I stared at the faded photograph in Mr. Beaumont's hands, my heart hammering against my ribcage. The woman in the image could have been me—twenty years older, perhaps, but with the same eyes, the same slight tilt of the chin, even the same small mole near her right eye that I'd seen in my mirror every morning of my life.
"This is..." My voice failed me.
Mr. Beaumont nodded gently. "Lady South. She was Beatrice Hayes's mother—your grandmother, I believe."
The room tilted beneath me. I gripped the edge of the sofa, steadying myself.
"That's impossible," I whispered, but even as I said it, I knew. Deep down, I'd always known something wasn't right. The way Mrs. Dubois looked at me when she thought no one was watching. The inexplicable kindness she'd shown me despite Genevieve's protests.
