Page 87 of The Boxing Baroness

She gasped. “That belonged to my mother. I remember—she showed it to me once.” Marianne had forgotten all about it—even now, it seemed like something from a fever dream.

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to catch hold of the fleeting memory of her mother. She’d been ill, yet she was digging in the garden, and she’d fainted. In the folds of her skirt had been the glitter of something sparkly along with a thick, gold chain. But Marianne had been too scared to care what it was; she’d been terrified that her mother had died.

She opened her eyes to see Barnabas taking a large locket from the box and holding it up by a long, heavy gold chain. The locket was a rectangle, with the edges squared. Even though Marianne knew nothing about jewelry she could tell this had been made by a master craftsman. In the center was a large red stone that looked like it might be a ruby. Radiating out from it were eight rays. The rays were composed of small canary-yellow stones.

“It is hundreds of years old and worth a great deal of money. Your mother left it buried behind her cottage—in case I didn’t get there before she died. Take it.” Barnabas offered it to her.

Her hands shook as she reached for it. “It’s so heavy,” she murmured, surprised by its heft and how it filled her palm. There was a tiny lever on one side and a hinge on the other. Marianne pushed the lever and the locket popped open with a soft snick.

Inside was a miniature of a dark-haired, brown-eyed stranger who had the same shape eyes and face as Marianne. Inscribed on the other side of the locket were the words: Avec tout mon amour, N.

With all my love, N.

Marianne looked up. “Who is this? What does the N stand for? ”

“I have always believed that is your real mother. As for the N?” He shrugged. “I do not know her name.”

“My real mother?” she demanded. “What are you talking about, Uncle?”

He swallowed convulsively. “Er, I’m not your uncle. I didn’t have any sisters—at least not that I’m aware of.”

Her gaze was drawn again and again to the miniature in her hand. The eyes were the same shape as hers, but brown where hers were hazel. And the woman in the picture shared the same pearly complexion and dark brown hair as Marianne.

The longer she looked at the painting, the more she saw a resemblance. Certainly more than she’d resembled the woman she’d always believed to be her mother.

Her mother.

Those words conjured up a heart-shaped face with tawny hair and blue eyes.

“Who is this woman?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

He flinched at the disbelief in her voice and raised his hands in a placating gesture. “I give you my word that I’m not lying.”

“That is rich indeed—your word.”

He clenched his jaws but remained quiet.

“Tell me everything you do know, Uncle—” She gave a dismissive snort. “I suppose I can call you what everyone else does now, Barnabas.”

“Please, Marianne, don’t—”

“Everything.”

He sighed. “There isn’t much to tell. I first learned about you when I was with the Mayfair Players. Sonia received a letter from Sandrine, saying that she was dying and that somebody needed to come and claim you.”

“Sonia? Why Sonia?”

“She was a cousin of your mother’s—” He grimaced. “Er, I mean Sandrine Simpson’s cousin.”

“So why didn’t Sonia come claim me? Why you?”

“We agreed it would be better if a man were to make the claim—”

“Why?”