"Who is Jeffery Delacourt?"
Madelyn did not move. She stood frozen under his harsh gaze, her eyes wide at him. There was fear and dread, but Brand could not care for her emotions. Not now. Not when the ground beneath him was violently shifting.
His hand tightened about the report Macquoid had given him, crumpling it.
"Who is Jeffery Delacourt, Madelyn?" he asked again.
"Brand, I—"
He held up his hand, silencing her. "Only give the answer. Who is he?"
Her lips trembled. "He is… was my husband."
The words slammed into him and he recoiled.
Sickened to his stomach, he stumbled. Had he not always known that her secret was a mighty one? Had he not often thought of the moment he would know of her past? He had known but had simply chosen not to see. He had thought but never—never to this extent.
Delacourt? Bile rose to his mouth. The name was unusually familiar.
His jaw tightened. "Then who," he asked slowly, "is James Stanhope?"
