She blinked up at him and nodded as if reading his thoughts, and it took every ounce of his control not to kiss that smirk off her lips. He’d wait till they were in the carriage.
“Those letters were invaluable,” Warrister said.
“What letters?” Herrington asked crossly.
“The ones in the casket, there on the mantel. They were from the maid, Helene Bastille. I believe you were acquainted with her, nephew,” the earl said carefully and Herrington stiffened, his gaze riveted on the black box. “Read through them if you like. I daresay, without the letters, I never would have thought to look at the maid, and then to her husband for the answers. But, as it turned out, that was the key.” Then, as if he’d just commented on the weather and nothing at all earth shattering, he turned to Jane with a smile. “My dear, would you be so kind as to hand me those papers, waiting on the table by the window?”
“Of course,” she said and received a pat on the hand when she returned, along with an invitation to sit beside the earl.
Raven pulled up the chair for her, his brow puckered in confusion. He heard himself ask, “What key?”
“The key that finally unlocked the whole truth,” the earl said with an ambiguous air that demanded the forbearance of his audience. “In those pages, Helene Bastille refers to her husband as le Sinistre. The name could easily be disregarded as merely a moniker that an abused wife might have given her estranged husband. However, it means a great deal when one discovers that there was an infamous French spy by that same name.” He paused, lifting his brows thoughtfully. “Not only that, but le Sinistre’s method of covering up his tracks was through arson.”
Arson? A shock jolted through Raven, the hair at his nape standing on end. He looked from Warrister to Jane, and to the casket beneath Herrington’s hand on the mantel. He’d never bothered to look at the letters. Not even when he saw that Jane had translated each and every one. At the time, just seeing her handwriting had nearly broken him, so he’d sent them back.
“Does that mean this . . . le Sinistre . . . is responsible for setting the fire that day?”
Warrister nodded solemnly. “I believe so. From what I have uncovered, he had several contacts in England—traitors willing to sell British secrets and others who engaged in smuggling for him. Regrettably, one of those traitors had fallen in love with his estranged wife and planned to flee with her child. I can only imagine that this was the reason le Sinistre brought his wrath down upon my son’s household.”
Herrington whipped around, fury marked in his high color. “If you think for a moment that I had anything to do with this, then you’re sorely mistaken!”
“Calm down, nephew. I’m making no such accusation.”
“Then what are you doing? Why are we even talking about Helene in the first place? Unless you’re about to tell me what I already know, that this imposter”—he flung an arm toward Raven—“is really her child.”
Raven straightened, head high and ready for confrontation. If he was the maid’s child, then that’s who he was. There was no changing it.
“No need for a battle,” the earl said, exhaling his impatience. “Let’s put that aside for the moment. I should like to read the final letter that my son wrote to me. It should clear up many of the doubts plaguing both of you,” he said looking from one to the other.
“‘Dear Father,’” he began, the rasp in his voice redolent with emotion. “‘I shall arrive straight to the topic of your last letter and tell you that yes, your grandson is perfectly hale. He grows stronger by the day and seldom cries, which is likely because Arabelle keeps him with her always. I am teeming with jealousy—or I would be if I could love either of them less.
“‘But there is news to report of another birth in this house. You may recall that maid I mentioned, the one who sought sanctuary with us from her husband. She has brought a son into the world just today. A boy with dark hair and dark eyes and a healthy set of lungs.
“‘Merrick acts very much the elder infant and studies this other child with equanimity. He is ever-stoic, and I have never seen a more inquisitive child in my life. He studies us with that pale watchful gaze like a king, waiting for us to entertain him. And I am embarrassed by the amount of foolishness I’ve put forth simply to earn a smile.
“‘Today, it finally happened—the smile—and I did nothing to inspire it. My only activity at the time was sitting near the bassinet in our rooms and reading aloud. I heard a gurgle and a coo that stopped my oration. I turned to attend to him, but he simply stared back, expectant. So I read again and—behold—there it was. A smile. I am happy to report that Arabelle was positively teeming with jealousy.
“‘I look forward to seeing you in the springtime, Father, and be assured I will read your every letter to your grandson. Your son, Edgar.’”
Raven felt as if his heart was in his throat and he swallowed thickly. Looking to Jane, he saw that her own heart was swimming in her eyes.
But, of course, Herrington had something to say about it.
He cast a sweeping gesture to Raven. “That letter gives no proof at all. Everyone knows that the color of a child’s eyes often alters after birth.”
Raven fought the urge to growl.
“Yes, I thought you’d say as much.” Warrister drew in another deep breath before he continued. “What I have here is a complete confession from Mr. Pickerington which should finally end this speculation.”
He shuffled the pages on his lap. “Pickerington mentions working for my son and his affair with the maid, Helene. He further admits that he’d been intending to run away with her, and to having double-crossed her husband—the man to whom he’d been selling secrets while working for many notable military families—le Sinistre.”
Raven watched as Jane read the page and her face paled. He went to her side and took her hand.
Tears spilled down her cheeks. “My own uncle. If not for him then you would have had . . .”
“Shh . . .” He knelt down and wiped the tears from her cheeks. “None of this is your fault.”
“Quite true. No one in this room is to blame,” Warrister said, looking warningly at his nephew. Then, skimming through the pages once more, he paused briefly, closing his eyes. After a moment, he cleared his throat and continued. “According to Mr. Pickerington’s account, he was set to abscond with Helene the night of the fire. Regrettably, he arrived too late to save anyone—” He broke off, his voice gravelly. “Anyone other than the child in my son’s outstretched hands, as his body was being consumed by flames.”
The breath fell out of Raven’s lungs. Beside him, Jane stifled a sob in the cup of her hands.
Warrister looked into his eyes, holding his gaze as he reached out and put a warm hand on his shoulder. Then he nodded and Raven knew.
There was no ounce of doubt any longer. There never would be again.
Then the earl turned back to his nephew. “In these pages, he even mentions seeing you that night and how he’d hoped you wouldn’t hear the baby crying from underneath the bench. How he’d hoped it was dark enough that you didn’t see the soot on his clothes.”
Herrington cringed as he pressed his fingertips to the center of his forehead. “I did see him that night.”