The Lost Duke of Wyndham (3 page)

She turned and retraced her steps, hurrying along
when she heard him call out for her again. “I'm right here,” she said irritably. “Good gracious, you'll wake the entire house.”

He rolled his eyes. “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.”

“Watch you what?” she asked, baffled.

“Dismantle her bell cord,” he said, heading upstairs with renewed determination.

“Dismantle her…Thomas!” She ran up behind him, but of course could not keep up. “Thomas, you can't!”

He turned. Grinned even, which she found somewhat alarming. “It's my house,” he said. “I can do anything I want.”

And while Grace digested that on an exhausted brain, he strode down the hall and into his grandmother's room. “What,” she heard him bite off, “do you think you're doing?”

Grace let out a breath and hurried after him, entering the room just as he was saying, “Good heavens, are you all right?”

“Where is Miss Eversleigh?” the dowager asked, her eyes darting frantically about the room.

“I'm right here,” Grace assured her, rushing forward.

“Did you get it? Where is the painting? I want to see my son.”

“Ma'am, it's late,” Grace tried to explain. She inched forward, although she wasn't sure why. If the dowager started spouting off about the highwayman and his re
semblance to her favorite son, it wasn't as if she would be able to stop her.

But still, the proximity at least gave the illusion that she might be able to prevent disaster.

“Ma'am,” Grace said again, gently, softly. She gave the dowager a careful look.

“You may instruct a footman to procure it for you in the morning,” Thomas said, sounding slightly less imperious than before, “but 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, and Grace almost reached out to take her hand. She sounded pained. She sounded old. And she certainly did not sound like herself when she said, “Please.”

Grace glanced at Thomas. He looked uneasy. “Tomorrow,” he said. “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?”

They stared at each other for so long that Grace wanted to flinch. Then Thomas said sharply, “Grace, go to bed.” He didn't turn around.

Grace held still for a moment, waiting for what, she didn't know—disagreement from the dowager? A thunderbolt outside the window? When neither was forthcoming, she decided she could do nothing more that evening and left the room. As she walked slowly down the hall, she could hear them arguing—nothing
violent, nothing impassioned. But then, she'd not have expected that. Cavendish tempers ran cold, and they were far more likely to attack with a frozen barb than a heated cry.

Grace let out a long, uneven breath. She would never get used to this. Five years she had been at Belgrave, and still the resentment that ran back and forth between Thomas and his grandmother shocked her.

And the worst part was—there wasn't even a reason! Once, she had dared to ask Thomas
why
they held each other in such contempt. He just shrugged, saying that it had always been that way. She'd disliked his father, Thomas said, his father had hated him, and he himself could have done quite well without either of them.

Grace had been stunned. She'd thought families were meant to love each other. Hers had. Her mother, her father…She closed her eyes, fighting back tears. She was being maudlin. Or maybe it was because she was tired. She didn't cry about them any longer. She missed them—she would
always
miss them. But the great big gaping hole their deaths had rent in her had healed.

And now…well, she'd found a new place in this world. It wasn't the one she'd anticipated, and it wasn't the one her parents had planned for her, but it came with food and clothing, and the opportunity to see her friends from time to time.

But sometimes, late at night as she lay in her bed, it was just so hard. She knew she should not be ungrateful—she was living in a
castle
, for heaven's sake. But she had not been brought up for this. Not
the servitude, and not the sour dispositions. Her father had been a country gentleman, her mother a well-liked member of the local community. They had raised her with love and laughter, and sometimes, as they sat before the fire in the evening, her father would sigh and say that she was going to have to remain a spinster, because surely there was no man in the county good enough for his daughter.

And Grace would laugh and say, “What about the rest of England?”

“Not there, either!”

“France?”

“Good heavens, not.”

“The Americas?”

“Are you trying to kill your mother, gel? You know she gets seasick if she so much as
sees
the beach.”

And they all somehow knew that Grace would marry someone right there in Lincolnshire, and she'd live down the road, or at least just a short ride away, and she would be happy. She would find what her parents had found, because no one expected her to marry for any reason other than love. She'd have babies, and her house would be full of laughter, and she would be happy.

She'd thought herself the luckiest girl in the world.

But the fever that had struck the Eversleigh house was cruel, and when it broke, Grace was an orphan. At seventeen, she could hardly remain on her own, and indeed, no one had been sure what to do with her until her father's affairs were settled and the will was read.

Grace let out a bitter laugh as she pulled off her wrinkled clothing and readied herself for bed. Her
father's directives had only made matters worse. They were in debt; not deeply so, but enough to render her a burden. Her parents, it seemed, had always lived slightly above their means, presumably hoping that love and happiness would carry them through.

And indeed they had. Love and happiness had stood up nicely to every obstacle the Eversleighs had faced.

Except death.

Sillsby—the only home Grace had ever known—was entailed. She'd known that, but not how eager her cousin Miles would be to assume residence. Or that he was still unmarried. Or that when he pushed her against a wall and jammed his lips against hers, she was supposed to let him, indeed
thank
the toad for his gracious and benevolent interest in her.

Instead she had shoved her elbow into his ribs and her knee up against his—

Well, he hadn't been too fond of her after that. It was the only part of the whole debacle that still made her smile.

Furious at the rebuff, Miles had tossed her out on her ear. Grace had been left with nothing. No home, no money, and no relations (she refused to count him among the last).

Enter the dowager.

News of Grace's predicament must have traveled fast through the district. The dowager had swooped in like an icy goddess and whisked her away. Not that there had been any illusion that she was to be a pampered guest. The dowager had arrived with full retinue, stared down Miles until he squirmed (literally; it had
been a most enjoyable moment for Grace), and then declared to her, “You shall be my companion.”

Before Grace had a chance to accept or decline, the dowager had turned and left the room. Which just confirmed what they all knew—that Grace had never had a choice in the matter to begin with.

That had been five years ago. Grace now lived in a castle, ate fine food, and her clothing was, if not the latest stare of fashion, well-made and really quite pretty. (The dowager was, if nothing else, at least not cheap.)

She lived mere miles from where she had grown up, and as most of her friends still resided in the district, she saw them with some regularity—in the village, at church, on afternoon calls. And if she didn't have a family of her own, at least she had not been forced to have one with Miles.

But much as she appreciated all the dowager had done for her, she wanted something more.

Or maybe not even more. Maybe just something else.

Unlikely, she thought, falling into bed. The only options for a woman of her birth were employment and marriage. Which, for her, meant employment. The men of Lincolnshire were far too cowed by the dowager to ever make an overture in Grace's direction. It was well-known that Augusta Cavendish had no desire to train a new companion.

It was even more well-known that Grace hadn't a farthing.

She closed her eyes, trying to remind herself that
the sheets she'd slid between were of the highest quality, and the candle she'd just snuffed was pure beeswax. She had every physical comfort, truly.

But what she wanted was…

It didn't really matter what she wanted. That was her last thought before she finally fell asleep.

And dreamed of a highwayman.

F
ive miles away, in a small posting inn, a man sat in his room, alone, with a bottle of expensive French brandy, an empty glass, a very small case of clothing, and a woman's ring.

His name was Jack Audley; formerly Captain John Audley of His Majesty's army; formerly Jack Audley of Butlersbridge, County Cavan, Ireland; formerly Jack Cavendish-Audley of the same place; and formerly—as formerly as one could get, as it was at the time of his christening—John Augustus Cavendish.

The miniature had meant nothing to him. He could barely see it in the night, and he'd yet to find a portraitist who could capture a man's essence on a miniature painting, anyway.

But the ring…

With an unsteady hand, he poured himself another drink.

He hadn't looked closely at the ring when he took it from the old lady's hands. But now, in the privacy of his rented room, he'd looked. And what he'd seen had shaken him to his bones.

He'd seen that ring before. On his own finger.

His was a masculine version, but the design was identical. A twisted flower, a tiny swirled D. He'd never known what it meant, as he'd been told that his father's name was John Augustus Cavendish, no capital D's to be found anywhere.

He still didn't know what the D stood for, but he knew that the old lady did. And no matter how many times he tried to convince himself that this was just a coincidence, he knew that this evening, on a deserted Lincolnshire road, he'd met his grandmother.

Good Lord.

He looked down at the ring again. He'd propped it up on the table, its face winking up at him in the candlelight. Abruptly, he twisted his own ring and yanked it off. He couldn't remember the last time his finger had been bare. His aunt had always insisted that he keep it close; it was the only keepsake they had of his father.

His mother, they told him, had been clutching it in her shivering fingers when she was pulled from the frigid waters of the Irish Sea.

Slowly, Jack held the ring out, carefully setting it down next to its sister. His lips flattened slightly as he regarded the pair. What had he been thinking? That when he got the two side by side he'd see that they were actually quite different?

He'd known little of his father. His name, of course,
and that he was the younger son of a well-to-do English family. His aunt had met him but twice; her impression had been that he was somewhat estranged from his relations. He spoke of them only laughingly, in that manner people used when they did not wish to say anything of substance.

He hadn't much money, or so his aunt assumed. His clothes were fine, but well-worn, and as far as anyone could tell, he'd been wandering the Irish countryside for months. He'd said he had come to witness the wedding of a school friend and liked it so much that he stayed. His aunt saw no reason to doubt this.

In the end, all Jack knew was this: John Augustus Cavendish was a well-born English gentleman who'd traveled to Ireland, fallen in love with Louise Galbraith, married her, and then died when the ship carrying them to England had sunk off the coast of Ireland. Louise had washed ashore, her body bruised and shivering, but alive. It was over a month before anyone realized she was pregnant.

But she was weak, and she was devastated by grief, and her sister—the woman who had raised Jack as her own—said it was more of a surprise that Louise survived the pregnancy than it was that she finally succumbed at his birth.

And that fairly well summed up Jack's knowledge of his paternal heritage. He thought about his parents from time to time, wondering who they'd been and which had gifted him with his ready smile, but in truth, he'd never yearned for anything more. At the age of two days he'd been given to William and Mary Audley, and if they had ever loved their own children
more, they never allowed him to know it. Jack had grown up the de facto son of a country squire, with two brothers, a sister, and twenty acres of rolling pasture, perfect for riding, running, jumping—anything a young boy could fancy.

It had been a marvelous childhood. Damn near perfect. If he was not leading the life he'd anticipated, if he sometimes lay in bed and wondered what the hell he was doing robbing coaches in the dead of night—at least he knew that the road to this point had been paved with his own choices, his own flaws.

And most of the time, he was happy. He was reasonably cheerful by nature, and really, one could do worse than playing Robin Hood along rural British roads. At least he felt as if he had some sort of purpose. After he and the army had parted ways, he'd not known what to do with himself. He was not willing to return to his life as a soldier, and yet, what else was he qualified to do? He had two skills in life, it seemed: He could sit a horse as if he'd been born in the position, and he could turn a conversation with enough wit and flair to charm even the crustiest of individuals. Put together, robbing coaches had seemed the most logical choice.

Jack had made his first theft in Liverpool, when he'd seen a young toff kick a one-handed former soldier who'd had the temerity to beg for a penny. Somewhat buoyed by a rather potent pint of ale, Jack had followed the fellow into a dark corner, pointed a gun a his heart, and walked off with his wallet.

The contents of which he had then dispersed among the beggars on Queens Way, most of whom had fought
for—and then been forgotten by—the good people of England.

Well, ninety per cent of the contents had been dispersed. Jack had to eat, too.

After that, it had been an easy step to move to highway robbery. It was so much more elegant than the life of footpad. And it could not be denied that it was much easier to get away on horseback.

And so that was his life. It was what he did. If he'd gone back to Ireland, he would probably be married by now, sleeping with one woman, in one bed, in one house. His life would be County Cavan, and his world a far, far smaller place than it was today.

His was a roaming soul. That was why he did not go back to Ireland.

He splashed a bit more brandy into his glass. There were a hundred reasons why he did not go back to Ireland. Fifty, at least.

He took a sip, then another, then drank deeply until he was too sotted to continue his dishonesty.

There was one reason he did not go back to Ireland. One reason, and four people he did not think he could face.

Rising from his seat, he walked to the window and looked out. There wasn't much to see—a small barn for horses, a thickly leaved tree across the road. The moonlight had turned the air translucent—shimmery and thick, as if a man could step outside and lose himself.

He smiled grimly. It was tempting. It was always tempting.

He knew where Belgrave Castle was. He'd been in
the county for a week; one could not remain in Lincolnshire that long without learning the locations of the grand houses, even if one wasn't a thief out to rob their inhabitants. He could take a look, he supposed. He probably
should
take a look. He owed it to someone. Hell, maybe he owed it to himself.

He hadn't been interested in his father
much
…but he'd always been interested a little. And he was here.

Who knew when he'd be in Lincolnshire again? He was far too fond of his head to ever stay in one place for long.

He didn't want to talk to the old lady. He didn't want to introduce himself and make explanations or pretend that he was anything other than what he was—

A veteran of the war.

A highwayman.

A rogue.

An idiot.

An occasionally sentimental fool who knew that the softhearted ladies who'd tended the wounded had it all wrong—sometimes you
couldn't
go home again.

But dear Lord, what he wouldn't give just to take a peek.

He closed his eyes. His family would welcome him back. That was the worst of it. His aunt would put her arms around him. She would tell him it wasn't his fault. She would be so understanding.

But she would not understand. That was his final thought before he fell asleep.

And dreamed of Ireland.

 

The following day dawned bright and mockingly clear. Had it rained, Jack wouldn't have bothered to go. He was on horseback, and he'd spent enough of his life pretending he didn't mind that he was soaked to the skin. He did not ride in the rain if he did not have to. He'd earned that much, at least.

But he was not meant to meet up with his cohorts until nightfall, so he did not have an excuse for
not
going. Besides, he was just going to
look
. Maybe see if there was some way he could leave the ring for the old lady. He suspected it meant a great deal to her, and even though he could have probably got a hefty sum for it, he knew he would not be able to bring himself to sell it.

And so he ate a hearty breakfast—accompanied by a noxious beverage the innkeeper swore would clear his head, not that Jack had said anything other than, “Eggs,” before the fellow said, “I'll get what you need.” Amazingly, the concoction worked (hence the ability to digest the hearty breakfast), and Jack mounted his horse and took off toward Belgrave Castle at an unhurried pace.

He'd ridden about the area frequently over the last few days, but this was the first time he found himself curious at his surroundings. The trees seemed more interesting to him for some reason—the shape of the leaves, the way they showed their backs when the wind blew. The blossoms, too. Some were familiar to him, identical to the ones that bloomed in Ireland. But others were new, perhaps native to the dales and fens of the region.

It was odd. He wasn't sure what he was meant to be thinking about. Perhaps that this vista was what his father had seen every time he'd ridden along the same road. Or maybe that, but for a freak storm in the Irish Sea, these might be the flowers and trees of his own childhood. Jack did not know whether his parents would have made their home in England or Ireland. They were apparently going over to introduce his mother to the Cavendish family when their ship had gone down. Aunt Mary had said that they were planning to decide where to live after Louise had a chance to see a bit of England.

Jack paused and plucked a leaf off a tree, for no reason other than whimsy. It wasn't as green as the ones at home, he decided. Not that it mattered, of course, except that in a strange way, it did.

He tossed the leaf to the ground and with a snort of impatience, took off at a greater speed. It was ludicrous that he felt even a niggle of guilt at going over to see the castle. Good God, it wasn't as if he was going to introduce himself. He did not want to find a new family. He owed the Audleys far more than that.

He just wanted to see it. From afar. To see what might have been, what he was glad
hadn't
been.

But maybe should have been.

Jack took off at a gallop, letting the wind blow the memories away. The speed was cleansing, almost forgiving, and before he knew it he was at the end of the drive. And all he could think was—

Good
Lord
.

 

Grace was exhausted.

She'd slept the night before, but not much, and not well. And even though the dowager had chosen to spend the morning in bed, Grace had not been afforded that luxury.

The dowager was powerfully demanding, whether vertical, horizontal, or, should she ever figure out how to hold the position, at a slant.

And so even though she tossed and turned, and refused to lift her head from the pillow, she still managed to summon Grace six times.

The first hour.

Finally, she had become engrossed in a batch of letters Grace had dug up for her at the bottom of her late husband's old desk, tucked in a box labeled:

JOHN
,
ETON
.

Saved by school papers. Who would have thought?

Grace's moment of rest was interrupted not twenty minutes later, however, by the arrival of the Ladies Elizabeth and Amelia Willoughby, the pretty, blond daughters of the Earl of Crowland, longtime neighbors and, Grace was always delighted to note, friends.

Elizabeth especially. They were of an age, and before Grace's position in the world had plummeted with the death of her parents, had been considered proper companions. Oh, everyone knew that Grace would not make a match like the Willoughby girls—she would never have a London season, after all. But when they were all in Lincolnshire, they were, if not equals, then at least on something of the same level. People weren't so fussy at the Dance and Assembly.

And when the girls were alone, rank was never something they noticed.

Amelia was Elizabeth's younger sister. Just by a year, but when they were all younger, it had seemed a massive gulf, so Grace did not know her nearly so well. That would change soon, though, she supposed. Amelia was betrothed to Thomas, and had been from the cradle. It would have been Elizabeth, except she was promised to another young lord (also in infancy; Lord Crowland was not one to leave matters to chance). Elizabeth's fellow, however, had died quite young. Lady Crowland (who was not one for tact) had declared it all very inconvenient, but the papers binding Amelia to Thomas had already been signed, and it was deemed best to leave matters as they were.

Grace had never discussed the engagement with Thomas—they were friends, but he would never talk about something so personal with her. Still, she had long suspected that he found the entire situation rather convenient. A fiancée did keep marriage-minded misses (and their mamas) at bay. Somewhat. It was quite obvious that the ladies of England believed in hedging their bets, and poor Thomas could not go anywhere without the women attempting to put themselves in the best possible light, just in case Amelia should, oh, disappear.

Die.

Decide she didn't wish to be a duchess.

Really, Grace thought wryly, as if Amelia had any choice in the matter.

But even though a wife would be a far more effective deterrent than a fiancée, Thomas continued to
drag his feet, which Grace thought dreadfully insensitive of him. Amelia was one-and-twenty, for heaven's sake. And according to Lady Crowland, at least four men would have offered for her in London if she had not been marked as the future Duchess of Wyndham.