Saving Grace (5 page)

“Time will tell.” Nicholas turned his back to the butler so the man could remove his traveling cloak. “And now I find myself with an appetite — revenge does make one hungry,” he said, only half-jesting. “I suppose it’s too early to ask cook to rise?”

“Not at all,” Kingsley said, answering almost too quickly. “I believe she could be rather easily persuaded.”

Nicholas eyed the butler once more as Kingsley hung up the cloak and retrieved the candelabra he’d set aside on the hall table. He paused, glancing to either side of the entrance hall. “Would you care to wait in your study or in the dining room while I arrange for your breakfast?”

“Neither.” Nicholas started toward the staircase.

“There’s a great deal of correspondence on your desk,” Kingsley said. “Perhaps you might wish to sort through it while cook works her magic.”

“Perhaps,” Nicholas said vaguely, continuing his stride. “Though a tray in my room is more what I had in mind.”

“I believe there may be some — information — about Mr. Preston among the letters,” Kingsley said. “It seems I saw his name on the top of a packet that arrived from London just a few days ago.”

“Oh?” Nicholas arched a tired eyebrow. “Very well, then. I’d best have a look.” He dearly hoped it was not from any of the solicitors he’d met with at the beginning of this latest trip, almost two months ago. He’d garnered what he’d believed were secure promises from all of them, and he had no desire to discover that any of his plans had gone awry.

Kingsley lit the candelabra in the study, gave a low bow and exited into the hall. Nicholas started toward his desk, feeling put off by papers stacked there. He’d been neglectful of late, and soon he’d have to spend time making things right here, managing the Sutherland holdings as he used to. But for now, the property down the road, the one adjoining the western edge of his land, was of far greater concern.

Looking for any information regarding that property — or more specifically, Mr. Samuel Preston, its owner — Nicholas settled at his desk and sifted through the missives as quickly as possible. He had but a few envelopes remaining when an offending one surfaced. He’d know that handwriting anywhere. A wave of hatred came over him, so intense that Nicholas’ jaw clenched, as if holding back his abhorrence. He flipped the envelope over anyway, not the least surprised to see the Preston seal. With fury, he ripped it open.

How dare he?

The gall of the man, writing to him, when he knew Nicholas would love nothing more than to shoot him down in a duel.

He wrested the card free, wishing it were an invitation to duel.
And that I could challenge him.
A scripted card fell onto the desk. Nicholas stared at it in utter disbelief.

Harvest Ball

The Attendance of

Lord Nicholas Sutherland’s

Company is requested at Preston Manor

Saturday, the 16th of September

Grand Entry 8:00 pm

He wished to shoot Preston, and here the neighbor was inviting him to a party.
Madness.
But then, the man had never been right from the beginning.
New money at play again,
Nicholas supposed.
What else can it be?

If Samuel Preston believed that an invitation was the way to mend fences, he was so far out of his mind that shooting the man would be a kindness.

Nicholas tossed the card aside and flipped halfheartedly through the remaining packets without seeing the one to which Kingsley had referred. Irritated over the ball invitation, Nicholas gave up the search, shoving the correspondence aside to be dealt with later. He’d been deprived of his bed most of the past year because of Preston, and he’d be jiggered if he’d allow the man another night. Whatever was on the desk, it could wait until morning.

Feeling somewhat cheered by the prospect of a good meal and his own bed, Nicholas left the study and returned to the faintly lit front hall. He took the stairs two at a time, then made his way down the long, dark corridor at the top, arriving at his bedroom as another yawn overcame him.

He entered the chamber and closed the door, feeling some of the tension of the past weeks leave as he did so. Across the room, a low fire burned in the grate, and Nicholas smiled to himself, once again impressed with Kingsley’s efficiency. The man was overworked doing the job of a butler and ten other servants. Someday, when Nicholas planned to stay here for good, he’d change that, but for now, Kingsley and Mrs. James were models of efficiency, keeping the few rooms he used orderly and sterile as he liked them. Nothing was ever out of place. There were never any surprises. Unlike life in London, life at Sutherland Hall was quiet and predictable.

If not quite peaceful — the devil take Preston.
Nicholas doubted he’d ever know a moment of tranquility again, and it was entirely the fault of his neighbor.

With his eyes somewhat adjusted to the dim firelight, Nicholas crossed to his favorite chair and sat to remove his shoes and stockings. His valet was still in London and would follow tomorrow; Nicholas’s sudden urge to be home had struck late in the afternoon, and he’d had no desire to waste time waiting for his servant.

Upon settling into his chair, Nicholas felt dampness coming through his shirt. Odd.
He turned and ran his hand over the plush fabric, to discover it wet. Perhaps in his haste to light the fire, Kingsley had spilled something? Or maybe it had been Mrs. James or one of the maids.
That must be it.
One of them must have tripped in the dark while carrying the pitcher to fill his basin.

No matter.
Nicholas removed himself from the chair and in short order had discarded his clothes and located the dressing gown in his armoire. A quick splash of water on his face, and he walked to the far side of the bed, pulled the curtain aside, and climbed in. Though Kingsley would likely be arriving with his tray any minute, the temptation for Nicholas to close his eyes and rest in his own bed while waiting was too much to resist.

He plumped his pillow, lay back, and stretched his arms wide.

And discovered that he was not alone.

Grace came awake at once, aware that something heavy had landed atop her. She reached for the object —
a cat? —
and felt flesh instead of fur. Somehow in that split second, her mind registered that this was not Helen’s arm, or Miranda’s, but —

“What the deuce?” an angry voice shouted beside her.

Her mouth opened in a scream, but only a pitiful whimper emerged. She shoved whatever —
whomever
— it was off and scooted away, only to reach the edge of the bed and find herself falling and then landing with a sudden, loud thump.

“Who are you?” The angry voice was above her now, and Grace, stunned, breathless, and in pain from her fall, peered up through half-open eyes into a blurred face with a shaggy head of hair hanging over the side of the bed.

Lidgate! He’s found a way into my room.
She must have forgotten to push the chair beneath the doorknob, and now the overly arduous Sir Lidgate was after her. Grace scrambled to her knees and began crawling away. He caught the hem of her nightgown, pulling her back.

“Let me go!” She breathed in deeply before attempted another scream and this time met with success.

“Come here,” Sir Lidgate said. Only it wasn’t his voice. “What do you mean by being in my chamber — in my
bed
?”

“
Your
bed?” Grace grabbed a fistful of nightgown and, with a terrible ripping sound, tugged it from his grasp. She stood on shaking legs and peered through the darkness, trying to locate the door.

“Whose did you think it was?” a deadly voice asked, one definitely
not
belonging to Sir Lidgate.

“I — I don’t know,” Grace chattered as a chill wracked her body. Beneath her feet, the floor was ice cold, and the thin gown did little to provide warmth. She wrapped her arms around her middle and took two steps backward, away from the bed and the stranger rising from it.
Where am I?

“So you are in the habit of invading unfamiliar beds?”

“No!” she cried, turning her head to and fro but still not seeing a door.
It must be behind me.
She took a giant step back and bumped into a chair.

“Is this some kind of joke? Who sent you?” The man swung his feet — bare, as were his legs, up to his knees, sticking out beneath his robe — over the side of the bed.

Grace turned away, fleeing toward the door she’d correctly guessed to be behind her. She grabbed the handle and pulled, but before the door had fully opened, a large hand closed over hers, slamming the door shut again, then spun her around to face him.

“Not so fast. Not until you’ve answered my questions.”

“Let me go.
Please.”
She wrenched her hand away from his and pushed against his chest, scandalized by the feel of his skin bare beneath his partially open robe. When he did not move, she ducked beneath his arm and scampered out of reach.

He retaliated by moving in front of the doors, blocking her only means of escape. “Who are you?” Anger seemed to vibrate through his entire being.

Before she could answer or ask the same of him, the door flung open, hitting the man on the back of the head and propelling him straight toward her. She shrieked and jumped aside before seeing Harrison, Miranda, and two other, vaguely familiar people standing in the hall.

Her servants appeared tousled, as if they’d been awakened quickly. As Miranda took in Grace and the bare-chested man beside her, her eyes looked as if they were about to pop out of her head.

“Beg pardon, Lord Sutherland.” A manservant swept forward into a bow as if he were offering his neck for the guillotine.

“This is going to require a little more than an apology, Kingsley,” the robed man — Lord Sutherland — said. “Who is this woman, and what is she doing in my chamber?”

Mr. Kingsley straightened and stepped back. “I can explain —”

“
She
is Grace Thatcher, granddaughter of the Duke of Salisbury,” Harrison said, wasting no time moving into the space Kingsley had vacated. “Let her alone at once.”

“That is my complete intention,” Lord Sutherland said, seeming to take no offense from Harrison’s demand. “
After
I discover what she is doing in my room.”

“I did not know it was yours,” Grace said, shivering again. She looked from Lord Sutherland to the comfort of Miranda’s beckoning arms.

“So you say.” Lord Sutherland’s voice lacked both empathy and trust.

“So it was,” Grace retorted. She stepped away from the irritable man before he could trouble her further. Miranda hurried to her side, wrapping a blanket around her and worrying over her like a mother hen.

“Your head is afire,” she clucked as she pressed her palm to Grace’s forehead. “Burning up she is,” Miranda announced to the rest, though Grace very much doubted anyone was listening; Lord Sutherland seemed to be commanding everyone’s attention.

He had turned his wrath on Kingsley. “What is the meaning of this? When you said you’d not anticipated my arrival, I didn’t know that meant you’d given away my bed. ”

“I put Miss Thatcher in your room because none other was made ready,” Kingsley explained. “She appeared quite ill, and I did not think it best to make her wait. Had I known you would be home —”

“So this is a common occurrence whilst I’m away?” Lord Sutherland asked. “Who else has slept in the bed I believed to be my own? Do you and Mrs. James play at inn-keeping during my absences?”

“Not at all, milord,” Kingsley said, looking properly contrite. “Miss Thatcher is the first, and we had hoped to relocate her before you retired for the night.” Kingsley also looked exhausted.

With Miranda’s arms supporting her and Lord Sutherland a few feet away, Grace’s heartbeat began to calm, and her mind cleared. She remembered their arrival and pieced together how her unfortunate circumstance had come about.

I am the one in the wrong. I was in
his
bed.

She chanced to look up at Lord Sutherland and had the misfortune of meeting his fierce gaze. His eyes were narrowed, lips turned down in a mighty scowl, his whole demeanor fraught with tension as he towered over all of them. Grace felt a chill that had nothing to do with her fever or the cold night, followed by a pang of sympathy for Kingsley, who had only been trying to help.

It remained her duty to step forward and speak up. She summoned her courage and what strength she had left. “I’m afraid —”

Lord Sutherland crossed his arms and looked directly at her.

Very afraid, at the moment
.

“— that this is my fault. Our carriage went off the road. We saw your lights and came here, hoping for shelter from the storm. Mr. Kingsley was kind enough to note my poor condition and promptly show me to your room. Please don’t take your anger out on him. It is I who’ve inconvenienced you, and I do apologize.”

Lord Sutherland continued to stare. “Why were you out driving on a night like this?”