She dabbed a handkerchief at the corners of her eyes. “I must say the Edgertons disappointed me terribly. I sent letters. I sent your photographs. They never even wrote back.”

Elissande had to wipe at her own eyes. “It’s all right, ma’am. You did your best.”

“I did not. I have been an awful mother, a useless burden to you.”

Elissande shook her head. “Please don’t say that. We both know what kind of man he is. He would have killed you had you tried to leave.”

“I should have made you leave. He didn’t need to have dominion over both of us.”

Elissande reached across the narrow space between their seats and touched her mother on the cheek. “I wasn’t altogether a prisoner: I had Capri. I always imagined myself there, far away from him.”

“Me too,” said Mrs. Douglas, tucking her handkerchief into the cuff of her sleeve.

Elissande was astonished. “You also imagined yourself on Capri?”

“No, I imagined you there. There was this passage you used to read to me that I dearly loved. I still remember bits and pieces of it: ‘Like Venice, Capri is a permanent island in the traveler’s experience—detached from the mainland of Italian character and associations,’” Mrs. Douglas recited, her eyes wistful, “‘a bright, breezy pastoral of the sea, with a hollow, rumbling undertone of the Past, like that of the billows in its caverns.’

“I imagined you exploring those caverns—I’d read about the discovery of the Blue Grotto when I was a girl; it seemed enchanting. When you had had your fill of grottos, you would dine at a farmhouse and eat robust peasant food full of herbs and olives. And when evening came, you would return to your villa high above the cliffs and watch the sun set over the Mediterranean.”

Tears rose again in Elissande’s eyes. “I don’t believe I ever thought about what I’d eat or where I’d live on Capri.”

“That is quite all right. But I’m your mother. When I imagine you far away, I’d like to think that you are well fed and safely housed.”

But I’m your mother. The words were as disconcerting and beautiful as the first sight of stars.

“And I imagined this easily navigable path between your villa upon the ramparts of the island and the hostel where all the English visitors were gathered. So that when you were bored or lonely, you could go there for tea or dinner. And perhaps a nice young man could call on you.”

Mrs. Douglas smiled hesitantly. “I’d imagined an entire life for you, in a place I’ve never seen.”

Elissande had always known that the woman before her loved her, but never how much. “It sounds like a lovely life,” she said, a catch in her throat.

“Almost as lovely as the life you have with Lord Vere.” Mrs. Douglas took hold of her hands. “You are a fortunate woman, Ellie.”

Her marriage was a sham, her husband willing to pay large sums of money to never see her again. And the man she despised the most had turned out to be her father—the ramifications of which she was still too numb to understand. But Mrs. Douglas was not wrong. Elissande was fortunate: She had her mother, safe and sound.

She leaned forward and kissed her mother on the forehead. “Yes, and how well I know it.”

Vere watched the train that carried his wife disappear into the night.

He’d thought he’d known everything there was to know about the twists and turns of the Douglas case. But tonight’s revelations had shocked him to the core.

Was she reeling? Was she in denial? Had she even understood everything that had transpired?

Instead of allowing himself to be mesmerized by the unfolding secrets, he should have sensed imminent calamity. He should have been quicker with the chloroform. Had he acted a minute sooner, he would have preserved her state of ignorant bliss.

There had been such joy to her—this ugly, faded world was fresh and beautiful in her eyes. Once, at dinner, she had recounted her aunt’s amazement at their visit to Dartmouth. And he had almost commented on the amazement he saw on her face each day, the incredulous pleasure she took in the least things.

He had said nothing, in the end. Her joy had unsettled him: It was a flame, a dangerous flame that he feared would burn him if he were foolish enough to embrace it. He had not known until this moment how beautiful he thought it. How much he cherished it.

He did not dare such happiness for himself—he did not deserve it—but he wanted it for her. Hers had been a hard-won innocence. And he felt its shattering deep inside him, shards of pain puncturing his every breath.

When he arrived back at the house Douglas had chosen for his scheme, Holbrook, also dressed the part of a cabdriver, stood guard in the meager streetlight.

“Our man has already come to,” he said by way of greeting.

Vere nodded. “I will change into my own clothes and we’ll take him.”

He changed inside the house. Then together he and Holbrook carried Douglas, still bound tight, into Holbrook’s hansom cab. Holbrook mounted the driver’s perch; Vere climbed inside the cab and took a seat next to Douglas.

“So, you are my son-in-law,” said Douglas.

As the man spoke, Vere felt something crawl on his skin. “Eh?” he said. “No, no, I married your wife’s niece.”

“Didn’t you understand a single thing that has been said tonight? She is not my wife’s niece. She is my daughter.”

Vere looked at Douglas blankly. “Cracked in the head, aren’t you?”

Douglas laughed. “I must say, part of me is more than a little delighted that she married an idiot.”

“I’m not an idiot,” Vere said quietly, experiencing a great and terrible regret at not having thrashed the man more systematically when he’d had the chance.

“No? Then beware. She is my daughter. I know her. I know she entrapped you. Clever as the devil himself, she is, and just as ruthless. She will use you until you’ve nothing more to give, and who knows, maybe she will get rid of you.”

The vileness of the man never failed to astonish. Vere’s fingers tightened into a fist. “How can you say such things about your own daughter, as you keep insisting?”

“Because it’s true. She has learned a great deal from me, an opportunist if ever there was one. Why do you think—pardon me—you don’t think; I forgot. Well, I feel sorry for you, you cretinous lummox.”

“Pardon?” said Vere.

“You stupid half-wit.”

Vere punched him in the face, almost breaking his own hand with the force of his violence. Douglas screamed in pain, his entire body shuddering.

“Sorry,” Vere said, smiling to see Douglas flinch at his voice. “I do that when people call me stupid. You were saying?”

“Let me make sure I understood you correctly, Lord Vere. You were in Dartmouth at a pub. The gentleman sat down and bought you a drink. After which drink you found yourself lighthearted and silly, and agreed with him to come look at a nice piece of property in Exeter. You woke up on the floor of an empty house, realized you’d been abducted, subdued your abductor when he came to give you your bread and water, and brought him in?” asked Detective Nevinson, who, as a result of one of the cables Vere had sent from Paignton, was at the police station.

This damnable, never-ending role. Vere ached to be home—his wife should not be alone tonight.

“Yes,” he said. “I am what you would call, well, not an heiress—I know that’s a woman—but what is a man heiress?”

“You are a rich man,” said Nevinson, with a roll of his eyes.

“That’s right. And as such, I know when I’ve been mugged for my money. And the bastard there—pardon my language, gentlemen—the bounder there had the audacity to suggest he’d keep me so that my wife would continually hand over thousands of pounds. Doesn’t even know the proper etiquette for a ransom, does he? Ah, thank you, sir,” he said to the chief inspector of the Exeter City Police, who had handed him a cup of dark, overbrewed tea. “Good stuff this is, Inspector. Can hardly taste the fancy Ceylon the missus likes.”