“Let me give a presentation that, it seems, many here need to hear,” my father announced.

He took my hand and raised it slightly. “This is Phoebe Harrell. My only daughter.”

Whispers swept through the ballroom. “Raymond Harrell’s daughter?” someone muttered. “Spencer’s secret wife?” another gasped.

Paisley let out a sharp, desperate laugh. “That’s a lie!” she screamed. “I investigated Phoebe. She doesn’t have any important family. She’s an ordinary woman, a kept woman!”

This time, no one joined her.

One of the men who was following my father, Mr. Douglas Cooke, who happened to be the president of a national bank, stepped forward.