We had found the wrong Dr. Lawrence. I glanced at Evan, seeing my own dismay reflected in the slump of his shoulders.

“Good day,” the doctor said, his voice professionally pleasant. He bowed. “Lady Augusta Colebrook?”

I nodded my greeting. “Indeed. And allow me to introduce Mr. Talbot.”

The two men bowed to each other.

The wrong Dr. Lawrence closed the door. “My maid said you have been waiting for me? How may I be of assistance?”

There could be no assistance here, but how best to make a gracious exit? The truth was probably best.

“I am afraid we have made a mistake,” I said. “We are seeking another Dr. Lawrence. A Dr. Paul Lawrence from London. He had some information we were hoping to obtain. Please accept our apologies for any inconvenience.”

“Paul Lawrence? From London?” The doctor had stilled, his eyes wary.

“Well, I met him in London,” Evan said. “Briefly.” He glanced at me, the wry addition for my benefit.

The doctor drew a breath. “Lady Augusta, Mr. Talbot, are you, by chance, associated with Lord Evan Belford?”

We both stared at him.

“Who?” Evan asked, at his most dangerously pleasant.

The doctor licked his lips. “If you are associated with Lord Evan Belford, then you are seeking my father.”

“Your father is Paul Lawrence?” I repeated, not from any misunderstanding but from the sudden leap of hope. Had we found our man, after all? Our way to Evan’s exoneration?

“He told me that if strangers—noble strangers—came calling, then it was probably Lord Evan Belford or his friends.”

I looked at Evan, but he was motionless. Unable, I think, to acknowledge who he was to this stranger; there had been too many dangerous years of denying his true identity.

So I said, “We are, indeed, associated with Lord Evan.”

“Ah.” Dr. Lawrence drew himself up. “I am Dr. Phillip Lawrence. My father knew this day would come.”

“Where is he? May we speak with him?” I asked, unable to contain my urgency.

The young man shook his head. “I am sorry, Lady Augusta. My father died four years ago.”

31

I felt as if all the air had gone from my body. Everything around me grayed, my chest aching from the loss of hope.

“Lady Augusta, are you quite well?”

Evan’s voice brought me back to the room. I drew a gasping breath, the blessed air easing the pain. Two pairs of alarmed medical eyes were scrutinizing me.

“I am quite well,” I managed.

Dr. Lawrence crossed the room and poured a glass from a decanter. “Here, take some brandy.”

I took the offered glass and sipped, the liquor burning its way down my throat and lighting a small flame of warmth in my innards.

“I am sorry for the shock,” the doctor said.

I looked at Evan. He was the one who should be swigging brandy. Yet he seemed abnormally composed.