Sobering enough to bring his mind back to the investigation. He still had time to search for Newberry, time to discover why the lord had bedded Larissa, why he was prying into Lucius’ affairs. But since deciding to prove Atticus was murdered, something always happened to hinder his plans.
Now, the whisper of his name from the shadows of a carriage house stole his attention. The sibilant sound brought an image of Larissa Sinclair. No doubt the widow had followed him from the house, keen to discover if Miss Atwood was to be his next mistress.
Anger flared anew.
He straightened and stormed across the yard towards the open wooden doors. “What do you want, Larissa?”
The shuffling of footsteps in the darkness preceded the appearance of a woman shrouded in a thick blue cloak. Beneath the raised hood, it was impossible to distinguish her face. The visible black locks should have confirmed his suspicion. Only when she stepped closer did he notice the vivid streak of grey.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.” The fact the woman’s soothing tone was so opposed to Larissa’s serpent hiss proved unnerving. She took a hesitant step towards him. “But I could not risk being seen by your friends.”
“Do I know you?” Lucius narrowed his gaze.
Her
light laugh carried a nervous tension. “I should hope you do, though it has been far too long since I took your hand and sang you a lullaby.”
A lullaby?
He stilled. “Is this some wicked devil’s trick to confuse my mind?”
“A devil’s trick? No, Lucius. It is a mother’s way of attempting to greet her son.”
Time crashed to a halt.
Shock rendered him rigid.
The word mother gripped his tongue with desperate fingers, for he lacked the strength and courage to let it fall.
She edged closer, craned her neck and peered out into the mews before lowering her hood. “My, how you’ve grown.”
His heart thumped so hard he couldn’t breathe. How could this be? Julia Fontaine had been murdered in a jealous rage, buried in an unmarked grave in the grounds of Bideford Park.
“I thought you were dead.”
The duke had said as much.
Skilled in prophecy, Lucius had predicted Sybil would sneak into his house at night, predicted someone would attack them on their return to Half Moon Street, predicted that at some point he would fall victim to her charms. But he could never have predicted this.
“Is that what your father told you?” His mother remained in the carriage house, and Lucius was forced to join her there. “You poor boy.”
Disbelief made him study every facial feature, every blemish, every line. Despite trying to keep his mother’s image alive in his mind, the picture had grown hazy over the years. It didn’t help that his father had torn down her portrait and slashed the canvas to shreds.
“I’m no longer a boy.” He hated that she’d called him that—the word his father used as a weapon to belittle him, to strip him of his identity.
“No.” She released a weary sigh. “It’s been twenty years since we last spoke.”
“Almost twenty-one.”
Discomfort clawed at his shoulders. In his fantasy, he had imagined rushing into her embrace, imagined her stroking his hair, saying that she had never meant to leave him. Everything felt right. Perfect. As if the bond had never been broken. The ties never severed. The love never lost.
“I understand your reticence,” she said, and he wondered why her voice was devoid of guilt. “It’s been a long time. You must have many questions.”
It wasn’t the thousand questions that left him fraught with confusion. He had expected to see a young, attractive woman with vibrant eyes and porcelain skin. A perfect image of the woman who’d loved him and left him. Fool. This woman’s gaunt face spoke of hardship. Her wide blue eyes carried a deep, abiding sadness.
“Have you been living in London all this time?”
Surely not. Despite knowing he was the sole beneficiary of his grandmother’s estate, he had searched every workhouse, every brothel, studied every actress in every play. He had stared at every lord’s mistress, hoping, praying that his father’s cruel words amounted to nothing but rotten lies.