Chapter 4

Claire Moreau was twenty-seven.

She was born in Lyon, came to London at nineteen, and started out singing in bars and small theaters.

Two years ago she signed with a record label backed by the Blackwood Foundation.

A year and a half ago she stood on the stage of the Royal Theatre.

Eight months ago she released her first solo album and gained several million followers on social media.

Her career read like a road that had been carefully paved for her.

And every stone in that road connected back to my husband.

I didn't hire a private investigator.

Claire is a public figure, and almost everything she had been given could be found in published articles.

Adrian had attended three of her performances.

Once from the middle of the audience, twice through the theater's side entrance.

Every time, the press explained it as the chairman of a foundation supporting a young artist.

I had thought so too.

Last winter I even met her at a dinner.

She wore a silver-gray gown and came over with a glass in her hand to thank the Blackwood Foundation politely for the opportunity.

She looked nervous and full of admiration.

I said to her, "What put you on that stage is your own voice."

She blushed and laughed.

"Your Grace, the way you and the duke love each other is something to envy."

Looking back now, her eyes went past my shoulder while she said it.

Adrian was standing behind me.

That night when we got home, he praised Claire's talent.

"Her voice will bring more attention to the foundation's music program this year."

He didn't say one word beyond that.

And I didn't ask.

Because it had never occurred to me that I needed to guard against every woman my husband complimented.

Helen quickly traced the apartment Claire lived in.

The property belonged to an investment company, and that company was indirectly controlled by the Blackwood Group. It had been purchased two years ago, three months after Claire signed her contract.

Her car, her driver, and her private security were all paid for out of Adrian's office.

"On their own, these could still be explained as protecting a client," Helen said.

"I know."

So I told her to keep digging.

A two-year relationship doesn't leave behind only forty-seven seconds of video.

That evening Adrian came home to the manor on time to have dinner with me.

He brought a bouquet of white tulips and said he had passed a florist and thought of a painting I made when I was young.

That painting burned during the war.

The only people left who remember it are the two of us.

I took the flowers and thanked him quietly.

Adrian watched my face.

"You've been very quiet these last few days."

"The documentary is nearly out. It makes me a little nervous."

"If you don't like it, we can cancel it."

He said it without a moment's hesitation.

The foundation had poured a fortune into that documentary, and the publicity campaign had been running for three months.

And yet if I said I didn't like it, he really would cancel it.

Moments like this were exactly why I used to believe I would never become my mother.

My father always had a great many things that mattered more than she did.

With Adrian, I seemed to be the one who always mattered most.

"Don't cancel it," I said. "I want to see what our story looks like to other people."

Adrian smiled and reached over to take my hand.

"The same as it looks to me."

"And how is that?"

"Irreplaceable."

He answered without looking away.

The love in his eyes was so clear that I almost doubted the man in the video was him.

My phone buzzed then.

Helen had sent the newest results.

The apartment has a registered electronic lock. Adrian has his own access. He doesn't need Claire to let him in remotely.

That key was activated two years ago.

I looked at the words two years ago and suddenly remembered when Claire first received foundation support.

So that lucky road of hers hadn't started on a stage.

It started the night Adrian walked into her apartment.