The Lost Duke of Wyndham (4 page)

(Elizabeth, sister that she was, said it was closer to three, but still, the poor girl had been dangling like a string for years.)

“Books!” Elizabeth announced as they entered the hall. “As promised.”

At her behest, Elizabeth's mother had borrowed several books from the dowager. Not that Lady Crowland actually read the books. Lady Crowland read very little outside the gossip pages, but returning them was a fine pretext to visit Belgrave, and she was always in favor of anything that placed Amelia in the vicinity of Thomas.

No one had the heart to tell her that Amelia rarely even
saw
Thomas when she was at Belgrave. Most of the time, she was forced to endure the dowager's company—
company
, however, being perhaps too generous a word to describe Augusta Cavendish whilst standing before the young lady who was meant to carry on the Wyndham line.

The dowager was very good at finding fault. One might even call it her greatest talent.

And Amelia was her favorite subject.

But today she had been spared. The dowager was still upstairs, reading her dead son's Latin conjugations, and so Amelia had ended up sipping tea while Grace and Elizabeth chatted.

Or rather, Elizabeth chatted. It was all Grace could
do to nod and murmur in the appropriate moments. One would think her tired mind would go utterly blank, but the opposite was true. She could not stop thinking about the highwayman. And his kiss. And his identity. And his kiss. And if she would meet him again. And that he'd kissed her. And—

And she
had
to stop thinking about him. It was madness. She looked over at the tea tray, wondering if it would be rude to eat the last biscuit.

“—certain you are well, Grace?” Elizabeth said, reaching forward to clasp her hand. “You look very tired.”

Grace blinked, trying to focus on her dear friend's face. “I'm sorry,” she said reflexively. “I am quite tired, although that is not an excuse for my inattention.”

Elizabeth grimaced. She knew the dowager. They all did. “Did
she
keep you up late last night?”

Grace nodded. “Yes, although, truthfully, it was not her fault.”

Elizabeth glanced to the doorway to make sure no one was listening before she replied, “It is always her fault.”

Grace smiled wryly. “No, this time it really wasn't. We were…” Well, really, was there any reason not to tell Elizabeth? Thomas already knew, and surely it would be all over the district by nightfall. “We were accosted by highwaymen, actually.”

“Oh, my heavens! Grace!” Elizabeth hastily set down her teacup. “No wonder you appear so distracted!”

“Hmmm?” Amelia had been staring off into space, as she frequently did while Grace and Elizabeth were
nattering on, but this had clearly got her attention.

“I am quite recovered,” Grace assured her. “Just a bit tired, I'm afraid. I did not sleep well.”

“What happened?” Amelia asked.

Elizabeth actually shoved her. “Grace and the dowager were accosted by highwaymen!”

“Really?”

Grace nodded. “Last night. On the way home from the assembly.” And then she thought—
Good Lord, if the highwayman is really the dowager's grandson, and he is legitimate, what happens to Amelia
?

But he wasn't legitimate. He couldn't be. He might very well be a Cavendish by blood, but surely not by birth. Sons of dukes did not leave legitimate offspring littering the countryside. It simply did not happen.

“Did they take anything?” Amelia asked.

“How can you be so dispassionate?” Elizabeth demanded. “They pointed a gun at her!” She turned to Grace. “Did they?”

Grace saw it again in her mind—the cold round end of the pistol, the slow, seductive gaze of the highwayman. He wouldn't have shot her. She knew that now. But still, she murmured, “They did, actually.”

“Were you terrified?” Elizabeth asked breathlessly. “I would have been. I would have swooned.”

“I wouldn't have swooned,” Amelia remarked.

“Well, of course you wouldn't,” Elizabeth said irritably. “You didn't even gasp when Grace told you about it.”

“It sounds rather exciting, actually.” Amelia looked at Grace with great interest. “Was it?”

And Grace—Good heavens, she felt herself blush.

Amelia leaned forward, her eyes lighting up. “Was he handsome, then?”

Elizabeth looked at her sister as if she were mad. “Who?”

“The highwayman, of course.”

Grace stammered something and pretended to drink her tea.

“He
was
,” Amelia said triumphantly.

“He was wearing a
mask
,” Grace felt compelled to point out.

“But you could still tell that he was handsome.”

“No!”

“Then his accent was terribly romantic. French? Italian?” Amelia's eyes grew even wider.
“Spanish.”

“You've gone mad,” Elizabeth said.

“He didn't
have
an accent,” Grace retorted. Then she thought of that lilt, that devilish little lift in his voice that she couldn't quite place. “Well, not much of one. Scottish, perhaps? Irish? I couldn't tell, precisely.”

Amelia sat back with a happy sigh. “A highwayman. How romantic.”

“Amelia Willoughby!” Elizabeth scolded. “Grace was just attacked at gunpoint, and you are calling it romantic?”

Amelia opened her mouth to reply, but just then they heard footsteps in the hall.

“The dowager?” Elizabeth whispered to Grace, looking very much as if she'd like to be wrong.

“I don't think so,” Grace replied. “She was still abed when I came down. She was rather…ehrm…distraught.”

“I should think so,” Elizabeth remarked. Then she gasped. “Did they make away with her emeralds?”

Grace shook her head. “We hid them. Under the seat cushions.”

“Oh, how clever!” Elizabeth said approvingly. “Amelia, wouldn't you agree?” Without waiting for an answer, she turned back to Grace. “It was your idea, wasn't it?”

Grace opened her mouth to retort that she would have happily handed them over, but just then Thomas walked past the open doorway to the sitting room.

Conversation stopped. Elizabeth looked at Grace, and Grace looked at Amelia, and Amelia just kept looking at the now empty doorway. After a moment of held breath, Elizabeth turned to Amelia and said, “I think he does not realize we are here.”

“I don't care,” Amelia declared, and Grace believed her.

“I wonder where he went,” Grace murmured, although she did not think anyone heard her. They were all still watching the doorway, waiting to see if he'd return.

There was a grunt, and then a crash. Grace stood, wondering if she ought to go investigate.

“Bloody hell,” she heard Thomas snap.

Grace winced, glancing over at the others. They had risen to their feet as well.

“Careful with that,” she heard Thomas say.

And then, as the three ladies watched in silence, the painting of John Cavendish moved past the open doorway, two footmen struggling to keep it upright and balanced.

“Who was that?” Amelia asked once the portrait had gone by.

“The dowager's middle son,” Grace murmured. “He died twenty-nine years ago.”

“Why are they moving the portrait?”

“The dowager wants it upstairs,” Grace replied, thinking that ought to be answer enough. Who knew why the dowager did anything?

Amelia was apparently satisfied with this explanation, because she did not question her further. Or it could have been that Thomas chose that moment to reappear in the doorway.

“Ladies,” he said.

They all three bobbed curtsies.

He nodded in that way of his, when he was clearly being nothing but polite. “Pardon.” And then he left.

“Well,” Elizabeth said, and Grace wasn't certain whether she was trying to express outrage at his rudeness or simply fill the silence. If it was the latter, it didn't work, because no one said anything more until Elizabeth finally added, “Perhaps we should leave.”

“No, you can't,” Grace replied, feeling dreadful for having to be the bearer of such bad news. “Not yet. The dowager wants to see Amelia.”

Amelia groaned.

“I'm sorry,” Grace said. And meant it.

Amelia sat down, looked at the tea tray and announced, “I'm eating the last biscuit.”

Grace nodded. Amelia would need sustenance for the ordeal ahead. “Perhaps I should order more?”

But then Thomas returned
again
. “We nearly lost
it on the stairs,” he said to Grace, shaking his head. “The whole thing swung to the right and nearly impaled itself on the railing.”

“Oh, my.”

“It would have been a stake through the heart,” he said with grim humor. “It would have been worth it just to see her face.”

Grace prepared to rise and make her way upstairs. If the dowager was awake, that meant her visit with the Willoughby sisters was over. “Your grandmother rose from bed, then?”

“Only to oversee the transfer. You're safe for now.” He shook his head, rolling his eyes as he did so. “I cannot believe she had the temerity to demand that you fetch it for her last night. Or,” he added quite pointedly, “that you actually thought you could do it.”

Grace thought she ought to explain. “The dowager requested that I bring her the painting last night,” she told Elizabeth and Amelia.

“But it was huge!” Elizabeth exclaimed.

“My grandmother always favored her middle son,” Thomas said, with a twist of his lips that Grace would not have called a smile. He glanced across the room, and then, as if suddenly realizing his future bride was present, said, “Lady Amelia.”

“Your grace,” she responded.

But he couldn't possibly have heard her. He was already back to Grace, saying, “You will of course support me if I lock her up?”

“Thom—” Grace began, cutting herself off at the last moment. She supposed that Elizabeth and Amelia
knew that he had given her leave to use his given name while at Belgrave, but still, it seemed disrespectful to do so when others were present.

“Your grace,” she said, enunciating each word with careful resolve. “You must grant her extra patience this day. She is distraught.”

Grace sent up a prayer for forgiveness as she let everyone think the dowager had been upset by nothing more than an ordinary robbery. She wasn't
precisely
lying to Thomas, but she suspected that in this case the sin of omission could prove equally dangerous.

She made herself smile. It felt forced.

“Amelia? Are you unwell?”

Grace turned. Elizabeth was watching her sister with concern.

“I'm perfectly fine,” Amelia snapped, which was enough, of course, to show that she was not.

The pair bickered for a moment, their voices low enough so Grace could not make out their exact words, and then Amelia rose, saying something about needing some air.

Thomas stood, of course, and Grace rose to her feet as well. Amelia passed by and even reached the doorway before Grace realized that Thomas did not intend to follow.

Good heavens, for a duke, his manners were abominable. Grace elbowed him in the ribs. Someone had to, she told herself. No one ever stood up to the man.

Thomas shot her a dirty look, but he obviously realized that she was in the right, because he turned to Amelia, nodded his head the barest of inches, and said, “Allow me to escort you.”

They departed, and Grace and Elizabeth sat silently for at least a minute before Elizabeth said resignedly, “They are not a good match, are they?”

Grace glanced at the door, even though they had long since departed. She shook her head.

 

It was huge. It was a castle, of course, and meant to be imposing, but
really
.

Jack stood, open-mouthed.

This was huge.

Funny how no one had mentioned that his father was from a ducal family. Had anyone even known? He had always assumed his father had been the son of some jolly old country squire, maybe a baronet or possibly a baron. He had always been told that he was sired by John Cavendish, not Lord John Cavendish, as he must have been styled.

And as for the old lady…Jack had realized that morning that she had never given her name, but surely she was the duchess. She was far too imperious to be a maiden aunt or widowed relation.

Good Lord. He was the grandson of a duke. How was that possible?

Jack stared at the structure before him. He was not a complete provincial. He'd traveled widely whilst in the army and had gone to school with the sons of Ireland's most notable families. The aristocracy was not unknown to him. He did not consider himself uncomfortable in their midst.

But this…

This was huge.

How many rooms in the place? There had to be
over a hundred. And what was the provenance? It didn't look quite medieval, despite the crenellations at the top, but it was certainly pre-Tudor. Something important must have happened there. Houses did not get this big without stumbling into the occasional historic event. A treaty, maybe? Perhaps a royal visit? It sounded like the sort of thing that would have been mentioned in school, which was probably why he didn't know it.

A scholar he was not.

The view of the castle as he'd approached had been deceptive. The area was heavy with trees, and the turrets and towers seemed to twinkle in and out of sight as he moved through the foliage. It was only when he reached the end of the drive that it had come completely into view—massive and amazing. The stone was gray in color, with a hint of a yellow undertone, and although its angles were mostly squared off, there was nothing boring about the facade. It dipped and rose, jutted out and swept back in. No long Georgian wall of windows was this.