Gwen stuck close to Liam as she introduced him to family members, all of them bursting with curiosity about the return of the missing heir. Some appeared fascinated, others skeptical. All were polite because of Frederick’s acceptance of Liam as his grandson, and no one was ready to mount an outright challenge this early in the game.

Patrick stood a few yards away, hands fisted at his sides as he scrutinized the family members. Despite Frederick’s skepticism, one of these people might be responsible for the assault on Liam. Patrick doubted anyone would try something in this public gathering, but he was on edge.

The gaggle of great-aunts were impossible to tell apart. They all wore white gowns and had their gray hair in identical buns mounded atop their heads. All had wrinkled faces and a complete lack of decorum as they swooped down on Liam.

“Good heavens, he does look like poor Theo, doesn’t he, Blanche?”

Aunt Martha, the one Gwen adored, chimed in next. “You used to drool like a spigot,” she told Liam. “Your poor mother needed to carry a second set of clothes for you. It looks like you’ve finally managed to contain it.” She reached up to pinch Liam’s cheek.

Aunt Helen was even worse. “Do you remember the time you escaped from your bath and came tearing outside during the annual picnic for the bank employees?” she asked with a cackling laugh. “You were buck naked, streaking through the front lawn in front of everyone. Do you remember that?”

“No, ma’am,” Liam said.

“We do,” Aunt Helen roared. “What about the time you jammed a snail up your nose? Your poor mother! She had to summon the doctor to get it out.”

All these relatives vied to dominate Liam’s attention, and he wasn’t a skilled conversationalist. Gwen was tireless as she stood beside him, providing introductions and smoothing awkward lulls in the conversation.

Someone tugged on Patrick’s elbow, and he looked down to see a young girl in a pink dress. She couldn’t be more than eight or nine years old.

“Can you get me an ice cream cone?” she asked.

She’d probably mistaken him for a servant because he wasn’t dressed like the other men. Patrick smiled anyway and hunkered down so he could be on eye-level with her. “I don’t know if there’s any ice cream. What’s your name?”

“Penelope-Arabella.”

“That’s a pretty name. Do people call you Penny?”

Her face soured, and her voice brimmed with scorn. “I’m named after a woman who sewed two hundred scarves for soldiers during the American Revolution. I don’t think asking someone to say my complete name is asking too much.”

Gwen overheard the comment and rushed to the rescue. “Darling, the cook made strawberry shortcake for the children and set it on the back terrace. Would you like some?”