He nodded. “I bought passage on a merchant vessel bound for Amsterdam.” He could still recall, with gut-clenching clarity, how sick he’d become on the voyage. And then, that first taste of rye bread and herring when the ship had finally docked. The flavors so different from anything he’d ever eaten in England. “Thank God for that money you gave me. It saved my life more times than I can count. Kept a roof over my head and food in my belly while I trekked across the Alps to Milan.”

“Such a long way,” she said. “Were you ever afraid?”

“Frequently. It was a perilous journey, and for the better part of it, I was reliant on guides and the traveling companions I met along the way. I was in constant fear that one of them might slit my throat as I slept. It was a devilish incentive to learn as many languages as I could. A little German. A little Italian. Even a little French. Enough to keep me from being helpless—and from sounding too English. At the time, an English tongue was a liability.”

“I wish I could have been there with you.”

“You were with me,” he said. “Every day. Every night.” That, too, he recalled with painful clarity. The longing for her. The soul-deep yearning, worn to rawness from years spent trying—and failing—to forget. “There was so much I wanted to tell you. To share with you. Everything I saw and heard. All the funny little stories that I knew would make you laugh.”

Tears glistened in her eyes. She blinked them away. “I envy you your adventures.”

“Don’t be too envious. My grandfather was a brutal taskmaster. I sometimes wondered if I’d have been better off taking the King’s shilling.”

“When did you first hear news of him?”

“Not until I reached Milan. There was an English-speaking fellow at a pensione there. He directed me to Venice—to the villa where the Earl of Allendale was staying.”

Her brows knit. “But how did this man know where to send you? You’re not saying he knew the truth of Gentleman Jim’s identity?”

“He didn’t know anything about Gentleman Jim at all. It was me he recognized. Some years earlier, Allendale had come to Italy looking for his son. He’d shown people a miniature.” St. Clare’s mouth hitched in a brief and bitter smile. “It turns out, Mrs. Applewhite was right all those years ago. I do bear an uncanny resemblance to my father. Some might even mistake us for the same man. Allendale knew as soon as he saw me that I was his grandson.”

“His illegitimate grandson.”