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else…”
    Juliet leaped to her feet in alarm. “See here, Griff, you aren’t simply accepting this bizarre tale, are you? There are too many questions unanswered, and the matter of the rumors left to resolve. We can’t walk out of here just like that—”
    “I agree with Lady Juliet,” Mr. Pryce interrupted. “You have to stay the night in Llanbrooke anyway, since it is much too late to set off for London. Are you at that horrible inn, the Peacock’s Eye?”
    “I’m afraid so,” Griff admitted. “It appears to be the only inn in town.”
    “Then you should stay here instead. That way, if more questions arise tonight, you can renew the discussion. Besides, why endure such wretched accommodations when Sebastian has a mansion all to himself? He can make you quite comfortable.”
    “Uncle Lew—” Lord Templemore began warningly.
    “Don’t be inhospitable, my boy. It’s bitter cold out there—surely you don’t expect these poor ladies to suffer the miserly comforts of the Peacock Stye. Good God, man, where is your compassion?”
    “I was merely going to suggest,” his lordship said evenly, “that Knighton may not wish to stay under my roof, considering the trouble my brother caused his family.”
    “Nonsense,” Rosalind put in, with a familiar gleam in her eye. “I confess that I wasn’t looking forward to returning to that nasty inn. As long as Juliet doesn’t mind—”
    “I don’t mind at all,” Juliet interrupted, though her reasons for wanting to stay differed vastly from Rosalind’s. Rosalind was probably playing matchmaker, envisioninga grand marriage between Juliet and the rich brother of her kidnapper.
    Well, Rosalind could envision it all she wanted, but it wouldn’t happen. Especially if Juliet was right—and his lordship really was Morgan Pryce. Perhaps she was foolish to still think so, considering the letter and other evidence, but she would swear his lordship was hiding something. The holes in his tale were large enough to sail the Oceana through. She’d learned two years ago not to let her sympathetic nature distract her from the facts.
    “There! You see, Sebastian?” Mr. Pryce said triumphantly. “We’re all agreed. The Knightons and Lady Juliet will stay here tonight.” He held out his arm to Juliet. “Come along then, all of you. We’ll get you settled in.”
    Juliet took his arm and he led the way out the door, but when they reached the hall and he realized his nephew wasn’t with them, he paused and stuck his head back into the study. “Sebastian, are you coming?”
    “In a moment. I have some business matters to attend to first. Go take care of our guests. Put them in the east wing, and tell Cook there will be five for dinner.”
    “Certainly, my boy,” Mr. Pryce answered, then shut the door. As they walked off down the hall, he let Griff and Rosalind move ahead, then spoke in a voice meant only for her. “I say, Lady Juliet, would you answer one question?”
    “Yes?”
    “Why did you and your family wait two years to come looking for my nephew?”
    She sighed. “Until this new gossip started circulating, I preferred to let sleeping dogs lie. My family abided by my wishes.”
    “And now that the sleeping dog appears to be dead?”
    Appears to be? She took a stab in the dark. “You don’t believe that.”

    He flashed her a pained smile. “Sebastian has pronounced Morgan dead, and his opinion is all that counts.”
    What an odd thing to say. “Is it indeed?”
    “You’ll find out soon enough that it is.” Raising his voice, he turned to her sister and began asking about their trip from London.
    How very strange. She didn’t doubt Lord Templemore’s wild tale about having a twin—Mr. Pryce had corroborated the story, and parts of it fit very well with Morgan’s history, as Griff had noted.
    Yet why did Lord Templemore show so little grief over his brother’s death? He’d mourned his father—a man he clearly disliked—yet he didn’t seem to