likely that the Widow Finch had purchased the locket in a bits and pieces shop, perhaps some years ago. On discovering the identities of the pair pictured inside, she had seized the opportunity to make her claim.
    Staring at the two smiling faces, Bran was struck with his own memories. Memories of Canby Park, and in the background, a small, vivacious girl, busy about her own pursuits. Felicity. A golden-haired cherub— an imperious, brown-eyed imp—a mischievous whirlwind—a demure tyrant. A plaguey nuisance, he and Stewart called her, through privately Bran adored her. Felicity returned his affection, following him about like an engaging puppy. When she was five she announced to Bran that he must not seek a bride when he grew up, for she intended to marry him herself. Ten-year-old Bran, scoffing loudly, secretly tucked away her promise, building dreams of a family that would be his alone.
    Bran glanced up to observe Mrs. Finch gazing at him, a flicker of hope shimmering in her expressive, brandy-colored eyes. Felicity Marshall’s eyes? He shook himself. Lord, he was becoming as maudlin on the subject as the old gentleman. He became aware of a sense of danger emanating from the slender figure opposite him. This was perfectly absurd, of course, yet he felt somehow threatened by that wispy sense of recognition and by the fleeting vulnerability he saw in a woman who seemed to wear her self-possession like a steel