As expected, he had donned his spectacles and was examining the shelves closely, a disgruntled look on his lined face.
Now over sixty, Cornelius had silvering hair and heavy eyebrows. His tall, refined build and high-boned features lent him an unmistakable aristocratic elegance. Yet as a brilliant classics scholar, he had a vague, unfocused air and was uncomfortable in most social settings. To Skye, he was the dear, dear man who had given up his quiet, intellectual life to raise five rambunctious, irrepressible orphans.
After warmly embracing him, Skye removed the holland covers from a leather couch and made him sit beside her.
“As I said in my letter, you know that Aunt Bella and I are helping her good friend Lord Hawkhurst renovate his home. I have hopes that you will help save his library.”
“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently, “of course I will help. In truth, I am eager to begin. That is a priceless edition of Aristotle’s Nicomachean Ethics simply rotting on the shelf.”
“There is another, more important, reason I asked you here, Uncle.”
“What could be more important?”
Skye took a breath. “I have some news that I think you will welcome. At least I hope you will be pleased.”
>
As Cornelius sat waiting expectantly, she swallowed, realizing she was highly nervous herself. “The thing is, Uncle … I have a confession to make. Some months ago, I found your love letters to Baroness Farnwell.”
His blue eyes narrowed, as if he was disappointed in her. “I thought I had those well hidden.”
“You did.” Skye cleared her throat, feeling once again like the child her long-suffering uncle had tried to discipline after catching her in some mischief or other. Not wanting to become sidetracked, she plowed on. “It seems that you loved her very much.”
“I did.”
“How do you feel about her now, after all this time?”
He looked taken aback by her question.
“I know I am prying,” Skye hastened to add, “but it is not mere rudeness. I have a good reason for asking.”
His eyes clouded. “I never stopped loving her.”
“Then what if she didn’t drown all those years ago?”
Cornelius blinked at her. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that … Rachel Farnwell is still … alive.”
Disbelief warred with hope on his features as he reached out to grip her arm. “What the bloody devil are you saying?”
Unlike his charges, her mild-mannered uncle never cursed. The urgency in his tone was a measure of his shock, Skye knew, so she hurried to explain how Rachel had been so desperate to escape the abusive baron, she had staged her drowning and fled to Ireland.
When she was done, Cornelius sat there unmoving, trying to digest her revelation. He seemed stunned as if by a blow.
“Rachel is still alive, Uncle,” she repeated, prodding.
“Dear God.” His mouth was trembling as he worked to suppress strong emotions. “All that time … I never knew.”
“Would you like to see her?”
He shook himself and focused his blind gaze on Skye. “See her? How is that possible?”
“She is here now, at Hawkhurst Castle.”
“In … in this very house?”
“Yes. I couldn’t rest until I knew what had become of her, so Hawkhurst escorted me to Ireland to try and find Lady Farnwell.”