LITMIR.BIZ

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him, a bloodied dagger in his hand.

      Narborough had refused to believe his friend’s protestations of innocence, and had given evidence against him that resulted in him being hanged for treason, as well as murder.

      Shattering the bonds of friendship.

      Yet today, their children would stand together in St George’s chapel, each, she fervently hoped, demonstrating by their attendance that they were putting past enmities aside. The fact that a Wardale had already married a Carlow had been a good start.

      Now she fervently hoped that a Wardale could look a Hebden in the eye in a spirit of forgiveness and reconciliation.

      When the carriage drew up outside the chapel, Imogen, determined to look her best for the viscount, waited for the footman to let down the steps and hold out his arm to steady her, rather than jumping down carelessly, scarcely looking where she put her feet, as she usually did. She had no intention of beginning her marriage to a man who set such store by appearances by walking up the aisle with muddy shoes or a dripping flounce from landing in a puddle.

      She waited patiently while her maid smoothed down her skirts, adjusted the set of her bonnet and brushed a piece of fluff from the shoulder of her coat, while her uncle distanced himself from the feminine flutter by strolling up and down.

      Pansy was just leaning back into the carriage for Imogen’s bouquet, when a man who had been lounging against one of the pillars called out, ‘Imo?’

      Imogen looked up with a slight frown on her brow to see who was calling to her. Nobody called her Imo these days. She was either Miss Hebden, or Imogen or Midge. So the voice felt like a dark hand, reaching out to her from her very distant past. A past that she had hoped was going to be laid to rest today. And so her voice, when she replied, ‘Yes?’ quivered with trepidation.

      The man stepped out of the shadows into the light, and Imogen gasped.

      It was the first time she had seen a Gypsy up this close. But there was no mistaking his origins, with the flamboyance of his clothing, his long, black hair and the swarthy complexion set off by the gold hoop in one ear.

      He came a step closer.

      ‘For you,’ he said, holding out a small packet tied up with string. The silver bangle he wore round his wrist glinted like a knife blade in the sunlight. ‘A reminder.’

      Though the gift and his words made him appear to be a well-wisher, something about his stance and the tone of his voice were vaguely menacing.

      But even though her instinct was to draw back, she thought it would be unwise to offend a Gypsy, especially on her wedding day. The woman who had borne Stephen had tracked Amanda down after Kit died, and cursed her for robbing her of her son, swearing she would never see a son of her own reach adulthood. Amanda had only just had a miscarriage and then she promptly lost little Thomas to a fever. After that, Amanda had been convinced that if she had any more sons, they would die, too. The Gypsy woman’s curse had haunted her for the rest of her life.

      So Imogen steeled herself to reach out her hand and accept the man’s gift.

      But just before she could do so, her uncle, who had finally noticed what was going on, let out a bellow of rage.

      ‘Get away from my niece, you filthy cur!’ His walking cane made a swishing noise as he lashed out at the Gypsy’s extended arm.

      But the Gypsy’s reactions were swift. The cane clattered down upon the flags without striking his arm.

      Her uncle then rounded on her, growling, ‘Who have you been tattling to, you stupid girl? The one thing, above all else, you should have kept quiet about…and now somebody is using it to make trouble.’

      Imogen gazed at her uncle in stupefaction. Then turned her bewildered gaze on the stranger, who was regarding her uncle with a smile of what looked like grim satisfaction. Her heart began to pound in her chest. It was the most incredible coincidence that a Gypsy should turn up at her wedding, with a gift and an admonition to remember, after she had spent so much time the night before, lying in bed, thinking about her illegitimate Gypsy half brother.

      She saw what her uncle meant. The man who stood before them, a mocking smile on his face, was a visible reminder of her family’s deepest, darkest shame.

      ‘Go on!’ Her uncle blustered, waving his stick ineffectually at the Gypsy, who dodged each blow with ease. ‘Be off with you!’

      ‘Nothing to say, Imo?’ The man rounded on her, his eyes burning with blatant hostility. ‘Don’t you want me to leave?’

      Imogen’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. She was so shocked, she did not know what to say. It seemed incredibly cruel of someone to have sent a Gypsy to her wedding, to remind everyone that she had once had a half brother with Romany blood in his veins.

      Her uncle seized her by the arm and began to drag her across the portico, towards the door of the chapel.

      ‘Come away,’ he huffed. His face was red and shiny from unaccustomed exertion and thwarted rage. ‘The impudent fellow won’t dare to follow us in there!’

      ‘You may have forgotten me, Imo,’ the Gypsy snarled as her uncle dragged her away. ‘But I, Stephen, have never forgotten you!’

      From somewhere she managed to find the strength to tear herself from her uncle’s grasp, and turn back. Surely, hardly anybody alive today could know the name of her Gypsy half brother.

      ‘How could you know his name was Stephen?’ she grated. ‘Are you from his tribe? Is that how you know about me?’

      The man who claimed to be Stephen smiled in a way that was totally without mirth. And she felt a jolt of recognition. She had seen that very smile in the mirror, not an hour since! It was the way she always smiled, when she recognized some absurdity. A shock of dark hair…she seemed to hear her mother saying ‘…and his father’s smile…’

      Everyone said how very like her father she was, too! She took another step towards him, her eyes searching his features, her breathing ragged. His lips were the same shape as hers. He had the same slant to his eyebrows, the same prominent cheekbones.

      ‘Stephen?’ she whispered, stretching her hands out towards him. ‘Can it really be you?’

      ‘Don’t be so foolish, niece!’ her uncle snapped. ‘This is just some miscreant, out to make trouble for you. Come away, girl, before it is too late.’

      But she could not tear her eyes from the Gypsy’s face.

      ‘Are you really my brother?’ she demanded.

      The Gypsy held her gaze boldly, proudly, unashamedly.

      And then he nodded.

      ‘Uncle,’ she declared, whirling round to face him, ‘I have not raised one single protest about any arrangement you and my aunt have made regarding this day. In fact, I have had no say in any of it! But I will stand firm in this matter. If he really is my brother, then I want him at my wedding!’

      Snatches of Imogen’s protests echoed all the way to the front of the church, where Viscount Mildenhall was standing waiting for her.

      ‘…not raised one single protest…arrangement you and my aunt…will stand firm…’

      The guests were turning in their seats, peering over the tops of the box pews, curious to see what all the commotion was about.

      Something like a cold fist clutched hard inside the viscount’s chest. Miss Hebden had told him she did not want to marry him, but he had not believed her. He had trampled on all her objections, then approached her uncle, having uttered dire warnings of what the consequences would be if she refused him.

      Yet Rick had told him his sister was straight as a die. That she would always be honest.

      Right from the first, she had said she was not interested in him. That very first night, when she had thrown her drink over him…

      There

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