“Where did you get it?”
“You’re forgetting who you’re speaking to.”
Mara looked up.
“No. For the first time, I know exactly who I’m speaking to.”
Celeste rose.
“Adrian?”
“Stay out of this.”
Mara closed her fist around the ring.
Adrian stepped toward her.
Mrs. Finch moved between them.
“That’ll do, Mr. Vale.”
Adrian stared at the housekeeper.
“You’re fired.”
Mrs. Finch shrugged.
“I’ve been meaning to retire.”
Under different circumstances, Mara might have laughed.
Instead, she asked again, “Where did you get my father’s ring?”
Marcus frowned.
“Your father’s?”
Adrian’s gaze flicked toward him.
That single movement told Mara something important.
Marcus didn’t know.
Celeste whispered, “Adrian, what is she talking about?”
Adrian’s face became unreadable.
Then he smiled.
“Your father?”
“Thomas Bell.”
The smile vanished.
Across the room, Mrs. Finch dropped the tray she was holding.
It crashed against the floor.
Everyone turned.
Mara stared at her.
Mrs. Finch looked as though she had seen a ghost.
“You knew him,” Mara said.
The older woman’s lips trembled.
“Mara…”
“You knew my father.”
Mrs. Finch closed her eyes.
Adrian moved suddenly.
He lunged for Mara’s hand.
But Marcus stepped between them.
“Enough.”
Adrian shoved his brother.
Marcus shoved back.
“What the hell is going on?”
Adrian pointed toward Mara.
“Get her out.”
“No,” Celeste said.
It was the first time Mara had ever heard Adrian’s wife contradict him publicly.
Celeste walked toward them.
She was elegant, beautiful, and usually quiet in the way wealthy women sometimes learned to be quiet around powerful husbands.
But now her eyes were fixed on the ring.
“I’ve seen that before.”
Adrian turned.
“Celeste.”
“In the portrait.”
Mara frowned.
“What portrait?”
Celeste looked toward the west corridor.
“The one Harrison kept locked in the library.”
Adrian’s face changed.
“Stop talking.”
Celeste stared at her husband.
And suddenly Mara understood.
Adrian was afraid.
Not angry.
Afraid.
Mara slipped the ring into her pocket.
“Show me.”
The library occupied the oldest section of Blackthorn House.
Mara had cleaned it hundreds of times.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves.
Leather chairs.
A stone fireplace.
Portraits.
But Celeste crossed to a narrow painting beside the fireplace.
Harrison Bellamy stared from the canvas in a black suit.
Celeste reached behind the frame.
Click.
The painting swung outward.
Behind it was another portrait.
Mara stopped breathing.
A woman stood beneath a blackthorn tree holding a baby.
She looked perhaps twenty-five.
Dark hair.
Brown eyes.
A serious mouth.
Mara stepped closer.
She knew that face.
Not exactly.
But enough.
Because it looked like her own.
Beneath the painting, almost hidden by the frame, was a brass plaque.
ISABEL BELLAMY — 1968
Marcus whispered, “Who is she?”
Mrs. Finch answered from the doorway.
“Harrison’s daughter.”
Everyone turned.
Adrian closed his eyes.
Mrs. Finch entered slowly.
“She was his only child.”
Marcus laughed nervously.
“That’s impossible. Dad was Harrison’s only child.”
“No.”
Mrs. Finch looked at him sadly.
