Agnes
My stomach dropped.
For a moment, I considered lying—making up some story about historical research or a prop for one of the Isabella Foundation’s campaigns. But as I opened my mouth, I realized I was tired of the deception. Lena had been nothing but honest with me, sharing her difficult past and caring for my daughter. Maybe it was time I returned that honesty.
“We need to talk,” I said quietly. I glanced around the hallway, noting a few of Richard’s staff moving in and out of nearby rooms. “Not here. Follow me.”
Without waiting for her response, I turned and walked toward a small study I’d noticed earlier during our tour of the house. Lena followed, the letter still clutched in her hand.
“Elijah!” I called out as lightly as I could as we passed the dining room.
