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a diary?” Alain’s skepticism
was obvious.
    “A birth certificate can be easily forged. Public records contain dates, and the parish records in the village
would have the details she claims.” Tristan dismissed
the certificate as inconsequential.
    “The diary could be complete fabrication. There’s no
way to know if its fiction or truth. Who would be able to
validate its contents?” Alain suggested.
    “Those are the arguments I made with her this evening,” Giles said, gratified that his friends shared
his train of thought.

    “Even if she believed the claims were legitimate, what
can she do to push them?” Alain asked, lazily studying
the onyx inkwell on the desk’s corner. “Has she a fortune
to spend on legal fees? Does she have a barrister who will
take on her case? Is there anyone who will believe her?”
    “Not that I know of.” Giles grimaced and blew out a
long breath. “Her very inability to pursue this is what
bothers me most. From all aspects, it seems her cause is
futile. It is dangerous to play the imposter, and yet she
does. What does she hope to gain?” He pushed a hand
through his disheveled hair.
    “Money?” Tristan offered.
    “I already offered her a tidy sum to take her game
somewhere else. She turned it down. She wanted only
the right to stay at Spelthorne until I read the diary.”
    “Did you grant the request?” Alain queried.
    “Yes. I thought it would be best to keep her where I
could see her until this was settled.”
    Tristan leaned forward, elbows on knees, chin on
hands. “Then I think there is only one thing to do and
that is read the diary. We can’t decide a course of action
until we know what is in there.”
    A footman scratched the door and entered with the
heavy silver coffee service. He settled it on the low
table by the fireplace, giving the three men a chance to
rise and resettle themselves in the comfortable chairs.
Alain poured steaming cups of coffee while Giles began to read out loud.

    February 24, 1787
    I am convinced I have conceived at last. I have
called upon my husband, the earl’s physician to
verify my condition. Perhaps the birth of a child,
of a son, will win me some affection and warmth
from Spelthorne. I have long been of the belief
that our marital estrangement has been due to the
lack of children. It has been five years since our
marriage-a long time to wait.
    March 13, 1787
    I am indeed expecting a child, and I am reminded of that every morning. I have been dreadfully ill, and I have lost weight in the early stages
of this pregnancy. My clothes hang on my frame,
and Spelthorne seems repulsed by my haggard appearance. To my regret, he greeted the news of our
impending parenthood with neutral good form,
saying all the correct things but none of the things
I wished to hear. Since the announcement, he has
taken himself back to London and no doubt the
mistress he keeps there. He has indicated he will
return in time for his heir’s birth in September,
and I am free to send for him before then if there is
need. I am not welcome in London this season and
I find myself alone in the country with few people
for company this time of year.
    “Their life doesn’t sound all that different than other
couples I know,” Tristan said while Giles leafed ahead in the diary. “Nor does it sound all that original. This
could be any noblewoman’s diary. Perhaps she found it
at a flea market and made a few alterations.”

    Alain perked up from his habitual slouch. “Giles, do
you have any of your mother’s correspondence left?
Letters she wrote? We can match the handwriting.”
    “There may be some left in the safe. I have a box of
her things in there” Giles stood up and passed the diary
to Tristan. “It’s your turn to read while I open the safe.
Skip ahead to the parts closer to the birth. The earlier
months look like more of the same, complaints over
pregnancy and loneliness. No matter how cursory