Page 74 of A Stolen Heart

“What about the children, though?” Alexandra asked. “Did you see them killed?”

“No. Only Chilton and his wife, but the crowd went inside. Bound to have murdered the children, too. Burned the house to the ground, anyway. No way they could have survived that.”

“Did you see their bodies, perhaps? After the fire?”

“Good God, no!” Chesterfield looked shocked. “Not a ghoul, you know. Besides, we didn’t dare venture out of the house. No telling what might happen—they could have come back.”

“Then you cannot be absolutely sure that the children died, too,” Thorpe persisted.

“What else could have happened to them?” Chesterfield asked reasonably. “Poor little devils. They didn’t escape that house. It was surrounded. If they had by some chance done so, we’d have heard about it, wouldn’t we? No, I’m afraid they all died.” He looked at Alexandra, understanding beginning to dawn on his face. “Are you saying that you’re one of the children?”

“No,” Alexandra answered quickly. “It is just that we wondered what the possibilities were that one or more of them might have survived.”

“Not good,” he said, shaking his head. “Not good.”

“Well, thank you, Chesterfield,” Thorpe said, rising and shaking his hand again. Bidding him goodbye, they began to make their way to the door, even though Bertie continued to talk happily about his other memories of Paris.

As they reached the doorway, Alexandra turned, struck by a sudden thought. “Mr. Chesterfield, I wondered—did you know other people in Paris at the time?”

He looked at her oddly. “Yes. Knew lots of people there. Friendly sort, you know.”

“Did you by any chance know Hiram and Rhea Ward?”

He frowned, pondering the question. “Do you mean the Americans?”

“Yes.” Hope rose in Alexandra’s chest, and she prodded eagerly, “You knew them?”

“Acquaintances, really. Didn’t know many of the Americans. Not long after their war, you know. But, I say, now that I think of it, I believe Lady Chilton was quite chummy with Mrs. Ward. She used to complain of feeling like an outsider, you see, with all us Englishmen—silly, really. I mean, after all, she was married to an Englishman, now, wasn’t she? But I suppose that’s why she used to gad about with Mrs. Ward.”

Alexandra cast an excited look toward Sebastian, but spoke with admirable calm. “Thank you, Mr. Chesterfield. You have been most helpful.”

“Have I?” Chesterfield sounded surprised. “Glad to be of service, of course.”

Alexandra managed to hold in her excitement until she and Sebastian had taken their leave of Chesterfield and walked out the front door of his town house. Then she whirled to face Sebastian.

“Did you hear that? Simone knew my mother!”

Thorpe looked a trifle pale. “I heard. I—it certainly throws a different light upon things.”

“It could explain everything! It could—it could mean that I really am the Countess’s grandchild.”

“It would make the story much less coincidental,” Sebastian agreed. “It is possible that perhaps Alexandra was with your—Mrs. Ward for some reason when the mob came, and so she was spared.”

“Or that Mother went over there looking for her friend after the mob had been there and found the baby wandering around.”

They looked at each other in silence for a moment. It was difficult for either of them to speak of Alexandra as the lost baby. It seemed removed from Alexandra, as if they must be talking about a third person.

“I—I don’t know what to think,” Sebastian said slowly.

Deep down, he knew that he did not want to face the possibility looming before him. For the past few days, ever since Alexandra’s mother had been attacked, he had been struggling against the evidence that was piling up—the fact that his men had been unable to dig up any adverse information on Alexandra; the coincidence of the attacks on Mrs. Ward at the time she might reveal what had happened in Paris; Alexandra’s explanation about following her mother to Exmoor house, which rang with the authority of truth. It was becoming increasingly difficult to hang on to the idea that Alexandra was an adventuress out to cheat the Countess.

But if he changed his mind, if he accepted the idea that Alexandra really was the Countess’s granddaughter, then he had made a ruinous error. He had accused her of being a criminal and a liar. She must hate him, despise him for his lack of faith. He had said and done things that were unforgivable. Nor was Alexandra the sort of woman who would readily forgive. In short, he had ruined everything with the only woman he had loved since Barbara.

That thought brought Sebastian up short. Did he love Alexandra? It seemed absurd. She was willful, blunt and argumentative, not at all the way a woman was supposed to be. She was accustomed to doing exactly what she wanted and saying precisely what she thought. Most of the time he had known her, he had spent arguing with her or distrusting her. How could he possibly love her? Yet he knew that he did—now, at this moment, when he had completely wrecked any possibility of her returning his feelings, he knew that he was hopelessly in love with her.

“Dear God,” he breathed, stunned.

Alexandra glanced at him oddly. Sebastian looked as if he had been knocked in the head. The realization that they had some proof she might be the Countess’s granddaughter was surprising, but it seemed odd that Sebastian should be in such a state of shock. Perhaps he had realized that he might have to put up with Alexandra for a long time if she was the granddaughter of one of his dearest friends.