“I believe the coach belonged to the Duke of Evesham.”

Lucien’s father? Gregory was even more confused. The duke had been clear about his feelings toward Evie and others like her. “Was the duke here?”

“No. The groomsman came to the door. I did not hear what he discussed with Mrs. Renshaw. She left without even fetching her hat or gloves.”

That sounded…alarming. There was only one place he could think to go—straight to the duke.

“Thank you, Foster.” Gregory turned back toward his coach.

“Where are you going, my lord?” the butler called after him. “In case Mrs. Renshaw returns.”

“I’m going to Evesham House.” Gregory hoped he’d find her there. If he didn’t, his alarm would turn to fear.

Evie stepped into the ornately decorated entry hall at Evesham House. As long as she’d known Lucien, she’d never had occasion to set foot inside his father’s house. And why would she? The duke had never extended an invitation.

Until today.

She would have been most suspicious—and she still was—but the simple message had galvanized her into action. There was no way she would have refused.

His Grace invites you to come to his house to meet a Mr. Henry Aviers. He may be of relation to you.

She’d asked the footman to repeat it twice.

Mr. Henry Aviers.

Her father’s name had been Henri Avesnes. The surname was written on the back of the painting that had hung in Evie’s office and that now graced the wall in her sitting room.

“This way, ma’am,” the butler, a thick fellow in his fifties, intoned. He led her up the stairs with its gleaming balustrade to the large, elegant drawing room. It boasted six seating arrangements and four windows that looked out over Grosvenor Square.

An anxiety Evie had never experienced shook her entire body as she walked slowly into the room. She gravitated toward the windows. Who was this man she was to meet? The name was so similar…could he truly be a relative?

“Mon dieu, you are the image of your mother.” The French-accented voice sounded behind her.

Evie swung around. How had she missed the presence of another person? Because he was a slip of a man—average height but thin. Not too thin. His cheeks were full and healthy, his blue eyes warm. The hair on his head was sparse and gray, making him look older than he probably was. She estimated he was perhaps sixty.

“You knew my mother?” she asked, sounding as though she’d run up four flights of stairs.

“Of course I did. We made three beautiful children together.” Evie. Heloise. Their older brother, who’d died shortly after he was born.

Mon dieu indeed. Evie tried to stop herself from falling, but her legs had turned completely against her, going to water. So down she went.