Page 64 of Cruel Hearts

“Like Elizabeth, then?”

The older woman didn’t even flinch. “The precocious little minx used to flirt with anything in trousers, and if things didn’t go her way, she wasn’t afraid to cry rape.”

A boulder of dread landed in my gut as the words in Father Neapolitan’s letter pushed their way to the front of my mind. Lady Liddell was bluffing. If she had taught Mother, then she might also have discovered the accusations. It didn’t matter. This was Elizabeth’s mother and a participant of that farce of a police raid. She’d say anything to score a point.

I made a deliberate show of rolling my eyes but tightened my stomach in anticipation of a damning revelation. Whatever Lady Liddell said next would be a lie based on enough truth to sound convincing.

“To protect the innocent, I won’t list the boys Abigail Burgh seduced and subsequently accused.”

“Because they don’t exist,” I snarled.

Wagging her finger, Lady Liddell rocked back on her stiletto heels. “All that promiscuous activity was to hide one terrible fact.”

“Let me guess, her Home Economics teacher was as gropey as her daughter?”

Lady Liddell’s face hardened. Perhaps she already knew about Elizabeth’s proclivity for assaulting other girls. Maybe all those girls the knights had gotten expelled for lewd conduct were prior victims of Elizabeth’s sexual entitlement.

“I wasn’t going to share this with you.” The older woman slid a Dior tote off her shoulder and pulled out a yellowed envelope.

Anticipation thrummed in my heart. Whatever it was, I didn’t want to know. My gaze darted to the door. “Get out. I’m not interested in your lies.”

“Not until you hear what I have to say,” she snapped. “You’ve forced my hand with your violence and belligerence.”

My lips curled into a snarl. That didn’t even make sense.

Lady Liddell’s lips turned down in a mockery of a pitying look. I wanted to slap those red sausages off her potato face and make her false eyelashes skitter away into the corner of the room. The old cow reached into the envelope and pulled out a crackly piece of paper.

“Your mother was already sexually active by the time she joined Templar Academy. Her rapist was your precious grandfather.”

Rage exploded through my veins and heated my face. “You filthy, desperate liar—”

“Read this.” She unfolded the paper and slid it across the table. “A doctor in the prison infirmary kindly took a swab shortly after you were born, and we compared that to the dried saliva from the pipe Duncan Burgh used to smoke.”

Without meaning to, I scanned the letterhead:

Forensic Laboratories

Abigail Burgh

C/o Yolande Inglis

Springfield Cottage

Templar Academy

Scotland

April 3 2002

Paternity Test

DNA mouth swab samples from the following individuals were examined:

Alleged father: Duncan Burgh

Child: Delilah Burgh

Two columns one with my name and the other with Mr. Burgh’s. I didn’t understand what the numbers meant. DNA markers, perhaps? But my gaze skipped down to the bottom where it said: