Jade Lee - [Bridal Favors 03] (21 page)

Damn them, but they made her feel old. And damn them for being sweet and innocent—exactly the kind of girl Grant would soon be marrying. After all, he had responsibilities to his title, for all that he decried them. Eventually, he would bow to tradition and be forced to set up a nursery with some woman of his set. A virginal woman probably, with blonde curls, blue eyes, and a sweet temperament. A girl who was decidedly
not
Irene.

“Oh look,” Irene suddenly interrupted. “Is that your brother over there? With Miss Powel and…” Her voice trailed away.

“And my mother,” Grant said, his voice heavy with reluctance.

Irene glanced sharply at her companion. “Is that why we are here today? To meet—”

“My mother? Gads, no.”

Then he calmly turned back to the baroness and her charges, able to gracefully detach from the three, only after promising to stop at their ball in two weeks. Then, two minutes later, they were walking toward his family, though his steps were slow.

“I promised Josephine that I would come walking today to meet with her. I thought it would be just her and Will, but…”

“But now, you must face your poor, neglected mama.” Irene felt a smile curve her lips. “I am suddenly feeling more chipper about the day.”

“Why? You want to see me set down as if I were a small boy?”

Irene laughed. “No, silly. I want to meet the woman who raised such a wonderful man.” Then she squeezed his arm. “And yes, I am still a little cross with you and would relish seeing you set down just a tad.”

“I knew it.”

She laughed. “I have some sympathy for your mother. I cannot imagine why you would remain apart from her for so long. You are her son, and I suggest you start with a most heartfelt apology.”

“I know,” he said, and there was no reluctance in his tone. Neither did she hear a teasing grumble. He felt guilty, she realized, and now, she felt bad for poking at him.

“She loves you, you know,” she said softly. “She will forgive you.”

Grant glanced at her. “Somehow that makes it even worse.”

Then there was no more discussion because the two parties met up. Will and Josephine were walking together, their eyes barely noticing anyone else, though they smiled and greeted everyone. It was Grant’s mother who drew Irene’s attention. She was of average height with warm brown eyes, which were now trained hungrily on her eldest son. The signs of age were in her weathered face and wrinkled skin. Beneath her stylish bonnet, her hair was gray and styled in a casually fashionable manner. But the woman often reached to touch her coiffure then pulled her hand away, as if she weren’t used to having the pins or the hat.

Meanwhile, Grant stepped forward and greeted his mother, pressing a kiss to her cheek as she grabbed hold of his hands. “Mother,” he said, “you look lovely.” And when he might have pulled away, she held him still.

“I have you now in my clutches,” she said, her voice unexpectedly strong for a woman obviously aging. “I shall not release you just yet.”

Grant dipped his head, his gaze dropping, but quickly returning to the woman’s face. He looked at her as closely as she inspected him. Whereas his mother just appeared desperately happy to see her son, Grant’s shame was obvious to everyone. Well, at least it was obvious to Irene, in the pink of his cheeks and the hunch to his shoulders.

“I am well, Mama. How are you?”

“Very well now that both my sons are with me. You have lost weight. And there is a hollow look to your cheeks, but not your eyes.” Her gaze darted to Irene. “Am I to wish you happy?”

It took a moment for Irene to understand her words. Then she felt her face heat to a bright, hot blush. And burning in her mind were the fresh-faced girls from five minutes before. Maybe one was destined to be the new Lady Crowle. So without even thinking, she shook her head.

“I would not expect such an announcement, my lady,” she said. “Though I know how much your son has been anticipating this reunion with you. So I am sure he is happy right now.”

“No,” said Grant from her side, his expression unexpectedly dark. “No, actually ‘happy’ is not the word I would choose right now.”

If her face was hot before, now her temperature sank to a chilling cold. She bit her lip, horrified by her obvious emotional display. Normally, she was much more under control.

Meanwhile—thankfully—Josephine interrupted the awkwardness with her own bright words. “We have set a date, by the way. For our wedding and the engagement party. You will come, won’t you? Both of you?”

“If you wish it,” Irene said, grateful for the shift into easy conversation. “I should be most happy to attend.”

“And you?” asked Lady Crowle as she leveled her heavy stare on her eldest son.

Irene looked at the woman’s focused expression and realized that was where Grant had learned his intensity—a direct look that seemed to burn straight through a body. No wonder the man fidgeted.

“Of course I will be there,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Why would you disappear for five years without a word?” returned his mother.

Grant didn’t respond at first, and into the silence, the woman pushed even further.

“Where were you, Grant? What have you been doing?”

And there it was, the question baldly spoken. Everyone turned to look at the man who was swallowing as if his throat had suddenly constricted. Irene waited for that casual wave of his fingers and his bored aristocrat response: oh, this and that, Mama. But apparently, he couldn’t get it out. Clearly, he found it hard to lie to his mother.

“Mama, is it really important? Does it matter what I was doing?”

“Apparently so,” the woman said tartly. Her eyes narrowed. “You missed your father’s funeral. You missed holidays and birthdays.”

“I sent what money I could.”

“As if I ever cared about that! I wanted my son, Grant. I wanted to know if you were alive.”

He looked away, his expression stricken. Then he said the words. They were half whispered, half spoken, and Irene feared that the others wouldn’t hear. “I was working, Mama. At a mill.”

Irene saw the words hit his brother. Will jerked slightly, and his eyebrows rose in shock. But his mother simply frowned.

“And?” she asked, pointedly.

Grant turned back. “And what?”

Irene leaned forward. “I don’t think she heard you.”

“I heard him perfectly well,” the woman snapped. “Learned to understand his mumbles when he was still in short coats. What I don’t understand is why he never visited. Or wrote. Ridiculous to send money and not a letter. Beyond annoying to not even let us know where the money came from.”

Grant frowned at his mother. “Mama, I was
working
.” He practically spat the last word, for all that it was still uttered in an undertone. “Night and day, aching body, burning eyes. Like a damned ditchdigger.”

His mother grimaced. “I heard that. Working. At a mill. Did you also have to work on Christmas day? Were your hands amputated such that you could not pick up a quill?”

Grant ran an obviously not amputated hand through his hair. Fortunately, that gave him an even more dashing appearance. Unfortunately, some of the ladies strolling nearby noticed and looked on with appreciative smiles. And attentive ears.

They were starting to draw attention. And yet, Grant’s mother would not let this go—at least not until she’d tortured her son a bit more.

“We have been worried sick,” she said softly. “All of us. Why did you not send word?”

Grant swallowed, his expression sick. “Because I was working. At a mill, Mama.”

It was clear she did not understand. And it was just as clear that Grant could not express himself any better. So rather than see the two struggle back and forth to no point, Irene decided to do what she could to help. She touched his hand to show her support, but her words were for Lady Crowle.

“I believe he had no wish to shame the family name, my lady,” she said softly. “He changed his name to Mr. Grant and functioned solely in that identity for five years. To great success, I might add. The clothing he wears—and my own—were designed and implemented by his hand.”

She felt Grant flinch at her words, his arm jerking away, though he didn’t separate them. Obviously, he didn’t like that she said these things aloud, but really, Irene was rather proud of him. For all that he was ashamed of his labors, she wanted his family to know what he had done. Perhaps they would be proud as well.

Will was proud. She could see that in the way his head tilted. His gaze took in the cloth they wore, and his chin dipped in approval. Lady Crowle, however, barely flicked a glance at their attire. Then her attention riveted right back to Grant’s face.

“But what is any of that to the point? It’s handsome stuff, to be sure, but why would you absent yourself for five years? Not a word, Grant! To anyone!”

Which is when she heard Grant take a deep breath. He pulled it in and released it in a huff that everyone heard. And when he spoke, his words were hushed with shock.

“You don’t care,” he finally breathed, surprise in every word. “You don’t care what I was doing. I could have been at a brothel—”

“Grant!” grumbled Will from the side, clearly annoyed at his brother’s language.

“In a disreputable den then,” Grant quickly amended. “You don’t care what I was doing. At all.”

“Well, of course, I care,” snapped his mother. “Did it work out all right? Did you accomplish what you wanted?”

Grant blinked. “Um, no. Sadly, not.”

It took a moment for Irene to remember that he didn’t see his work at the mill as successful. After all, he’d meant to buy back the family land. Land that was now in Miss Powel’s dowry and would go to his brother. She glanced at Will and saw him look down, his expression shuttered, as he too understood the awkwardness of the moment.

“Well, that’s unfortunate,” his mother said with a flick of her wrist. “But it is not important.”

“Not important?” Grant cried. “It was the whole point!”

“No, my dear,” his mother countered. “The whole point was that we might have helped you. We might have been able to comfort you. We might… bloody hell!” she cursed, and everyone gasped. “We might have known you were alive.”

Grant blinked. The shock on his face might have been comical, if it weren’t so tragic. Did he really think that a mother—his mother—would care what he was doing? Would be ashamed? Apparently so, because he was stunned that her anger was not at
what
he did, but that he’d absented himself.

Will spoke up. “I wish you’d told me,” he said softly. “I wish I’d known.”

Grant looked over. “That I was a common laborer?”

“There is nothing common about you, brother. Never has been.”

At which point, Grant blinked. Then blinked again. His eyes were misty with tears, she realized. A moment later, he was clasping his brother’s hand. And then, he turned to hug his mother.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’m so sorry. I was a fool.”

It was a touching moment. Finally, Grant had reconciled with his mother and brother. Irene found her own eyes misting with happiness, but she wasn’t given the chance. Even before mother and son finished their embrace, they were interrupted.

Another matchmaking mama pushed her way into their group by “accidentally” bumping into Will. Then she apologized profusely before pushing forward her daughter. Introductions were barely finished—and another ball invitation offered and accepted—when a second set of debutantes intruded.

More and more came, one after another. They were, after all, in Hyde Park during the fashionable hour. It was to be expected. But by the time Grant had finished bowing over hands and trading smiles with young innocents, Irene felt as if she’d been kicked in the stomach. Nausea rolled inside her, and she turned away.

“Lady Irene?” Grant said as she stepped back from the group.

“I’m terribly sorry,” she said quickly. “I feel as if I’ve overdone it. Long day and all. I think I shall return home.”

“Just a moment,” he said as he turned away from a disappointed young girl. “I shall escort you—”

“No, no,” she said softly, looking at the vast array of potential girls eyeing him all over the park. “You should be here. I should be home.”

“Don’t be ridiculous—” he began, but she cut him off as she spotted her Bow Street Runner where he lurked next to a tree.

“Mr. Tanner, would you mind helping me to a hack? Anything would do.”

As expected, the man leaped forward to assist. And as she walked away, she counted no less than six unwed girls who smiled in glee at her departure.

Grant was furious with Irene. He tried to make allowances for the strain she was under. He knew better than anyone how difficult it was living with the idea that someone wanted to hurt you. That would be hard on anyone, but add the restrictions to her life now, the constant guard and ceaseless worry—that had to wear on her. In truth, he was surprised she had not taken to her bed and refused to venture out.

But that wasn’t Irene. She had fought hard to leave that withdrawn state after the loss of her husband. She would not go back now. That made him admire her. It made him want to learn more.

And yet, he was still furious at her dismissal of their relationship. She did not intend to marry him. That’s what she’d said in the park to his mother. And that idea infuriated him. Did she think he trifled with her emotions? Did she think he bedded just any woman and then left her? The very idea had his blood boiling with fury.

As soon as he could escape his family—and all those damned matchmaking mamas in the park—he made haste to Irene’s home. She and her in-laws resided in an expensive—if not quite elite—area of London. He arrived quickly and relieved Mr. Tanner for the night. He was taking this shift, hopefully from inside the house. Mr. Knopp’s guards would handle the rest.

After a quick discussion with the runner, he crossed to the front door and knocked. A moment later, a rather suspicious-looking butler opened the door. And the man’s scowl deepened when Grant gave his name.

“Is there a problem?” Grant asked, his eyes scanning the house, searching for danger.

“No, my lord,” came the stiff response. It took a moment, but abruptly, Grant realized that
he
was the problem. The butler took issue with him, probably because the man suspected the nature of his relationship with Irene and did not approve.

Years ago, he wouldn’t even have noticed, much less cared, what some butler thought. But after years of working with the lower classes, he knew how important every soul was. He understood the anger that came from being ignored. A butler had no say in the affairs of the mistress, but he still cared, and he still mattered.

“I mean to marry her,” he said in an undertone. Where the certainty in that statement came from, he had no clue. He was determined because the idea of separating from her was a physical pain. However, now was not the time to propose. “It’s a delicate business,” he continued to the man. “And I won’t propose while she’s in danger. My attention must be on that first.”

It was the truth, though he had to admit his attention was sorely divided whenever he was in her presence. As for the butler, the man paused then executed a respectful bow. When he spoke, his tone was full of approval. “Then I am pleased to welcome you to Knopp house. If you would follow me, I shall announce you.”

Grant was escorted to the parlor where the family gathered before dinner. Only the ladies were present, and his gaze went directly to Irene. She was still in her fashionable walking gown, sitting sideways. He noticed the elegance of her neck and profile, the proud way she sat at the couch, and her beauty, despite the tightness in her shoulders. She gasped slightly when he was announced, and she twisted to look at him.

He was watching her closely, so he saw—and took heart from—a softening in her expression, fleeting though it was. Then a split second later, it was shuttered beneath a careful blankness. He tried to contain his irritation. Devil take it! Whatever had he done to make her so guarded in his presence? Meanwhile, Mrs. Knopp leapt to her feet, her exuberant expression and plump figure in direct opposition to Irene’s.

“Lord Crowle, what a surprise! You must stay for dinner. I won’t hear otherwise.”

He kissed her outstretched hand with a warm smile. “It would be my great pleasure to dine with two such lovely creatures.”

The woman laughed, the sound hearty and warm. He liked her. Years ago, he might have thought her an encroaching, overly loud cit. But again, the last five years had changed him. He knew how rare that joie de vivre was—especially in a woman who had lost her only child. So now, he gave her a warm smile before bowing over Irene’s hand.

“I hope I find you well, Lady Irene.”

She gestured with her free hand. “As you can see…”

He kissed her hand then held on, refusing to release her. Meanwhile, he raised his eyebrows. At her confused look, he prompted her. “I can see what, Lady Irene? I see that your body is here without apparent injury, but I know nothing of your state of mind. If you are afraid or worried or simply annoyed, I cannot read you. I never have. It is both part of your allure and a great frustration.”

Irene’s jaw went slack at his words. She recovered quickly, but he had done what he’d intended: her gaze trained on him, and she struggled to give him an honest answer. “I, uh, I suppose I am embarrassed,” she said. “There has been no new attack. No suggestion—”

“We have been over this,” he said gently. “I will not take the risk—”

“But what if it is all for nothing?”

“Then some good people will get coin for work well done. And I will have gotten a bit more sleep at night.”

She nodded, her cheeks flushing as she looked away. “But when will it end?”

He knew that was the main concern. For himself, as well. No one could remain ever vigilant, especially in the face of… well, nothing at all. “A little while longer, please.”

“Longer,” she echoed. He heard resignation in her words, and he grimaced.

“You should not feel defeated,” he said softly. “I want you to feel cherished.”

She looked at him, and her eyes seemed haunted. In the end, she simply frowned. “I am afraid I don’t have much experience in that.”

He tightened his hold on her hand, forming words that expressed his intention to spend a lifetime teaching her exactly what cherished felt like. But he didn’t have the chance as Mrs. Knopp gasped in horror.

He started—as did Irene—both having forgotten she was in the room and listening. Suddenly recalled to their audience, Grant turned, but it was Irene who slammed her hands against her mouth. “Oh no,” she rushed to say. “I did not mean what I said. Not like—”

Mrs. Knopp shook her head, her eyes misting as she attempted a watery smile. “No, no, Irene, dear. I understand. Truly, I do. Your father was awful, I know. And Nate was gone so very often. But Papa and I have tried to make you welcome here. To make you feel—”

Irene rushed across the room, dropping to her knees before her mother-in-law. “I am the most churlish woman in the world. Of course you have made me feel welcome and loved. Cherished, even. I just…” Her voice trailed away as she struggled for words.

“I know,” the woman answered, her voice broken. “We are not truly your parents. And if Nate had only stayed home…”

“You cannot think like that,” Irene returned. “We cannot live in what-ifs.”

Mrs. Knopp nodded, and Grant had the feeling that this was an oft-repeated conversation. At least, the last part. What if Nate had stayed home? What if he had lived? How would her life have gone? Would there be grandchildren by now?

He settled into a seat, doing his best not to intrude, but in the end, a tearful Mrs. Knopp turned his way.

“Look at us, talking about someone long gone when we have… when…” Her voice broke, and she couldn’t continue.

“When there is another gentleman here visiting,” he finished as gently as he could. “But I would like to hear more, if you feel up to it. I should very much like to learn about your Nate.”

Irene looked horrified, but Mrs. Knopp dabbed her eyes. “Would you?” she asked, hope in her voice. “Would you truly?”

“Of course,” he answered.

Mrs. Knopp turned to Irene. “You do not mind, do you?”

Irene shook her head, her expression tight. “You know I don’t mind.”

“But you do,” the woman said. “As does Papa. It pains you, I know. But…”

Grant nodded. “But he is your son, and you like remembering him. It is only natural.”

“He wouldn’t have liked you,” she said as she looked at Grant. “You’re too handsome, too charming. He would have called you a slick blighter.”

Grant almost chuckled. “I have been called worse, I assure you. It would only have made me more determined to show him the truth of my character,” he lied. He tended to prove himself to women. To men, he would have taken great pleasure in beating the man in some sort of wager. Unless, of course, he lost at the wager. Then they might possibly have become friends. That is, after all, exactly how Robert and he had first met as schoolboys. “What was he like as a boy?”

“Oh, he was into every sort of mischief. You know how boys are. And with his father sailing most of the time, I had my hands quite full running after him. We wanted more children, you know, but God only gave us him. And he… well, he made me very happy, though he was a terrible son. Always playing tricks, always running off to the docks. He wanted to sail from the first moment he saw the water.”

“He took after his father then,” he asked. He was simply prompting Mrs. Knopp into memories, urging her to continue, while he kept his gaze on Irene. He wanted to know just how much of her heart still lingered with her lost husband. Was she still buried with her Nate?

Irene’s face gave little away. She kept her hands tight, her expression composed. It was damnably frustrating to not have a clue as to her thoughts.

“I understood, you know,” continued Mrs. Knopp. “He wanted to be with his father, and a mother is not enough no matter how much she tries.”

“He adored you,” inserted Irene, her voice quiet.

“I know. And he really wasn’t a terrible son. Just an active one. Never still, never content to sit and be quiet. He didn’t even sleep above five hours at a time. Always had to be up and around doing something.”

“His visits were like intense holidays,” Irene said. “I likened him to fireworks once. A burst of light and excitement…”

“And then gone. That was my Nate.”

The two women shared a look, identical, wistful expressions.

“How did you meet?” he asked Irene. He’d heard some of the tale, but wanted the rest.

She looked at him, her expression grave. She seemed to be deciding if she would speak, and he held his breath waiting. Then she gave a little shrug. “It was at the market near the docks. I had gone to buy some cheap silk for a dress. I was in my come-out, you see, but we couldn’t afford anything. Mama was a fair hand at cutting, able to fashion a dress out mismatched pieces. I did the stitching. So I went in search of a damaged bolt of silk that could be had for a song.”

“So you were a purchaser even then,” he said.

She nodded, and he saw no shame in it. “That is why Helaine thought of me when she needed someone for her shop. The two of us were raised with almost nothing. We had to make do, finding bargains wherever we could.”

Apparently unable to keep quiet, Mrs. Knopp took up the tale. “He saw her at the market. Something about a melon. He knew right away. He came home and told me that he had seen the woman he wanted to marry. Elegant, sophisticated, but could bargain like a fishwife.”

Grant’s eyebrows rose, but he could detect no shame in Irene’s face. In fact, a fond smile played about her lips. “He told me it was my beauty.”

“It was that too. But he liked that you weren’t”—the woman flashed an apologetic smile at Grant—“high in the instep, like those other bloody peers. As I said, I do not think he would have liked you overmuch. Nate was quick to judge—for better or ill.”

“Do not apologize,” he said. “I am not very fond of the peerage myself. Though I begin to think I would have liked your son a great deal.” In truth, he was finding he liked the mother. He appreciated her honest assessment of her son when most women claimed the dead as paragons of virtue. “And if he judged Lady Irene as a diamond of the first water, then he had an excellent eye.”

“No diamond,” Irene said. “Just a poor girl trying too hard to maintain a wealthy façade.”

He understood the strain very well. “It must have been hard.”

“Nate swept me off my feet. Bought me all manner of gifts: posies and sweets. And though it was improper to buy me anything like silk or thread, such treasures would appear at our door without explanation. I knew who it was from, of course, and Mama was too grateful to speak out against it. Especially when he declared in almost his first breath that he wanted to marry me.”

There was such warmth in her voice—part nostalgia, part longing. “You loved him deeply,” he said, the words cutting his throat as he spoke.

She nodded, though she glanced at Mrs. Knopp as she did. He wondered what that meant. Of course, she would have to profess deep love in front of her mother-in-law. But the look gave him hope. Perhaps there was room in her heart for him.

Meanwhile, Mrs. Knopp dabbed her eyes. “They were married before the year was out.”

“And he was gone not three years later,” finished Irene. The finality in her voice summed up her attitude. Fireworks—spectacular then gone.

He frowned, wondering at what she wasn’t telling him. Though he asked many questions, she wouldn’t say more. She simply deferred questions to her mother-in-law, who relayed one tale of adventure after another. And that was how they spent the remaining time before her husband appeared.

Once he joined them, however, discussion became general. The talk was of business or politics, of Grant’s investigation, and—when the ladies participated—of the balls and party invitations they’d received. By elite standards, it was rough talk, but Grant enjoyed it. He spoke as if he were Mr. Grant, discussing the workers and the lower classes. And to his surprise, Irene listened closely, adding in her own perspective whenever appropriate. It was a lively evening that he enjoyed thoroughly. And he was sad to see it end.

But dinner did end, as did the after-dinner drinks. He remained as long as he could, but eventually, politeness required that he take his leave—without even five minutes to speak privately with her—but there was no help for it. Unless, of course… he thought of the way the house was constructed. He believed he knew where her bedroom was located.

So before he departed, he managed to whisper into her ear. “Open your bedroom window for me.” It was half plea, half command, and he prayed he had not struck too bold a tone. Then five minutes later, he was waiting nervously outside her bedroom window, perched awkwardly—and somewhat dangerously—on a tree limb that dipped and swayed beneath his weight.