Haverly and Daniel reached her first, lifting her to the chair. The lawyers were all on their feet, milling, opening the door, calling for tea, shouting for smelling salts, and generally adding to the hubbub without doing anything constructive.

“Chafe her hands,” Haverly ordered. “Ma’am, can you hear me?”

Daniel gently rubbed the woman’s fingers between his, noting their icy coldness with detachment. He glanced over his shoulder at his mother, who sat as if made of stone, except for a pair of tears that overflowed her lashes and tumbled down her cheeks.

The viscountess stirred, moaning and flickering her eyes. When she took stock of where she was, she stiffened, jerked her hands away, and declared, “This is all a lie. I will not let you slander my late husband’s name.”

“Madam, get hold of yourself.” The duke gave her a stern look. “We are here to listen, to assess, and then decide upon a plan of action. If you cannot compose yourself, you will be removed from the room, and someone will tell you what was determined.”

His bracing tone seemed to grab her attention. Two spots of red suffused her ashy cheeks, and she glared at him. “I will not be shunted away. I demand to hear the rest of it so it may be refuted wholeheartedly.”

“Very well.” Haverly reached for the cup of tea the clerk had rushed into the room and handed it to the viscountess. “Drink this.”

Everyone resumed their seats, and Mr. Moody took a moment to gather his thoughts and find his place once more. Daniel wanted to snatch the papers from the older gentleman’s hands and read them himself.

Moody picked up the narrative. “‘When my son made his confession, I was in a rage. I knew I must never tell a soul, and I swore Mr. Cooper to secrecy as well. My son left this world that very night, with his conscience purged of his secret, but mine as heavy as lead. For several weeks I did nothing. If I told no one, then the secret would remain buried. My daughter-in-law and her son, Alonzo, would be free of any stain. Alonzo would be my heir.

“‘And yet somewhere out there was my son’s true wife, treated shamefully by both of us. I had found her a position at the estate of a friend—had, in fact, paid handsomely for him to employ her for at least five years without question.

“‘At last I could stand it no longer. I had to know if she was well. I made up my mind to, through my solicitors, ask after her welfare and perhaps provide a little something for her. When they located her, now in a different man’s employ on another estate, they brought word that she had a child. A son.’”