Love With the Perfect Scoundrel (17 page)

When Michael awoke with a head that felt twice as large as it should, he rubbed his bleary eyes only to find he was wearing brown mittens. His throat cottony, he looked around and his brains sloshed about the inside of his head.

Christ. He had violated the two cardinal rules. The candle was aflame
and
he was three sheets to the wind. He was bloody well going to the dogs.

Yes, indeed, he was as good as gone.

“D
o make an effort, Quinn,” Grace insisted quietly. The carriage wheel caught a rut and both Grace and Quinn swayed inside the vehicle.

His face was white with tension. “I do not expect you to accept my apology. Indeed, it seems almost an insult to offer one, as I don’t want to ask anything of you. I don’t even have the comfort of being able to offer any sort of appeasement.”

Grace was in a perverse frame of mind. She’d begged a private word with him at the last posting inn, where the entire party of three carriages had stopped to change horses before they continued on the last leg of the three-day journey to London. Now she wished she hadn’t bothered. Gentlemen had no idea how tiresome it was to listen to them blather on about the preservation of their honor.

“I told you, there’s no need to apologize. I’m only grateful you and Georgiana admitted your mutual affection before you and I left for the Duchess of Kendale’s house party.
Before
we married. Yes, the gossip in town is fevered due to the duchess’s tales, but we shall overcome it by standing together. So please, Quinn, do me the great favor of putting your guilt aside. Otherwise we’re doomed to forever feeling awkward.”

Across the carriage bench Quinn sat studying her face with care. She watched his Adam’s apple bob. “What did he do to you?”

She sighed with exasperation. “If you don’t stop this, I’ll cut your acquaintance in town after I play the farce of a mammoth ball in your honor and Georgiana’s.”

He rubbed his brow. “I don’t know which is worse—what I did, or what that—that blacksmith did to you. He did offer for you, did he not? And you turned him down?” He continued without waiting for an answer. “Well, at least no one else will ever know of the encounter.”

Finally, Grace snapped. Michael’s words echoed in her brain.
A man bases his worth on his fortune and station in life
. “All right. I see how it is. I have an idea. You shall direct your steward or solicitor to draw up a bank draft.”

Quinn straightened his posture, his eyes alert. “A bank draft?”

“Yes. I’ve decided the only way you or Luc will ever stop looking at me as though I’m a pitiful creature, is to demand that you each give over an absurd amount of coin.”

Quinn’s brows drew together, but he appeared ready to acquiesce to anything she asked. “Whatever you desire from me is yours, Grace.”

“It’s not for me. It’s alms for charity. It’s the season for it after all, is it not?”

“And what, pray tell, is this worthy cause?”

“A foundling hospital.”

The glimmer of benevolent amusement appeared on his face. “How obscene an amount are you proposing?”

“Enough to make you think twice about ever crossing a Sheffield again,” she purred with a smile.

“I see,” his eyes twinkled.

“No, I don’t think you do.” It was astonishing how the smile that had once caused Grace to flush with pleasure did nothing to her now.

“I shall double the amount you suggest,” he said, his noble smile widening.

“
Five thousand pounds
.”

That wiped the grin from his face. Why, five thousand was enough to keep a great house and all its servants quite comfortable for a year or more.

“Grace, the purchase of Trehallow for Georgiana and her family has put quite a strain on…” He sputtered to a halt before continuing. “Would you like my solicitors to deliver the
ten
thousand pounds to—”

“I shall take pity of you, Quinn. I should have clarified that I expect you
and
Luc to divide the burden. I shall not hold you to doubling it.”

He exhaled roughly, his face still blanched.

“Oh, and Quinn?”

His posture had finally unbent. “Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“No. It is I who—”

“Not for the donation.”

“For what then?”

“For marrying Georgiana. For letting me go.”

“You’ve fallen under that heathen’s spell, haven’t you?”

“No.”

He shook his head. “Take care, Grace. I, of all people, recognize the signs now.”

“And what precisely are the signs?”

“Decisive one-word answers, for a start.”

She laughed. “So you’re saying I should prevaricate?”

“Yes. But only if you can do it convincingly.” He rearranged her lap blanket. “I only wish there was a true possibility for a future for you with him. But it’s impossible. He’s not a gentleman worthy of you, my dear. Indeed, he’s no gentleman at all.”

“Well, I see the entire affair quite differently.”

“How so?”

“You think he’s not laudable because of his station in life. But, you see, that’s not it. I chose not to like him because he’s foolish enough to let an illogical notion of pride stand in his way. The man had the audacity to think it wasn’t correct to marry a lady with a fortune such as mine when he has so little.”

Quinn’s lips twitched. “Perhaps it’s some sort of dreadful disease afflicting people in the colonies.”

“Obviously an advanced case. Lord knows no blue-blooded gentleman I know would ever let a fortune stand in the way of marriage.”

Quinn chuckled and Grace couldn’t help but join in. And like a giggle in church, the tension had turned and they could not stop until they were nearly out of breath from laughter.

But in her heart, Grace knew the tears on her cheeks were not all from mirth. She finally allowed the full weight of the truth to engulf her.

The Michael Ranier she knew would never have let pride stand in his way if he had truly wanted something or someone. He was like an avalanche, never allowing anything to stop his natural course of motion.

He had not wanted to share a life with her. And so he had conjured up words he thought a rich countess would allow herself to believe.

Well.

Mr. Ranier had forgotten his earlier ludicrous conviction. Perhaps she
was
a Viking at her core—and not an overbred aristocrat. A swell of strength flowed through her for some bizarre reason she refused to examine. She was just too grateful for its appearance.

Grace peered out the small panes of the carriage window and spied the outline of the tallest spires of London in the twilight. They almost looked like the masts of a fleet of vessels.

It was time to go raiding.

It was amazing how nature was able to beautify what man had once destroyed.

Michael sat astride Sioux, gazing at the vast view from the crag of one of Derbyshire’s most famous prominences. The wind whipped about him from all directions, but he couldn’t feel the cold. The scene in the distance robbed him of coherent thought.

He hadn’t seen it in almost two decades. Hadn’t thought he would ever have the chance to see it again.

Wallace Abbey
—or rather, the charred remains of one of England’s oldest and most beautiful estates—rose up from the faded tangle of winter grasses. Christendom had clearly forsaken the jagged fragments and consecrated this man-made creation to the devil. With the upheavals due to the transference of power from mad King George to the Prince Regent, and the country at war for so long, Prinny and the House of Lords had probably shoved the dilemma of the burned Wallace estate to the bottom of its docket many years ago.

He realized now that some part of him had tried to forget he had ever been born or lived here. The knowledge of what he could have been if he hadn’t made so many terrible mistakes was excruciating. But with Wallace Abbey before him, in all its ruined majesty, the magnified horrors of his youth melted away. And he couldn’t stop the spark of an impossible dream. In a rush, he wanted to know if the property had reverted to the crown, or if stewards assigned by some unknown authority oversaw the land. And he could vividly envision how the abbey could be rebuilt to its former splendor.

There were a few signs of usage in the distance. Someone either leased the land, or nearby inhabitants had encroached. White dots suggested a flock of sheep and tilled rows gave evidence of past crops. Michael was glad. At least someone was benefiting from the estate.

Lost in thought, he straightened when his mare snorted and pawed the rocky heath, signaling her distrust of the prominence. Michael turned Sioux’s head and urged her toward a lone hawthorn tree behind them. Dismounting, he let his horse nibble the sparse tufts of wild grass while he turned to his other purpose for coming here.

He withdrew a letter as he returned to the edge of the crag, unable to stay away from the poignant view of his first home. The note was from London, of that he was certain.

If only it were from her. He had brought it here, far, far away from Brynlow and the curious glances of the kindhearted Lattimers, who appeared determined to hover about him in the barns, and in the house. He was unused to living daily, no hourly, with others.

In his heart he knew the letter was not from Grace. The common gray paper was sealed with a lump of rye dough, and the directions were in a vaguely familiar hand unlike Grace’s elegant, sloping script.

She had been gone for only one week, and he had quite effectively sliced to ribbons any chance of continuing the acquaintance. Why, he was the last person in the world she would ever approach again in her lifetime.

But he had learned long ago that hope was an essential ingredient to leading a purposeful life. And so he never pushed it away. Even when there was no foundation whatsoever for fulfillment of wishes, hope was necessary. For without it, without dreams, souls withered and died.

And so, he had hoped the letter was from Grace when Mrs. Lattimer placed it in his hands after her return from the village late yesterday. He had taken the decision to visit a ghost of his past, Wallace Abbey, before he would open the note. And so he had risen at dawn and ridden several hours south to come here.

He cracked the hardened gray dough and unfolded the letter. The wind caught at the edges of the paper, making it difficult to read.

Dear Mr. Ranier,

I pray you have arrived safely. Mr. Samuel Bryn gave me your name as his heir in strictest confidence last spring when he fell ill. Please know all of us at the foundling hospital share in your sadness at the great loss of our devoted benefactor. He was always so very kind to the orphans here, having once lived among us himself. He mentioned you live in a very retired fashion but that you might look favorably on us.

As the mistress of the foundling home here in Lamb’s Conduit Fields, I am in the discomforting position of burdening you with a request. In the past, Mr. Bryn was in the habit of organizing and contributing greatly to a Christmas feast for the children.

Please know that we are truly not expecting anything at all. Surely there are many expenses attached to Brynlow. But if, by some small chance, you are able to consider this plea with goodwill, we would be most grateful.

Yours respectfully,
Anne Kane

Michael closed his eyes against the harsh memories of the foundling home. Wind buffeted his body as he imagined the gray lives of the children there now. The nights would be dark and long, the days arduous and often overcast, the sackcloth garments itchy and dull, the bread and gruel coarse and ash colored, and their skin would be almost gray from lack of nourishment. The only thing of color would be their dreams.

And Christmas.

It had been the only day the boys in the west wing and the girls from the east wing were allowed to mingle with one another. The only day their bellies were almost filled. And the only day Michael and the rest of the boys sang the
Messiah
in the overcrowded chapel filled with the fashionable Quality. Grand lords and ladies eased open their consciences and their purses while they listened to the hospital’s master play the beautiful organ Mr. Handel had donated sixty years before.

It was the only damned day Michael had looked forward to each year.

He would go back. Go back to provide something of color for the boys and girls at Christmas. He could push back his schedule of progress for Brynlow. There was no hurry, really. For what purpose did he push so hard?

He wondered how Mrs. Kane would react when she realized Mr. Ranier was someone she had known by another name.

Michael folded the letter and stuffed it in his coat, the deeply slashed sides flapping in the wind. He took one long last look at his heritage lost, and turned away.

There was little time. If he was truly to do this, he would have to ride hell for leather to London within the week. And he would have to assemble a plan to secret himself. Well, it wasn’t as if he would ever be able to forget the rabbit warren of London’s infamous rookeries or the docks or any of the many darker places he could go.

All the while he rode Sioux back to Brynlow, he refused to admit for one single blasted moment, that perhaps, just perhaps, this was actually the excuse he had sought. The chance to see
her
once again.

Clearly it was damned hope, secretly and inexorably, at work. It was all he had left now that her scent had evaporated from the rose-colored shawl he cradled, like a deranged cove, each night.

I
t was surprising how quickly Grace found her former daily rhythm in London. Oh, she knew now it had been a mistake to try and return without Ata and the others guarding her flanks. They had been the missing armament a few weeks ago when last she had attempted to reenter society.

It had taken a mere day or two to get settled. She had insisted the dowager duchess, Elizabeth, and Sarah stay with her instead of residing at Helston House or Quinn’s Ellesmere House, both on the other side of Portman Square. On the first day, she and Ata had mapped out a calendar with military precision, including invitations to a mysterious masquerade no one would be able to resist.