Intimate Deception (30 page)

Her hair was conservatively styled and her gown was plain brown. Everything she wore was very ordinary and nondescript so as not to draw attention. And her face was devoid of makeup. Gone was the enchanting luster and irresistible facade that made Madam Genevieve one of
the most alluring women in all of England. In her place was the ordinary Miss Hannah Bartlett, daughter of Baron Fentington.

“I think I have shocked your husband,” Hannah said, wiping a tear from her cheek.

Grace laughed. “Yes. I think so. It’s the first time since I’ve known him he’s at a loss for words.”

They all laughed, then Hannah turned back to Grace and placed her hand on Grace’s stomach. “I knew you must be. I’m so happy for you. And for you, Your Grace,” she said, looking at him.

Vincent swallowed hard. Genevieve was probably the only person besides Grace who truly understood how terrified he was of having another of his wives go through childbirth.

“Now tell me how you’ve been,” she said, reaching for Grace’s hand. “Is Raeborn being the perfect husband? I picked him out special for you, Grace. I expect him to be most exemplary.”

Grace laughed through her tears and gave her friend a hug. “Oh, yes. He is. Quite perfect, except for his domineering ways and opinionated notions.”

“Here, here, wife. I’ll have you know I intend to defend myself, and I’ve already told Hannah that I’m the ideal husband. You told me so yourself.”

“I can see I made a grave error in being so complimentary.” Grace laughed, and Vincent sat back against the squabs while Grace and Hannah talked nonstop about Grace’s sisters and their families and the babe and Grace’s certainty that it would be a boy.

After they’d driven through the park for nearly an hour, Hannah gave Vincent the nod that indicated it was time for their visit to end.

“Go back to the bridge, Barnabas,” Vincent ordered, and the carriage took a turn.

“I’ve been thinking about what you asked,” Hannah said when the carriage slowed. “About my father. I remember him mentioning he had a sister who lived in France.”

“Do you know where?”

“In Paris, I think. I never knew her.”

“Do you know her name?”

Hannah shook her head. “No, just that he had a sister he wanted to go to France to see. He said the two of them had been quite close growing up but that she’d run away.”

Hannah’s sad gaze locked with Vincent’s and she took a shuddering breath. “You don’t suppose my grandfather was the same?” She paused. “I’d hate to think of there being two such monsters in the world.”

Vincent saw Hannah reach for Grace’s hand and hold it, but her gaze remained locked with his.

“You have to find him,” Hannah said, the look in her eyes dark and filled with a fear Vincent had never seen in her before. “He truly believes he is one of the elect, sent by God to punish all women for Eve’s sins. He thinks he’s the only morally upright human on earth and that his righteous piety sets him apart from other sinful mortals. You showed him for the sanctimonious hypocrite he is, and he intends to destroy you because of it.”

“Don’t worry. He has to come home sometime, and I’ll be waiting for him.”

The carriage slowed, and Hannah leaned over to give Grace a farewell hug. “Be happy,” he heard her whisper.

“I am.”

His heart tightened in his chest and he swallowed hard. Those two small words meant more to him than he imagined.

The carriage stopped and Vincent helped Hannah disembark. Without a backward glance, Grace’s unpretentious childhood friend walked to the carriage that would whisk her into another life. That of the gorgeous Madam Genevieve—one of the most notorious courtesans in all of London.

Vincent stepped up into the carriage and rapped on the ceiling with his cane. He sat on the cushioned seat beside Grace and took her into his arms.

“Thank you,” she said, turning into him and nestling close.

Grace’s head rested over his heart. A heart he’d vowed never to risk again.

But had.

Vincent settled into his oversize, overstuffed chair and listened to Grace play a Chopin polonaise. Her fingers virtually flew over the keys as she immersed herself in the music. Her gaze held the look of an artist lost in her creation. Lost in a world all her own.

He loved to hear her play, loved to watch her work at her craft—the way she leaned forward almost as if the music had the power to draw her into it; the gentle lift
of her elbows as she caressed the keys, enticing each one of them to ring with beauty; the strength and power that came from someone so small. It was fascinating to watch her become so totally absorbed in the music that the notes became a part of her.

He loved this part of the day. The time the two of them spent alone together. The precious minutes in which the outside world was not allowed to intrude.

Grace worked the fingers of her right hand through the finishing arpeggio runs, then lifted back from the keys with a swift, sudden completion. Her chest heaved, her cheeks stayed flushed, and her eyes remained focused on the keys in front of her as if some part of her hadn’t yet been released from the magic.

She paused. Then her arms dropped to her sides and she turned to him. “Just think what Chopin could have given us had he lived longer,” she said on a sigh.

Vincent walked to her and placed his hands on her shoulders. “The world’s loss,” he said, gently massaging her still-tight muscles. He noticed her hand go to her stomach and rub.

“Chopin did not put him to sleep?” he asked.

She laughed and turned around on the small bench. “I think I should have played Haydn or Brahms tonight.”

He helped her to her feet, then sat beside her on the comfortable settee. He pulled her close to him.

“Thank you for today,” she said, snuggling against him with her hand over his chest. “I’ve missed Hannah terribly. I can’t tell you how wonderful it was to see her.”

Vincent pressed his lips to the top of her head. “Do you feel all right? Are you tired?”

“I’m fine, Vincent. The baby’s fine. Here. Feel.” She placed his hand on her growing stomach. “See how healthy he is?”

Vincent held his hand there, with hers atop his, their fingers entwined, the life of their child beneath his palm. With her in his arms like this he could almost forget his fears. With her beside him so glowingly healthy, he could almost forget the risk he’d taken. Could almost convince himself he would not be asked to make such a sacrifice again. Would not have to give up someone he loved as much as he loved Grace.

He took a deep breath, struggling to forget how it had been before. Struggling to forget the last time and the—

“You are worrying, Vincent,” her voice interrupted, jarring him from his memories.

She turned in his arms and framed his face with her small palms. “Do you remember what I told you?” She brushed her fingers across the stubble on his jaw. “I told you not to worry. That I had enough courage for the both of us. Just look at me.” She glanced down at her belly. “There’s nothing to worry about. Your babe will be born healthy and I will survive. Trust me in this. I will tell you if you need to worry.”

“Oh, Grace.”

Vincent leaned over and kissed her, then leaned down to kiss her more deeply. He pulled away at the knock on the door.

“Come in, Carver,” he said, knowing only Carver would interrupt them.

“Excuse me, Your Grace. But a messenger just arrived from Lord Wedgewood. He wanted to inform Her Grace
that Lady Wedgewood is being delivered of her child and asked for her company.”

Grace jumped up from beside Vincent as quickly as the babe she was carrying would allow. She faced Carver with an excited look in her eyes. “Get my wrap, Carver. And have a carriage sent round.”

“Very well, Your Grace.”

“Grace, no!”

He heard her small gasp and saw the expression on her face turn to one of disbelief. Then unstoppable determination. Carver stopped with his hand on the door.

“You do not have to go with me, Vincent,” she said. Her voice was strained, her words pronounced. As if she were forcing herself to remain calm. “But I am going to be with Caroline when she has her babe. You will not stop me in this.”

Several long, tense moments passed and neither of them spoke. The defiant glare in her eyes said she would not give up on this. Not without a battle that would have long-lasting repercussions. Finally he moved his gaze to where Carver still stood with his hand on the knob.

“Send for the carriage, Carver. And get Her Grace’s wrap—and my cloak as well.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Carver left, and she walked into his arms and pressed a kiss to his lips. “Thank you, Vincent,” she said, then rushed from the room.

Vincent followed her.

“You do not have to come with me,” she said as Carver placed a cloak around her shoulders. “I can go alone. Or take Alice with me.”

He flashed her an over-my-dead-body look and told himself he would survive this night. The woman having the babe was not his wife, after all. Only the sister of his wife and a woman he thought of as a very dear friend.

They handed their wraps to Wedgewood’s austere butler, and Vincent walked to Wedgewood’s study while Grace rushed up the stairs. Viscount Carmody was already there as well as the Earl of Baldwin and Wexley.

“Josalyn, Francine, and Anne are upstairs with Caroline,” Wedgewood said, handing Vincent a glass of amber liquid. “I expect Hansley and Adledge will arrive shortly.”

Vincent looked around the room, taking in the serious expressions on the others’ faces.

“I should have known what was up this morning when she ordered the staff to polish the silver,” Wedgewood said, raking his fingers through his hair. “Even Mrs. Marble, the housekeeper, knew. She told them in the kitchen to bake extra because there’d be the whole lot of us here before the day was out.”

Vincent frowned at Wedgewood, not having the slightest idea why polishing the silver had any significance.

“Francie spends the day in the kitchen. Cook says it’s the warm dough. Although I don’t know what that means,” Baldwin said, shaking his head.

“I don’t know what Annie will do,” Wexley said. “I guess I’ll have to wait my turn to find out.”

Baldwin thumped Wexley on the back. “Well, your turn won’t be for a while. We’ll all be going to Raeborn’s next go-around.”

Vincent tried to put a smile on his face and hide the fear that weighed down on him like a heavy yoke.

“How long has it been?” Carmody asked, settling in one of the wing chairs scattered throughout the room.

Wedgewood glanced at his watch. “About three hours.”

“Oh hell,” Baldwin said on a laugh. “She’s just begun. Might as well get out the cards.”

The mantle clock in Wedgewood’s study struck ten. Then eleven. An eternity later, the clock struck midnight.

Vincent tried to keep his mind from imagining the struggle going on above stairs. But that was impossible when the muffled sounds of Lady Caroline’s pain carried down the open stairway. He tried to concentrate on the card game Carmody, Baldwin, Hansley, and Adledge were playing, but he couldn’t focus on anything except the vivid memories of the two tragic nights he’d suffered through, waiting word of the birth of his child.