Free The Midnight Rose by Lucinda Riley Page A

herself, with a jeweled headband across her forehead. But it wasn’t just what the woman was wearing that struck her, it was her face.
    “She—” Rebecca found her voice. “She looks like me.”
    “I know. The likeness is”—Anthony paused—“extraordinary. When I saw you this morning, with your hair blond and dressed as you are, I thought I was seeing a ghost.”
    Rebecca was still taking in the huge brown eyes, the heart-shaped face as pale as her own, the small retroussé nose and the full lips. “Who is she?”
    “My grandmother Violet. And, what’s even stranger, she was American. She married my grandfather Donald in 1920 and came to live with him here at Astbury. She was regarded both in England and America as one of the great beauties of her day. Sadly, she died very young, so I never met her. And my grandfather died only a month after her.” Anthony paused, then sighed heavily. “You could say it was the beginning of the end for the Astbury family.”
    “How did Violet die?” Rebecca asked him gently.
    “Hers was the fate of many women in those days; she died in childbirth . . .” Anthony’s voice trailed off miserably.
    “I’m so sorry,” said Rebecca, at a loss.
    Recovering himself, Anthony continued. “Subsequently my poor, sainted mother, Daisy, grew up an orphan, in the care of her grandmother. That’s my mother there.” He indicated another portrait, showing a stern-lipped, middle-aged woman. “I apologize for sounding maudlin, but it’s strange that the Astburys have been blighted, one way or the other, ever since Violet’s death.” He turned his attention suddenly from the portrait to Rebecca. “You’re not in any way related to the Drumner family of New York, are you? They were a very rich and powerful clan in the early twentieth century. In fact, it was Violet’s dowry that saved this estate from ruin.”
    Anthony looked at her, waiting for an answer. Her past was not something Rebecca wished to reveal to anyone, and certainly not to a stranger.
    “No. My family hails from Chicago, and I’ve never heard the Drumner name mentioned. The likeness must be simply coincidence.”
    “Still”—Anthony offered her a tight smile—“odd all the same to have you here at Astbury, playing a character from the era Violet lived in. And resembling her so strongly.”
    “Yes, it is, but I can assure you there’s no family connection,” Rebecca repeated adamantly.
    “Well, there we are. As you can imagine, it was rather a shock to see you in the hall this morning. Please do forgive me.”
    “Of course.”
    “Well, I won’t hold you up any longer, but I felt I must show you Violet’s portrait. And perhaps you would do me the honor of joining me for dinner tonight?” he added.
    “Thank you, I’d be delighted to. And now I really have to go. I’m due back on set in an hour.”
    “Of course.” Anthony walked to the door, opened it and let Rebecca pass through ahead of him. They walked in silence back to the entrance hall. Rebecca smiled good-bye and once again mounted the stairs to retrieve her cell phone. When she reached the sanctuary of her bedroom, she closed the door, her legs suddenly feeling weak underneath her. She sat down quickly in the armchair next to the fire, put her head forward to rest on her hands and took some deep breaths.
    She had lied to him. The only thing she knew about her parents was her mother’s name—Jenny Bradley. And the fact that Jenny had put her daughter into foster care when she was five years old.
    The people she regarded as her parents were Bob and Margaret—a kind couple who had fostered Rebecca when she was six. Over the years, they’d tried to adopt Rebecca, but her mother had always refused to sign the paperwork, assuming that one day she would be well enough to care for Rebecca herself.
    Emotionally, the situation had been difficult for her to cope with; the permanency and security she so craved was not available to her. When