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maids and cooks heard as much tittle-tattle as did their employers, and they took pleasure in passing along the tidbits as much as did the members of the noble class, if such a thing were possible.
    When her parents had returned from America with an infant in tow, all of London’s nobility immediately assumed the boy to be Charlotte’s illegitimate child. And upon Charlotte’s return to England, they twittered that their assumptions had surely been correct. The child could belong to no other. Eligible men fawned over her. When she refused their advances, they reminded her that she’d already wandered down the path of impropriety. She was, after all, considered to be a tarnished woman and surely knew what men expected of such a woman. At first she had coyly overlooked their remarks, but none would be deterred.
    They’d prepared in advance their outrageous speeches, quick to point out the fact that young Morgan bore a remarkable resemblance to her. With his distinctive blue eyes and pouting lips, how could Lady Charlotte possibly expect anyone to believe the child was not her own? The preposterous story her parents had told of finding an abandoned child while traveling abroad hadn’t been believed by anyone with a whit of sense. At least that’s what the eager young men alleged.
    After abiding several such encounters, Charlotte had refused all further social invitations. Remaining at Lanshire Hall with her son gave her much greater pleasure.
    ‘‘Your ladyship, please come quickly. It’s your father.’’ The servant who had been assigned to sit at her father’s bedside waved Charlotte toward the door before hastening back to her post.
    ‘‘I’ll not be gone long, Beatrice. Please remain with Morgan until I return.’’ She called the command over her shoulder and raced down the hallway.
    Fear gripped her heart. Hadn’t her mother reported an improvement in her father’s health only hours ago? She tried to calm herself with that thought as she entered the bedchamber. The nurse had propped her father upright on his pillows, and he forced a smile as she came to an abrupt halt near his bedside.
    She clutched a hand to her bodice. ‘‘When Wilda came to fetch me, I thought your health had taken a downward turn.’’ Sighing, she dropped to the chair beside his bed. ‘‘I’m pleased to see you wish to visit.’’
    He signed for the servant to leave the room and then waited for the familiar click of the door. ‘‘Move your chair closer so I need not exert myself while speaking to you, child.’’
    She did as he bid and then settled back in the chair. ‘‘When you’re feeling well enough, I shall bring Morgan for a brief visit. Would you like that?’’
    ‘‘I should enjoy seeing him, my dear, but you and your mother must accept the fact that my health is not going to improve.’’ His voice faltered. ‘‘I need someone in whom I can confide. It should be your mother, but she has suddenly taken to acting like a foolish young woman. I fear my news will send her plummeting into one of her bouts of hysteria.’’ He glanced at the coffered ceiling. ‘‘And perhaps I couldn’t blame her.’’
    Charlotte gently grasped her father’s hand, once again surprised to feel how frail the fingers were that nestled within her own. ‘‘What is it? Surely nothing can be as difficult as you’re thinking.’’
    A tuft of white hair drooped across his forehead. ‘‘I fear it’s worse than either you or your mother could imagine, my dear.’’
    Charlotte steeled herself for what she might hear. ‘‘Please don’t withhold anything from me, Father. I promise I can withstand whatever it is you need tell me.’’
    He gave her hand a feeble squeeze. ‘‘We are financially ruined, Charlotte. There is no easy way to divulge this, but I cannot die without making you or your mother aware of the consequences you will face upon my death.’’
    Her jaw went slack. How could this be true? Her father must be