Never a Gentleman (44 page)

The bishop huffed. “That isn’t what the…”

Red-faced, he clamped his mouth shut.

“Then you know about the verse,” Diccan said, stepping closer. “A verse the ‘whore’ has. Didn’t you call my cousin Kate a
whore?”

The bishop bridled. “That woman
is
a whore.”

Diccan shook his head. “We’ll discuss that slander later. Does she have the verse?”

His father blinked, as if suddenly realizing who it was he was talking to. Not his son, but the enemy. He flushed. He shook
his head. Briefly closing his eyes, as if in prayer, he sat back down and turned away.

Diccan went over to kneel before him, a position he’d given up long ago. “Don’t you understand?” he asked to his
father’s turned head. “You could be drawn and quartered for what you’ve just told me.”

His father never turned. “And you would turn me in?”

“I’d have to.” Diccan dragged a breath past the jagged edge of sorrow. “I love my country too.”

His father said nothing. Diccan waited, but there was no more. He felt devastated. He couldn’t even begin to contemplate what
this would mean. His father had just admitted to treason. His father, a duke’s brother. A Lord Spiritual. Even though Diccan
had suspected his father’s crime when he’d come, the enormity of it would take months, maybe years, to sink in. His father
was a traitor to the Crown.

“Grace,” he finally said, standing up, “Would you bring Marcus in?”

Meeting his gaze with one of unwavering support, Grace got to her feet. She never said a word. She just laid her hand on his
arm on her way by. It was the only spot of warmth in his entire body.

“Wellington truly is a target?” his father asked, still looking away.

“Yes,” Diccan said, walking to the window, where he could see the sky.

“Wait,” his father said, a hand out. “You, too, young lady.”

Her hand on the door, Grace paused. Diccan turned.

“Before you hand me over to the soldiers,” his father said, sounding curiously hollow, “there is something you should know.”

Diccan met his father’s gaze and saw defeat. “What?”

The bishop looked over at Grace. “She was convenient. Someone with the kind of reputation that could ruin yours if you ran,
as any sensible man should have done. But I’d
never met her until that day. I didn’t realize…” He cast a quick glance at Grace, who now stood stock-still, and returned
to Diccan. “She was never worthy of the Hilliard name. You deserve better.”

Diccan laughed. “Don’t be daft. She’s worth more than all of us put together.”

“Of course she isn’t. Which is why I couldn’t allow your marriage.”

Diccan felt as if he’d stumbled at the edge of a precipice. “What?”

He fought a surge of nausea, because his father smiled, as if he had just given Diccan a gift.

“You’re not married.”

D
iccan heard a a small sound of distress behind him, but he couldn’t look away from his father. “As a method of revenge, this
falls short, Father. If there is anything in all this mess that is unquestionable, it is my marriage.”

“Not revenge,” his father said, his hand still on his cross. “Don’t you see? Even for this I couldn’t condemn you to a life
with this woman.”

“Father,” Diccan said, as if instructing a toddler. “Don’t you remember? Cousin Charles performed the service. He said the
words himself that wed Richard Hilliard to Miss Grace Fairchild. Even you couldn’t challenge the Archbishop of Canterbury.”

His father was shaking his head. “Not Richard Hilliard.
Robert
. I wrote your brother Robert’s name on the license. I knew no one would look closely enough to catch it.”

Diccan felt as if he’d been kicked in the gut. Stalking over to his father, he dragged him to his feet. “Tell me you’re lying.”

His father pulled Diccan’s hands away. “I never lie. I
know you don’t like to accept anything from me, but when you’ve had time to consider, you’ll realize the favor I’ve done you.
I’ve set you free.”

Diccan couldn’t move. Behind him, the door opened and closed. He could actually feel her go, deep inside him where she had
taken to living. But he didn’t move to stop her. He had no right to. After all, no matter what his father said, he wasn’t
the one who had just been set free.

Diccan realized in that moment that his father was wrong. It wasn’t the marriage that would destroy him. It was the ending
of it.

He stepped back, his words an implacable weight. “Lord Evelyn Hilliard, I arrest you in the name of the King.”

“I won’t go to jail, you know,” his father said, straightening the coat Diccan had rumpled. “The government can’t afford the
scandal.”

“That isn’t my decision to make.”

He tried to turn away. His father grabbed him. “Think of what this will do to your mother.”

Diccan refused to face him. “I will look after my mother and sisters.”

“Your mother won’t let you anywhere near her. Let me go.”

“No, sir.”

It should have ended there. He should have been able to turn his father over to Marcus and escort Grace away from this house,
to somewhere where he could begin to undo some of the damage his father had just done. Somewhere he and Grace could begin
to construct a new life. He should have known better.

Marcus had a carriage waiting outside. With apologies to his cousin Edwin, Diccan escorted his now-silent
father through the massive old hall to the great oak doors, which were held open by the duke’s very correct butler. Marcus
followed Diccan outside, Grace trailing silently behind.

After the dimness of the castle, Diccan blinked at the sudden sunlight. He saw the coach at the bottom of the steps, with
a brace of outriders waiting to mount. He heard the querulous tones of his cousin as he demanded that the butler shut the
door. He led his father down the steps. Suddenly, his father stumbled. In the same moment, Diccan heard a distinctive crack.

“Gun!” he yelled, pulling at the older man. “Everybody down!”

He saw Grace hit the ground, her attention out where the gunshot still echoed over the valley. Marcus charged down the steps.
Diccan tried to get his father down, but it was as if the bishop had turned to stone. He stood stockstill, with the most bemused
expression on his face.

“Father?”

His father managed to look up, but he was already toppling. Before Diccan could catch him, the bishop pitched over and rolled
all the way down the stone steps, to land motionless on the gravel.

Diccan ran to where he lay, Grace following on his heels. Marcus yelled at his outriders to find the gunman.

“Sharpshooter,” Grace said quietly, as she dropped to her knees by his father. She pointed toward a stand of trees off to
the right. “Over there.”

Marcus shot her a wry look. The outriders took off. His heart thundering in his chest, Diccan rolled his father over, ready
to do something. Anything.

But there was nothing to do. His father was dead.

•  •  •

The day before Grace’s nineteenth birthday, she had been swept into a rain-swollen river. It had been spring, and her father,
then a colonel, was bringing up a battalion of Guards to reinforce Wellington’s forces in Spain. Afraid he was going to miss
an engagement, the colonel was hard-marching his soldiers and Grace across the difficult terrain of Portugal.

It had never occurred to Grace that she couldn’t cross the nameless mountain stream. She had crossed dozens of others, and
she was atop her dependable roan, Joker. This time, though, Joker stumbled. Suddenly Grace found herself catapulted headfirst
into the roiling, boulder-strewn waters and swept inexorably downriver.

She remembered the terrible feeling of disorientation and panic. The struggle for air, the tantalizing glimpse of sky that
kept disappearing before she could reach it. Most of all, though, she remembered the feeling of futility that overtook her
as she flailed helplessly in the water, the sense that no matter how hard she struggled, she would ultimately drown.

She hadn’t drowned, of course. Kit Braxton had dived in after her and dragged her to shore, a mile downstream. But the memory
still gave her nightmares.

She felt exactly the same right now. Tumbled and battered and disoriented. Angry and panicked. Hollow with the growing sense
of futility. She had lost Diccan. No. She should be honest. The truth was, of course, that she’d never had him. He had been
kind, and he had done his best with the cards dealt him. But his father had been right. He was free.

He would protest, of course. He was an honorable man. He would not want to see her ruined any more than he had before. But
Grace could not bear the thought that she would be punishing him to gain security.

They had agreed that they wouldn’t tell their friends the truth until after Jack and Olivia’s wedding. After all, the atmosphere
had been dimmed enough by the death of Diccan’s father. The truth about the bishop’s death would never be told. Evelyn Hilliard,
Bishop of Slough, had been slain when he uncovered a plot against the Crown. That was the story the Arch bishop of Canterbury
would give out when he arrived to bless his cousin’s passing. It was the only way to protect Diccan’s mother and sisters.

Grace had finally met Diccan’s sisters, pale, quiet Charlotte and restless young Winnie, looking to their brother for comfort,
and at their new sister with suspicion. Grace had wanted so badly to help, but Diccan’s mother wouldn’t even allow her close.
Considering the shape Lady Evelyn was in, it was the least Grace could do to stay away.

Lady Evelyn’s reaction had been the greatest shock in a week of shocks. That rigid, superior woman, who looked down on every
other human, had been shattered by the bishop’s death. Evidently, she had adored her hidebound husband.

“Grace?” she heard in her ear now. “Are you all right?”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” she answered automatically. “I’m fine.”

She struggled to attend to her surroundings. It was Kate who had spoken. They were sitting side by side at a table in the
Great Hall at Oak Grove, surrounded by chatter and laughter and the desultory clinking of glasses and forks. For a moment
Grace wasn’t quite certain why she
was there. Then she heard Jack laugh. Oh, Heavens. She had let her mind wander off right in the middle of Jack and Olivia’s
wedding breakfast.

She wished she could have blamed her mental lapse on the turmoil of the last few days. But the truth was that she had done
it deliberately. She felt so small, but it hurt to see the happiness in Jack’s and Olivia’s eyes. To see them finally happy,
when they’d been through so much.

The ceremony itself had been simple and sincere, conducted by the local vicar in the the little Norman church in Bury. Her
eyes shining as she looked up at her husband, Olivia had looked indescribably beautiful in her pale blush dress and straw
cottage bonnet. From the besotted look on Jack’s face as he smiled at her, he’d evidently agreed. Grace doubted they had noticed
anyone else in the church.

Grace wasn’t used to feeling envy. She didn’t like it. But she envied her friends. She envied them their friendship, their
devotion, their hope. She envied them most their joy. Theirs was the kind of marriage she wanted. It was the kind of marriage
Diccan deserved.

She looked around, almost expecting to see him. He wouldn’t be there, of course. He was attending his mother.

“Grace,” Kate chastised her. “At least do your bit to keep Olivia’s chef from quitting in a huff. Eat a lobster patty.”

Instinctively, Grace put on a smile and picked up a delicacy that she knew would taste like ashes on her tongue. “I should
probably save it for Diccan. He hates to miss out on lobster patties.”

“If you want to please Diccan,” Kate suggested, “toss the lobster to the cat. Cadge him a bottle of champagne.”

Grace smiled again, although not as brightly. “I already have. He’s had such a bad few days.”

“His mother is still…?”

“Silent and hollow-eyed? Yes, from what I hear.”

Kate nodded. “Well, tell Diccan that I won’t go near the funeral. It would be the last thing that woman would need. Besides,
I am in no rush to visit my exalted family.”

Grace frowned. “Oh, Kate, no. He needs you there.”

Kate took a sip of wine. “Don’t be silly. He’ll have you.”

A fresh wave a pain assailed her. How did she tell her friend that it was very possible he wouldn’t? That Grace would be forbidden
to attend by the tenets of taste and propriety? Diccan swore that his father had only made that claim about their marriage
to hurt him. But Grace had seen the look in that old man’s eyes, and she disagreed. She knew her marriage would last only
as long as it took the archbishop to arrive with the official documents.

“Well,” Kate said, suddenly, settling her fuchsia dress around her as she stood, “it looks as if it is time to send our lovebirds
off.”

Grace turned to see that Olivia and Jack indeed stood by the doorway, dressed for their short wedding trip to the Isle of
Wight. Their son Jamie was jumping up and down, Jack’s sister Georgie holding his hand. The rest of the party was gathering
to send the newlyweds off.

It was then that Grace saw Diccan. He was just strolling in the door, languid and smiling, his poise wrapped about him like
a cloak. But Grace could see the effort it took. He looked gaunt to her, brittle. Was she the only one who saw how tense he
was? How weighted down his shoulders? He was laughing with Jack, giving Olivia a buss on the cheek. The couple laid hands
on his arm. Grace could almost hear their concern. Diccan gently smiled it away.

She had ached to be able to comfort him, to pull his
head against her shoulder and let him rest. But his mother couldn’t seem to abide Grace being about, as if she were a fly
someone had let in the window. So she had stayed away.

She knew the minute he saw her. His expression didn’t change. But she felt the change in him anyway. Her heart sped up. She
felt frozen. She could see in his eyes that something that happened.