The Unforgettable Hero(24)

“You may call me Lucy.” Lucy smiled at the girl.

Adam studied the girl carefully. Despite the difference in their coloring, she definitely resembled Maggie—no, Cecelia. He was impressed with the girl’s tenacity. Perhaps she should be a spy. “Well done, Miss Harcourt,” he said. The girl beamed at him.

Lucy turned to the doctor. “What should we do?”

“Miss Harcourt,” the doctor said to Mary. “You must go and speak to her. You’re the best hope of making her remember.”

Mary nodded, but tears glimmered in her blue eyes. Adam swallowed. It had to be difficult for her to contemplate the fact that her own sister didn’t recognize her. What would it be like if Derek or Collin didn’t recognize him? Adam vowed to do whatever he could to help Mary and her sister.

“Do you want me to go, too, Doctor?” Adam offered. “She still believes I’m her betrothed.”

“Her betrothed?” Mary exclaimed, pressing both small pale hands to her face.

“Yes.” Adam nodded. “She thinks I’m someone named the Duke of Loveridge.”

“The Duke of Loveridge?” Mary’s eyes were as wide as carriage wheels. “Why, that’s the hero from her novel.”





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN



Maggie was still sitting on the settee when the door to the drawing room opened and the girl from Bond Street tentatively stepped through it. Maggie had been looking through the papers that Lucy had left on the table. It was so odd. Apparently someone had written a story about herself and the duke. But who? And why was Lucy reading it? Maggie had barely managed to read a few pages before the girl came in, but she was more confused than ever. The story was exceedingly familiar, but something about it wasn’t quite right. Oh, why couldn’t she remember?

The girl stepped forward to stand on the rug, watching Maggie carefully. “May … may I come in?”

Maggie nodded slowly. “Yes, of course.” She watched the girl carefully, too. She was certain she knew her now. “We’ve met before,” she ventured. “Before today, I mean.”

Tears shone in the girl’s bright blue eyes. Maggie sucked in her breath. Suddenly she got the impression that she knew the girl quite well, indeed.

“Dr. Archibald said I should tell you things. Names and addresses,” the girl nearly whispered, coughing lightly into her hand.

“I don’t understand,” Maggie replied, shaking her head.

“My name is Mary,” the girl offered. “Mary Harcourt. And you are Cecelia, my older sister.”

Maggie gulped. She shook her head slowly.

“We live at 1815 Downing Square in the town house Father left us.”

Tears filled Maggie’s eyes, too. “No!”

“Our mother was Mary and our father was Charles, the youngest brother of Viscount Harewood.”

Maggie stood and backed toward the mantel. “Was?”

“They both died in a carriage accident two years ago.”

“Dead?” Maggie pressed her palm to her pounding head. Too many thoughts were running through it. Too many hurtful, awful thoughts. Her breathing was short, shallow. “What about the Duke of Loveridge?”

“He’s a character in a novel you wrote. A romantic novel that you were trying to sell to Mr. Cornwall. You left two days ago to meet him, and you never returned. I tried to find him but I didn’t know his address, and I couldn’t tell Uncle Herbert.”

Bile rose in her throat. She pressed a hand to the wooden arm of the settee. She glanced down at the papers still sitting on the table. Some of them were dirty and scratched. A few looked as if they’d been wet and had dried crinkly and hard.

The girl took another deep breath. “Uncle Harewood and Father had a falling-out years ago. He has not claimed us. We live with our mother’s brother, Uncle Herbert, and his awful wife, Aunt Selene.” Tears fell from Mary’s eyes. She coughed again. “You are to marry Cousin Percy.”

Percy. The name crumpled against her heart. It all made sense now. It all made horrible, awful sense. She’d been hit by the carriage, and her manuscript had gone flying. Peter, or whatever his name was, must have taken pity on her and taken her in. Her name was Cecelia Harcourt, and she did not belong here.





CHAPTER NINETEEN



Tears streaked down Cece’s face. She wiped at them viciously. “Oh, Mary, what happened?”

Her sister rushed into her arms and hugged her fiercely. “Do you remember, Cece? Do you remember who you are?”

“Yes,” she gasped between sobs, “but I’m not sure how all of this happened.”

Mary kept hugging her as if she didn’t want to let her go again. “Mr. Hunt says you hit your head when a carriage nearly ran you down. Dr. Archibald says you temporarily lost your memory.”