“Nothing.” She wrung her hands, her cheeks going red. “It’s not Asha’s fault but she might have mentioned that you and my brother knew each other from when he was an officer. She slipped and called you Princess Sarani. And I heard Rhystan in the coach saying something about five years ago.” She bit her lip as Sarani felt the bottom drop out from beneath her feet. “You’re the girl, aren’t you?”

Heaven help her, Sarani quailed on the inside. She placed the book carefully down on her lap and calmed her erratic breaths. Speculation wasn’t the truth. “Which girl?”

“I overheard my parents arguing years ago about Rhystan and some letter my father had received from an admiral or some such overseas.” Ravenna paused. “They spoke about a girl. An Indian princess with an English mother.” Sarani’s heart sank. “That’s you, isn’t it.”

She drew a breath. “Ravenna…”

“Don’t treat me like a birdwit. I know it’s you. I’ve seen your likeness before, you know. Did you know my brother carries a miniature of you in a locket? I discovered it when he came back for the funeral. He was quite in his cups, you see, clutching it as though it was his most precious possession and cursing it in the same breath.” She quirked her lips. “The girl was younger, of course, but I see the resemblance clearly now. I always knew she was special.” She laughed. “I’d even told Penelope about it to prove that Rhystan was mad for someone else and she should set her sights elsewhere.”

Sarani frowned. Why would the duke have kept a portrait of her? As a talisman? A reminder of his distaste?

“I won’t tell anyone,” Ravenna whispered. “It doesn’t even matter to me who your parents are.”

She swallowed, meeting the girl’s eyes. “It does to me.”

“Are you truly a princess?”

“I used to be.”

A pleat forming between her brows, Ravenna stared at her. “How does one stop being a princess?”

“By burying her.”

* * *

Rhystan raked a hand through his hair as he stared at Gideon over a pint at the small dockside tavern near where the Belonging had been dry-docked for repairs. He’d needed a drink after the day he’d had. A robbery, of all things. The servants had been in a flurry because no one had suspected the young chimney sweep, who claimed he’d been sent by the duke himself.

“So you’re saying that someone broke into your house in Mayfair?” Gideon asked, thick dark brows rising.

“Stole a few loose banknotes, rifled through the study, but nothing of great value was taken.” He frowned—for a robber, his study would have been a veritable treasure trove. “Either it was a terrible thief or they were there to scout the place.”

“You suspect trouble?”