Page 1 of Forgotten No More

Prologue

7 April 1783

Not a fiber of my being knows why I seek to put this terrible moment to paper, to commit the wrongs against me to a tangible surface. Part of me believes—no, hopes—if I do not acknowledge these foul sins I have made against my family, then all can be forgotten. Alas, I can no more hide from my misdeeds than one can hide from the plague. It consumes me, inhabits my every waking thought, devours me in my dreams…

Verily, I did not wish to bring this dishonor down upon my husband. I did not go in pursuit of falling—falling so surely I can no longer be whom I have always been. So drastically I have changed…or perhaps not I, but my perception of my world and my place in it.

I was the Honorable Miss Pearl, daughter of an English Baron.

I was, and have been, Mrs. Pearl St. Augustin for over ten years.

But what I have always sought to be is a mother.

Mayhaps I set my sights too high for what the good Lord planned for my husband and me.

Or possibly He has forgotten me altogether.

I know naught. I ceased caring what the Lord had planned for me the night I met the man who ripped my heart in two, tore my very soul from within, and dashed every dream, every desire for life I had within me. He did this all whilst placing the beating heart of a precious child in its place.

He was to be my salvation and instead he has damned me to an eternity of hiding. Hiding my sins, my love, and his child.

Possibly I write this to remind myself of the evils of seeking what is not meant to be yours—to warn others, including my unborn child, of the malevolence of mankind.

Chapter 1

London, England

January 1816

Miss Ruby St. Augustin glanced over her shoulder as she ran down the endless dark hall toward the safety of an empty room. Skidding to a halt, she eased the door open and slipped soundlessly inside. She leaned back against the solid door, breathing heavily as the latch clicked into place. She hoped she hadn’t been followed, though she couldn’t be certain.

She’d only been in town a few days, but was finding it harder and harder to escape the notice of her mother. The woman attended every social engagement from afternoon teas to grand balls.

It quickly grated on Ruby’s nerves. She wasn’t ready to face the woman. There was still information to gather, emotions to sort out, and a certain man to locate—even though by doing so, she was working in direct opposition to her mother’s wishes.

Ruby looked around as her eyes adjusted to the dim glow of the room. The smell of after-dinner cigars engulfed her. It was standard London style: massive desk no gentleman of the ton actually used, two straight-back chairs facing said monstrosity of a work area, and an enormous hearth large enough to burn the abundant misuse of wood in the room. Two chairs were cozied up nicely for maximum heat, an assortment of collectables and books scattered about. The only thing that changed from house to house was the color scheme. Lord Trenton, or possibly his esteemed wife, had selected a mix of blood red and gold. Gaudy, yet the height of fashion this season.

Ruby had quickly learned that stealth and efficiency would benefit her greatly if she hoped to find the object she sought without being caught by another guest or—heaven forbid—the lord of the house. A servant she could handle, blaming her presence on being lost looking for the ladies’ retiring room, but anyone else’s suspicions would be difficult to allay. Moving into action, she went straight for the desk and opened one drawer after another, pushing papers to the side or gently lifting objects, careful to put everything back in its place. Her mother had detailed the thing so specifically, Ruby felt she could sketch it in her sleep.

A handcrafted letter opener, polished metal with inlaid rubies, and the inscription, The course of true love never did run smooth. She knew the quote well, even without her mother’s reasoning for selecting the line. Penned by William Shakespeare, and performed at the local playhouse the night her real father had laid eyes upon her mother. As her mother had written it, it was true love at first sight, the line coinciding with the moment their eyes had met across the crowd—Pearl ensconced in her dear friend, Lady Darlingivers’, box, her father meanwhile consorting with the commoners in the general seating area.

Her mother wrote countless pages of how she’d sold her most prized possessions to have the opener crafted for ‘her love,’ as she’d called him early on in her journal. Her mother had gushed with pride when she wrote of presenting the gift to her lover: How he’d accepted it with reverence and declared his own love. The words and feelings within the journal were as foreign to Ruby as the people it described. She did not know her mother as a woman who could care about another so much that she’d give up her own funds to make him happy.

Only a few pages later, her mother wrote of her desire to stab her lover with said letter opener when their affair went awry. The words, so wisely inscribed, had proven prophetic for the pair—assuming the man had ever loved her mother at all. She lamented on and on about the injustices of the world, the fickle hearts of men, and the burden of living with one’s decisions.

Despite the inadequacy of her methods thus far, Ruby saw no other way to gain what she sought without approaching the only woman with the knowledge to set her mind at ease. Still, a part of her hoped that someone would tell her what she’d found in the attic of their country estate was a ruse, the writings of an imaginative mind, the journaling of a lonely and bored woman of the ton.

Unfortunately, Ruby would not—could not—trust the mother who had ignored her existence for all her adult life, treated her like an inconvenience, and then as soon as she was able, shipped her to the country estate of a friend to become a young lady’s paid companion. The irony of the situation was not lost on her: For years her mother sought to avoid her, and now Ruby did everything in her power to evade the woman.

Ruby slammed another drawer closed after finding nothing of use. “Where are you?” she muttered. Pulling another open, she moved papers, extra ink, and a sealing kit aside in her search.

She did not, for one, minute regret her years in the country, spent with her nearest and dearest friend, Lady Viola. But Vi was now married and starting a life of her own with Lord Haversham, so she had no need for a paid companion.

How Ruby wished she could go back to that time when she’d been unaware of her mother’s deceit. A time when she’d thought her mother, Mrs. Pearl St. Augustin, only a detached woman with limited motherly instincts unhampered by attachments. Was it truly only six months ago? And only a few short weeks since she’d found her mother’s journal, detailing her extramarital exploits?

Closing yet another drawer, she turned her attention to the last and the largest of them all. She eyed the keyhole suspiciously, as if it would click locked if she grasped the handle too quickly.

Ruby took a deep breath before trying the final drawer that could hold all the answers to her past, her true heritage. Her lungs expanded; she held the air inside. She didn’t exhale until it burned. With trembling fingers, she reached for the last drawer and pulled.