“Don’t you ever get tired of the world ceasing its rotation every time you enter a room?”
He felt his feet grow still, and he looked at her. Her eyes, which he could now see were somewhat green, were open wide. But he did not see sarcasm in those depths. Her query was an honest one, fueled not by spite but by quiet curiosity.
It wasn’t his practice to reveal his deeper thoughts to anyone, but in that moment he grew unbearably weary, and perhaps just a little bit tired of being himself. And so he shook his head slowly, and said, “Every minute of every day.”
Many hours later, Thomas was climbing the steps to his bedroom in Belgrave Castle. He was tired. And in a bad temper. Or if not bad, exactly, then certainly not good. He felt impatient, mostly with himself. He’d spent the better part of the evening ruminating on his conversation with Lady Amelia, which was annoying enough—he’d never wasted quite so much time on her before.
But instead of coming straight home from the assembly, as had been his original intention, he’d driven to Stamford to visit Celeste. Except once he’d got there, he hadn’t particularly felt like knocking upon her door. All he could think was that he’d have to talk with her, because that was the sort of friendship they had; Celeste was not a high-stepping actress or opera singer. She was a proper widow, and he had to treat her as such, which meant conversation and other niceties, whether or not he was in the mood for words.
Or other niceties.
And so he’d sat in his curricle, parked in the street in front of her house, for at least ten minutes. Finally, feeling like a fool, he left. Drove across town. Stopped at a public inn where he was not familiar with the clientele and had a pint. Rather enjoyed it, actually—the solitude, that was. The solitude and the blessed peace of not a single person approaching him with a query or a favor or, God help him, a compliment.
He’d nursed his pint for a good hour, doing nothing but watching the people around him, and then, noticing that the hour had grown preposterously late, he went home.
He yawned. His bed was extremely comfortable, and he planned to make good use of it. Possibly until noon.
Belgrave was quiet when he let himself in. The servants had long since gone to bed, and so, apparently, had his grandmother.
Thank God.
He supposed he loved her. It was a theoretical thing, really, because he certainly did not like her. But then again, no one did. He supposed he owed her some fealty. She had borne a son who had then married a woman who had borne him. One had to appreciate one’s own existence, if nothing else.
But beyond that, he couldn’t think of any reason to hold her in any affection whatsoever. Augusta Elizabeth Candida Debenham Cavendish was, to put it politely, not a very nice person.
He’d heard stories from people who’d known her long ago, that even if she’d never been friendly, at least she had once been perhaps not so unfriendly. But this was well before he’d been born, before two of her three sons died, the eldest of the same fever that took her husband, and the next in a shipwreck off the coast of Ireland.
Thomas’s father had never expected to become the duke, not with two perfectly healthy older brothers. Fate was a fickle thing, really.
Thomas yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth, and moved quietly across the hall toward the stairs. And then, to his great surprise, he saw—
“Grace?”
She let out a little squeak of surprise and stumbled off the last step. Reflexively, he sprang forward to steady her, his hands grasping her upper arms until she found her footing.
“Your grace,” she said, sounding impossibly tired.
He stepped back, eyeing her curiously. They had long since dispensed with the formalities of titles while at home. She was, in fact, one of the few people who used his given name. “What the devil are you doing awake?” he asked. “It’s got to be after two.”
“After three, actually,” she sighed.
Thomas watched her for a moment, trying to imagine what his grandmother could possibly have done that might require her companion to be up and about at this time of night. He was almost afraid even to ponder it; the devil only knew what she might have come up with. “Grace?” he asked gently, because the poor girl looked truly exhausted.
She blinked, giving her head a little shake. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“Why are you wandering the halls?”
“Your grandmother is not feeling well,” she said with a rueful smile. And then she abruptly added, “You’re home late.”
“I had business in Stamford,” he said brusquely. He considered Grace one of his only true friends, but she was still every inch a lady, and he would never insult her by mentioning Celeste in her presence.
Besides, he was still rather annoyed with himself for his indecisiveness. Why the devil had he driven all the way to Stamford just to turn around?
Grace cleared her throat. “We had an…exciting evening,” she said, adding almost reluctantly, “We were accosted by highwaymen.”
“Good God,” he exclaimed, looking at her more closely. “Are you all right? Is my grandmother well?”
“We are both unharmed,” she assured him, “although our driver has a nasty bump on his head. I took the liberty of giving him three days to convalesce.”
“Of course,” he said, but inside he was berating himself. He should not have allowed them to travel alone. He should have realized they’d be returning late. And what of the Willoughbys? It was unlikely their carriage would have been accosted; they would have traveled in the opposite direction. But still, this did not sit well with him. “I must offer my apologies,” he said. “I should have insisted that you take more than one outrider.”
“Don’t be silly,” Grace responded. “It’s not your fault. Who would have—” She shook her head. “We are unhurt. That is all that matters.”
“What did they take?” he asked, because it seemed an obvious question.
“Not very much,” Grace said lightly, sounding as if she was attempting to minimize the situation. “Nothing at all from me. I imagine it was obvious I am not a woman of means.”
“Grandmother must be spitting mad.”
“She is a bit overset,” Grace admitted.
He almost laughed. Inappropriate and unkind, he knew, but he had always adored understatement. “She was wearing her emeralds, wasn’t she?” He shook his head. “The old bat is ridiculously fond of those stones.”
“She kept the emeralds, actually,” Grace replied, and he knew that she must be exhausted, because she did not scold him for calling his grandmother an old bat. “She hid them under the seat cushions.”
He was impressed despite himself. “She did?”
“I did,” Grace corrected. “She thrust them at me before they breached the vehicle.”
He smiled at her resourcefulness, and then, after a moment of uncharacteristically awkward silence, he said, “You did not mention why you’re up and about so late. Surely you deserve a rest as well.”
She hemmed and hawed, leaving him to wonder what on earth could have her feeling so embarrassed. Finally she admitted, “Your grandmother has a strange request.”
“All of her requests are strange,” he replied immediately.
“No, this one…well…” She let out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t suppose you’d like to help me remove a painting from the gallery.”
Not what he was expecting. “A painting,” he echoed.
She nodded.
“From the gallery.”
She nodded again.
He tried to imagine…then gave up. “I don’t suppose she’s asking for one of those modestly sized square ones.”
She looked as if she might smile. “With the bowls of fruit?”
He nodded.
“No.”
Good Lord, his grandmother had finally gone insane. This was a good thing, really. Perhaps he could have her committed to an asylum. He could not imagine anyone would protest.
“She wants t
he portrait of your uncle.”
“My uncle? Which one?”
“John.”
Thomas nodded, wondering why he’d even asked. He’d never known his uncle, of course; John Cavendish perished a year before he was born. But Belgrave Castle had long lived under his shadow. The dowager had always loved her middle son best, and everyone had known it, especially her other sons. “He was always her favorite,” he murmured.
Grace looked at him quizzically. “But you never knew him.”
“No, of course not,” he said brusquely. “He died before I was born. But my father spoke of him.”
Quite often. And never with fondness.
Still, he supposed he should help Grace wrestle the painting from the wall. The poor girl would be unable to manage it herself. He shook his head. “Isn’t that portrait life-sized?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Good Lord. The things his grandmother did…No.
No. He wasn’t going to do it.
He looked Grace squarely in the eye. “No,” he said. “You will not get that for her this evening. If she wants the bloody painting in her room, she can ask a footman for it in the morning.”
“I assure you, I want nothing more than to retire this very minute, but it is easier just to accommodate her.”
“Absolutely not,” Thomas replied. Good Lord, his grandmother was enough of a terror as it was. He turned and marched up the stairs, intending to give her the tongue-lashing she so sorely deserved, but halfway up he realized he was alone.
What was it with the women of Lincolnshire this evening?
“Grace!” he barked.
And then, when she did not materialize immediately at the foot of the stairs, he ran down and said it louder.
“Grace!”
“I’m right here,” she retorted, hurrying around the corner. “Good gracious, you’ll wake the entire house.”
He ignored that. “Don’t tell me you were going to get the painting by yourself.”
“If I don’t, she will ring for me all night, and then I will never get any sleep.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Watch me.”
She looked alarmed. “Watch you what?”
“Dismantle her bell cord,” he said, heading upstairs with renewed purpose.
“Dismantle her…Thomas!”
He didn’t bother to stop. He could hear her scurrying along behind him, almost able to keep up.
“Thomas, you can’t,” she huffed, out of breath from taking the stairs two at a time.
He stopped and turned. Grinned, even, because really, this was almost fun. “I own the house,” he said. “I can do anything I want.”
His feet ate up the carpet with long strides, barely pausing when he reached his grandmother’s door, which was conveniently ajar for easy entry.
“What,” he snapped, when he’d made his way to the side of her bed, “do you think you’re doing?”
But his grandmother looked…
Wrong.
Her eyes lacked their usual hardness, and truth be told, she didn’t look quite enough like a witch to resemble the Augusta Cavendish he knew and didn’t quite love.
“Good heavens,” he said despite himself, “are you all right?”
“Where is Miss Eversleigh?” his grandmother asked, her eyes darting frantically about the room.
“I’m right here,” Grace said, skidding across the room to the other side of her bed.
“Did you get it? Where is the painting? I want to see my son.”
“Ma’am, it’s late,” Grace tried to explain. She edged forward, then looked at the dowager intently as she said it again: “Ma’am.”
“You may instruct a footman to procure it for you in the morning,” Thomas said, wondering why he thought that something unspoken had just passed between the two women. He was fairly certain his grandmother did not take Grace into her confidence, and he knew that Grace did not return the gesture. He cleared his throat. “I will not have Miss Eversleigh undertaking such manual labor, and certainly not in the middle of the night.”
“I need the painting, Thomas,” the dowager said, but it was not her usual brittle snap. There was a catch in her voice, a weakness that was unnerving. And then she said, “Please.”
He closed his eyes. His grandmother never said please.
“Tomorrow,” he said, recomposing himself. “First thing if you wish it.”
“But—”
“No,” he interrupted. “I am sorry you were accosted this evening, and I shall certainly do whatever is necessary—within reason—to facilitate your comfort and health, but this does not include whimsical and ill-timed demands. Do you understand me?”
Her lips pursed, and he saw a flash of her usual, haughty self in her eyes. For some reason, he found this reassuring. It wasn’t that he viewed her usual, haughty self with much fondness, but the world was a more balanced place when everyone behaved as expected.
She stared at him angrily.
He stared back. “Grace,” he said sharply, without turning around, “go to bed.”
There was a long beat of silence, and then he heard Grace depart.
“You have no right to order her about that way,” his grandmother hissed.
“No, you have no right.”
“She is my companion.”
“Not your slave.”
His grandmother’s hands shook. “You don’t understand. You could never understand.”
“For which I am eternally grateful,” he retorted. Good Lord, the day he understood her was the day he ceased to like himself altogether. He’d spent a lifetime trying to please this woman, or if not that, then half a life trying to please her and the next half trying to avoid her. She had never liked him. Thomas could recall his childhood well enough to know that much. It did not bother him now; he’d long since realized she did not like anyone.
But apparently she once had. If his father’s resentful ramblings were any indication, Augusta Cavendish had adored her middle son, John. She had always bemoaned the fact that he had not been born the heir, and when Thomas’s father had unexpectedly inherited, she had made it abundantly clear that he was a weak substitute. John would have been a better duke, and if not him, then Charles, who, as the eldest, had been groomed for the spot. When he had perished, Reginald, born third, had been left alone with a bitter mother and a wife he did not like or respect. He had always felt that he had been forced to marry beneath him because no one thought he’d inherit, and he saw no reason not to make this opinion clear and loud.
For all that Reginald Cavendish and his mother appeared to detest one another, they were in truth remarkably alike. Neither one of them liked anyone, and certainly not Thomas, ducal heir or not.
“It’s a pity we can’t choose our families,” Thomas murmured.
His grandmother looked at him sharply. He had not spoken loudly enough for her to make out his words, but his tone would have been clear enough to interpret.
“Leave me alone,” she said.
“What happened to you this evening?” Because this made no sense. Yes, perhaps she’d been accosted by highwaymen, and perhaps she’d even had a gun pointed at her chest. But Augusta Cavendish was no frail flower. She’d be spitting nails when they laid her in her grave, of that he had no doubt.
Her lips parted and a vengeful gleam sparked in her eyes, but in the end she held her tongue. Her back straightened and her jaw tightened, and finally she said, “Leave.”
He shrugged. If she did not wish to allow him to play the dutiful grandson, then he considered himself absolved of the responsibility. “I heard they did not get your emeralds,” he said, heading for the door.
“Of course not,” she snapped.
He smiled. Mostly because she could not see it. “It was not well done of you,” he said, turning to face her when he reached the door. “Foisting them upon Miss Eversleigh.”
She scoffed at that, not dignifying his comment with a reply. He hadn’t expected her to; Augusta Ca
vendish would never have valued her companion over her emeralds.
“Sleep well, dear grandmother,” Thomas called out, stepping into the corridor. Then he popped his head back into the doorway, just far enough to deliver a parting shot. “Or if you can’t manage that, be silent about it. I’d ask for invisibility, but you keep insisting you’re not a witch.”
“You are an unnatural grandson,” she hissed.
Thomas shrugged, deciding to allow her the last word. She’d had a difficult night. And he was tired.
And besides that, he didn’t really care.
Chapter 4
The most irritating part of it, Amelia thought as she sipped her tea, which had (of course) gone cold, was that she could have been reading a book.
Or riding her mare.
Or dipping her toes in a stream or learning to play chess or watching the footmen at home polish silver.
But instead she was here. In one of Belgrave Castle’s twelve drawing rooms, sipping cold tea, wondering if it would be impolite to eat the last biscuit, and jumping every time she heard footsteps in the hall.
“Oh, my heavens! Grace!” Elizabeth was exclaiming. “No wonder you appear so distracted!”
“Hmmm?” Amelia straightened. Apparently she had missed something of interest whilst pondering how to avoid her fiancé. Who, it was worth noting, might or might not be in love with Grace.
And had kissed her, anyway.
Shabby behavior, indeed. Toward both of the ladies.
Amelia looked at Grace a bit more closely, pondering her dark hair and blue eyes, and realized that she was actually quite beautiful. This shouldn’t have come as a surprise; she’d known Grace her entire life. Before Grace had become the dowager’s companion, she’d been the daughter of a local squire.
Amelia supposed she still was, only now she was the daughter of a dead squire, which did not offer much in the way of livelihood or protection. But back when Grace’s family had been living, they were all part of the same general country set, and if perhaps the parents had not been close, the children certainly were. She had probably seen Grace once every week; twice, she supposed, if one counted church.