Page 44 of Desperately Seeking Seduction

However, even more interesting was that the Edwin Aston he’d once known had been sharp of feature, small for his age, and blond.

The Edwin in the painting had possessed tight blond ringlet curls, too, much like Aston Senior’s, though his were grayer now than what they must have been in the man’s youth. Stratford had forgotten that important detail about the Edwin he’d known.

He opened the shutters for better illumination and held the painting out at arm’s length.

What struck him most was the face. Small, pert nose, almond-shaped eyes, and obvious intelligence shining out from the canvas. When not rushing off, Edwin had always had his head in a book and had not liked Stratford disturbing his reading.

No one ever did, really.

But he would wager the Edwin Aston downstairs probably hadn’t lifted a book in years.

The fellow he’d painted had been almost delicate. In fact, if he did not know better, he could almost believe he’d met and painted a daughter of Aston’s, rather than the son he remembered being introduced to.

Given the dissimilarity between the painting and Edwin, Aston’s heir, it strongly suggested to him that the boy he’d known had been replaced some time ago.

Algernon would certainly want to know about this development. He could perhaps use the information to blackmail Aston into waiting more patiently for a full repayment. It would be a duke’s word over Aston’s, of course, but it could be enough to simply plant a suspicion and watch the scandal play out.

If it was at all true, that Edwin was an imposter, Aston would fall into line quickly.

If it was not true, well, obviously he would never forgive the duke for casting aspersions on his character. He wasn’t disposed to like Algernon anyway, thanks to their father.

But what the hell had happened to the version of Edwin that Stratford had known? Was he dead?

The very thought of that angered him.

Stratford ground his teeth and studied the painting again…

And realized he had seen that slight figure, that sharp jaw and those remarkable eyes—lying under him. The shade of those eyes was something he could never decide upon, even now.

They were as changeable as the weather.

A match for his current valet’s.

Stratford cursed. He stared into those eyes and shook his head at another example of his foolishness. Win should be no son of Edwin Aston, but clearly she was something to him. He gulped. Or was it that Edwin Aston the younger was the real stranger in all of this?

He tucked the painting under his arm and turned on his heel.

The Edwin Aston downstairs was a man, once a child, who had been plucked from parts unknown to replace a good son…who might have been a daughter in disguise all along.

Stratford held back a vile curse as he recalled every detail Winston had related about her early life. Always dressed as a boy. Couldn’t ever return home. Moving constantly from place to place for employment. Stratford should have asked why she’d ever thought she needed to keep a distance from everyone.

Stratford very much wanted to doubt his conclusions, but they could not be silenced now. Something had bothered him about the younger Edwin Aston for years. Now he knew what it was. Edwin Aston wasn’t Edwin Aston.

The Edwin Aston he had known so long ago had been Win.

Win. Edwin.

He thought of the name she used, and cursed again.

Edwin Aston even spelled Dane Winston if you scrambled the letters around and added Edwin’s middle initial. N.

It was a game Stratford played in his head when he was bored. He’d taught Edwin how to do it, and they had played it together as children, at night when Stratford couldn’t fall asleep and had kept Edwin from slumber, too. He closed his eyes, remembering the almost forgotten occasion. Edwin lying in his bed beside Stratford’s in the nursery, pulling his blankets up to his chin, and getting cranky with Stratford for talking too much.

Rotted Fretsaws.

That was the unfortunate name Edwin had made up for Stratford one night. Odd how he had not forgotten after all these years. Edwin had repeated it over and over and over to him, and said nothing else. Stratford hadn’t been able to get him to stop until he’d promised to shut up.

He put the painting up to the light again as he passed another window. He’d bet his future profits from the Ravenswood estate that this portrait was of his current lover as a child. Likely the only proof of her existence.