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couldn’t have made her sentiments any clearer. I was not for her son . . . and it would appear that, last summer notwithstanding, he agreed. Those reflections depressed me further, and rather than wallow I pushed my personal concerns aside and returned to contemplating the link between the Monroe and the Andrews families.
    Instinct urged me to explore that link further, as well as discover what was making Daphne Gordon so unhappy. Two unhappy women—Daphne and Judith Kingsley—both connected to Virgil Monroe. What did it mean? And how did Derrick fit into the mix? That last question again reminded me how little I knew of Derrick outside of his life in Newport—a life that hadn’t spanned much more than a couple of months in total.
    I rocked the baby gently, seeking comfort in those tiny, flawless cheeks, his softly rounded brow, his silky, wispy hair. As I inhaled that uniquely baby scent deep into my lungs, a near certainty—the night’s only certainty—burned a little hole through my heart. If I couldn’t find his family, he might live out his childhood in an orphanage.
    â€œNo,” I whispered. “We will not let that happen.”
    â€œEmma . . . ?” Nanny stirred on the bed a few feet away. I might have known the slightest sound would wake her. “Is Robbie all right?”
    â€œRobbie?” The name sent a stab of warning through me.
    She sat up and reached for the spectacles on her bedside table. “Katie’s idea. Says it’s for her brother back in Ireland.”
    â€œOh, Nanny, we shouldn’t be naming him. He’s not ours.”
    â€œWe need to call him something. We can’t very well keep calling him the baby. ” She flipped the covers back and swung around to sit on the edge of the bed. “Did you learn anything useful at the ball?”
    I shook my head. “This isn’t going to be easy.”
    â€œWhen is anything ever easy?”
    That made me laugh, a single breathy note in the darkness. Robbie’s hand found my braid hanging over my shoulder and tugged. Yes, despite my protest, he was already Robbie to me. Nanny was right—he needed a proper name. He wasn’t some inanimate object, however carelessly he had been left on my doorstep. He was a person, an individual, and deserved to be acknowledged as such. His name would likely change once he left us, but for now . . . Robbie he was.
    â€œHow did he do while I was gone?”
    The moonlight outlined Nanny’s rounded cheek as she smiled. “Just fine. He’s such a good little fellow. Almost as if he knows he’s a guest and mustn’t make much fuss.”
    â€œThat’s right,” I said, gently trying to untangle Robbie’s fingers from my plaited hair, “a guest. We all need to remember that.”
    She adeptly changed the subject. “Tell me what you observed tonight.”
    Once I had, she moved across the room to me and gathered Robbie from my arms. “Ask questions if you must, Emma, but stay away from Virgil Monroe. I remember him from years ago, before he married. A young hellion, he was. The type who takes what he wants and never pays the piper. There were even rumors about a young woman . . .”
    â€œHe ruined her?”
    Nanny shrugged. “Nothing was ever proved. Whoever she was, she disappeared along with any family members who might have raised a complaint.”
    â€œDisappeared?”
    â€œHe obviously paid them to go away.”
    â€œOh, Nanny, what if Virgil Monroe hired that poor carriage driver to bring Robbie here and then murdered him to prevent him from telling anyone. What if Robbie is Daphne Gordon’s child?”
    She looked down at the baby. “Anything is possible. That’s why you need to be careful. Have you considered that Robbie—and all of us—might be better off if we never discover where he came from?”

Chapter 6
    E arly Wednesday morning I hastily