Saving Grace (23 page)

The idea held appeal. Perhaps his greatest tool at getting to Preston was right before him. He need only discover how to use it to his best advantage.

Nicholas abandoned any pretense of reading and crossed the room once more, this time to a table before the fire. He glanced at the cards placed there and was struck with sudden inspiration.

“Might I interest you in a game of whist, Miss Thatcher?”

“No.” She did not even look up.

“Your outright refusal displeases me,” Nicholas said, irked that she had so quickly dismissed his cordial request.

“As does your ignorance of literature, disappoint me.” She gave him a brief, pert smile.

“I am not ignorant,” Nicholas said, his voice, raised defensively and sounding the very thing. “I am well read.”

“But you do not
enjoy
reading.” Miss Thatcher stood and set her book aside. “So I must conclude that you do not gather the meaning intended from these great works acquired in your library.” She sighed heavily. “
ʼ
Tis a sin, really.”

He scoffed. “I would not speak of sins, were I you — after spending four nights at Sir Lidgate’s home, as you did.” He regretted the words the instant they left his mouth.

Miss Thatcher’s eyes darkened in a way he had not yet witnessed. No blush of modesty stained her cheeks, and she did not look away from him. Instead, she walked closer, arms down, hands clenched at her sides.

“Lidgate is a monster. Had I known as much, I would never have gone to his home — no matter what —” Her voice caught. “—my father’s woes.” Her hands shook.

“Every minute I was there, my virtue was in danger. I wore my cloak indoors, pretending a chill, to be covered from his prying eyes. I moved furniture in front of my bedroom door at night to keep him out. I even purposely fell from a horse so he would believe me injured and leave me alone.”

“You were injured, weren’t you? And did he not leave you alone?” Nicholas asked quietly, his own hands clenching, itching to find their way around Lidgate’s neck.

Miss Thatcher looked at him a long moment but did not respond.

“Honesty,” Nicholas said quietly. “We are betrothed. I have a right to know if —”

“My virtue is quite intact.” Her face stained pink with the confession. “If you do not believe me, find the doctor who came to Sir Lidgate’s house. Though I suffered only bruises, he agreed to tell Sir Lidgate that the fall had most likely rendered me unable to bear children.” She looked away. “I paid him to say it.”

“You paid ...”

Miss Thatcher nodded. “Quite handsomely. It took the remainder of my funds and some of Miranda’s and Harrison’s salaries too.”

Nicholas walked to the fireplace and brought a hand to his mouth as he leaned against the mantel, considering her words. It was a tale considerably different from what he’d been led to believe. Yet her embarrassment while telling it rang true.

“What was Lidgate’s reaction upon receiving the news that you could not produce an heir?” Nicholas knew; he’d learned that much from the solicitor: He hadn’t offered for her.

And I threw it back at her yesterday.

Miss Thatcher was looking at him again. Her cheeks had returned to their normal color, and when she spoke, there was a coolness to her voice as well. “When Sir Lidgate was told I could not bear his child, he no longer wanted me for his wife.”

“So you left — and came here?” Nicholas asked.

“Yes.” She nodded and looked back at her book, then over to the door, as if deciding which escape to choose.

Something about her story didn’t fit. Nicholas felt certain he was missing something — an important piece of information. “Did Lidgate throw you out?” he asked. “The very night of your injury?”

Miss Thatcher sighed wearily. “He did not.”

“Then why your arrival here in the dead of night?” This was it. And it had to tie back to Miss Thatcher’s plotting with Preston.
I have her now.

“Shortly before ten o’clock in the evening, I left with my maid, Miranda. We walked to the road. Harrison, my driver, met us there with the coach.”

“But
why
?” Nicholas pressed. “Had you planned a meeting with Preston?”

“No.” Miss Thatcher’s brow drew together as if she was entirely perplexed by the suggestion. “I have already explained; I did not know Mr. Preston, though I was attempting to travel to his home that night.”

“But he changed plans on you, didn’t he?” Nicholas walked toward her, wagging a finger, ready to pounce now that he had her caught in the trap.

She lifted her head and stared at him straight on. “The only
change
was Lidgate’s desire for me as his wife. Unfortunately his other desires
did not alter. He offered me a position as his mistress. He planned to come to my room at midnight to introduce me to my ‘duties.’ And so, I fled.”

Nicholas muttered a word not fit for her ears and turned away, already plotting the various methods he might use to murder Lidgate should the man ever darken his doorstep or any other place Nicholas happened to be.

And what of me? Have I been much better to her than Lidgate
?
He wanted to think that he had, but his conscience told him otherwise.

The way I appraised her in the study, the accusations I’ve made — at least some are true, aren’t they? But the way I shouted at her and detained her that night in my room
...

If she’d just come from Lidgate’s, it was little wonder she had been so terrified that night.

Nicholas raked a hand through his hair, more distraught than he’d believed he could be at Miss Thatcher’s misfortune.
And at my poor conduct. At Lidgate’s behavior.

But what if Miss Thatcher was not being entirely truthful?
What if they’d been more than attempts on Lidgate’s part? He couldn’t blame her for not revealing everything. What if she
had
been ill used by Lidgate? What would a woman who was already compromised have to lose by leaving Lidgate and going elsewhere?

Nothing. And she would have everything to gain in any man even slightly better than Lidgate.
Perhaps this was where Preston came in. Perhaps she had fled to him and told him everything, and then, together, they had found a way to foist the blame elsewhere. To turn the deed to their advantage.

Instead of feeling furious at the possibility, Nicholas felt a surge of sympathy for Miss Thatcher and anger on her behalf.

“What are you thinking?” she asked. “I’ve never seen so many emotions cross a person’s face so quickly. It is making me a little dizzy.”

“Do not faint on me again,” Nicholas warned. “Or we shall be right back where we started, with you waking and asking what I have done, when in truth, I’ve done nothing at all.”

“Nor have I, milord. Though I believe I yet read censure in your eyes.”

“I wasn’t thinking of you,” Nicholas said. “But of Lidgate. Of what I’ll —”

“He did not touch me.” She stood and walked forward until she was quite close; Nicholas could have reached out and easily touched her. “Believe me — please.” It was the most pleading tone he had ever heard from her. “I left before he could hurt me and later arrived at your doorstep, a muddy mess and quite ill, but all in all, much better off than I would have been.”

“Until we met later that night,” Nicholas said.

She nodded, and he caught her slight flinch at the memory.

“A rather bad beginning,” Nicholas summed up.

“The worst,” she agreed.

He swallowed uneasily, aware of her nearness and uncertain what he should do or say, though somehow an apology seemed in order. “Perhaps we should begin our acquaintance anew.”

She looked up at him through her long, dark lashes. “A new beginning?”

“I believe so.” He tugged at his cravat, aware that the room had grown very warm, though the fire burned low. “I will leave and return again to make an introduction.”

She smiled, amused. “Truly?”

“Yes.” He would have rather left and not returned, retreating to the safety of his study, where he might sort out his confusion. But he could think of no other way to begin to right the many wrongs he had done her other than to go back — as much as were possible — and begin anew.

Nicholas gave a slight bow and left the room, feeling her eyes following him. In the hall, he waited a moment, wondering what on earth he might say when he returned.

This charade is quite possibly my worst idea yet
.

With a deep breath, he returned to the library and, with resolute steps, marched toward Miss Thatcher seated exactly as she had been the first time he’d entered, her face pressed to the windowpane, the open book in her lap. He stopped before her and cleared his throat. She turned to him, her hazel eyes sparkling with amusement.

This is ridiculous
. I
must look ridiculous.

“Miss Thatcher.” He bowed before her. She rose and extended her hand. He took it, pressing his lips just above her knuckles, noting that her skin was not as smooth as that of most well-bred ladies.

She must have noticed his distraction, for she tugged her hand away and tucked it, with the other, behind her back. “Lord Sutherland, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” She curtsied.

He’d expected mirth but heard only sincerity in her voice. “And yours,” Nicholas said, finding that he meant it. He turned sideways and inclined his head toward the card table. “Might I pry you from your book and convince you to join me in a game of whist?”

She shook her head. “No, thank you.”

He frowned. “This is a new beginning, remember?” He spoke from the side of his mouth through clenched teeth, as if that somehow did not count as part of their new dialogue.

“I have an aversion to card games of any sort,” she explained. “They have been at the root of many of my troubles.”

“Ahh,” Nicholas said, understanding — somewhat. He could have argued that it was her father’s lack of self-control that was the root of her troubles, but he did not wish to start another argument. Already he could see that this arrangement of pleasantness was much preferred. “Chess, perhaps?” he suggested, suddenly loath to leave her company.

Her face lit up. “Oh yes. Grandfather and I used to play.”

He extended his arm and escorted her to the board. As he held out her chair and she seated herself, the thought came to Nicholas that he had not yet mentioned that there was a possible way out of their betrothal. This would be the perfect time to discuss it — while they were being civil.

He imagined Preston seated across from her instead, being the recipient of more than just her fleeting and wary smiles. Knowing his former brother-in-law as he did, Nicholas guessed that it would take very little for Preston to take Miss Thatcher back.

All the more reason to keep her here a week or two
, Nicholas reasoned. He was no longer certain of Miss Thatcher’s involvement in a plot against him, but that didn’t mean he liked Preston any more.

I should let him wonder, let him suffer, knowing she is here.
There would be time enough later to be free of the betrothal. Nicholas told himself he would begin the process when his mother arrived.
But until then —

He admired the head of dark hair bent over the chessboard.

Until then, he would enjoy a break from his usual labors.

My Dearest Grace,

Christopher has gone to London again to meet with the solicitor about the inheritance, and Miranda and Harrison are taking very good care of me. It is you we are all worried over. So it pains me to make this request — yet I must. Will you do your best to endure your circumstance at Sutherland Hall a little longer? Father’s anger will not abate, but if he believes your Lord Sutherland to still be a possible source for income, then I am yet safe …

“I shall lose my mind if I don’t find something more to do here.” Grace balanced her toes on the edge of the bench, then braced her hands on the stone fence and pushed off, swaying upright then leaning forward to push off the wall again as had been her habit the past several minutes.

Samuel looked down on her from his seat on the wall above. “You do realize that if you fall off that bench and break your leg, I’ll have the difficult choice of leaving you here to suffer or facing the wrath of your betrothed and admitting to our trysts.”

“Don’t call them that.” Grace ceased her rocking and looked up at him. “This is not a tryst. You and I are but friends.”

“So I am reminded every time we part,” Samuel grumbled.

Grace jumped off the bench and began walking away from it. “If this is too difficult, I will not come anymore. I can find another way to post Helen’s letters.”

“No.” Samuel’s answer was immediate and nearly as sharp as some of Lord Sutherland’s replies. Though coming from Samuel, the tone affected her more.

“What is wrong with you today?” Grace returned to stand before him, leaning back so she might better see his expression. “Are you not the one who has been encouraging me to make the most of my circumstance, to try to be on good terms with Lord Sutherland?”

Samuel gave another one-syllable response. “Aye.” He drew his knee up to his chest and set his chin upon it, brooding. “Perhaps I was too generous in my original advice. Can you not make the man despise you — cause him to throw you out of his house so you come running to mine?”