Her feet were sore. Her eyes were gritty. And so many names and faces buzzed in her head that she wanted to crawl back under her covers and shut out the world.Papa slid up next to her at the sideboard and began filling a plate—with her preferences, not his. “Now you’ve done it.”She took another sip of the coffee—not espresso, but at least strong—and lifted her eyes to his. His lips were twitching, so she went ahead and grinned. “What have I done this time?”In answer, he handed her his newspaper, folded open, and indicated the table. She sat with cup and news, let him slide the plate in front of her . . . but wasn’t sure how she would eat breakfast. It may have been well past noon already, but the headline made her stomach knot.THE LOST HEIRESS OF WHITBY“Eat.” Papa dropped a kiss onto the top of her head and sat beside her. “Much as I detest being in the news, the article is not a bad one.”It felt it, though, as she read and nibbled at her toast. A reminder of the carriage accident, an explanation of how Brook had ended up in the care of Collette Sabatini in Monaco, where the opera star passed her off as the child of Prince Louis.
