Love With the Perfect Scoundrel (31 page)

He exhaled, his voice nearly gone. “I suppose I should have known what life would be like with a wench from the frozen regions.” With wrenching effort he disengaged himself and rolled to his side before pulling her on top of him. His beautiful miracle now sat astride his thighs with a comical, uncertain expression on her face.

“I suppose you need a bit of help? Guidance?”

“No, I’m perfectly fine.”

He chuckled. “You know every time you say that, I know you are perfectly not. Darling, let me show you.” He encircled her tiny waist with his hands. “Now, try to control this. Be careful. I won’t let you hurt yourself,” he insisted.

Her eyes wide, she slid down slowly to take half of him before she stiffened.

“That’s it. Now ease up.”

She set a tempo, and he kept his hands on her waist to not let her eagerness get her in trouble. But then she grasped his hands and placed them over his head; a siren intent on having her way, and God help him, but he let her.

Looking at the incandescent wonder of the woman he wanted to give the world to, his arousal abruptly thickened, his release poised in the heavy shaft. “Grace…wait. No—”

She bent forward and kissed him, his words lost in a vortex of potent desire and longing. And suddenly she slid down in an inexorable long motion and he felt her fully seated. She had dared to take all of him inside of her and her face radiated ecstasy as she cried out with pleasure. The excruciating sensation broke his every last restraint, and he couldn’t stop the great pulsing waves from breaking inside of her. And he didn’t want to.

For he had found safe haven at last. Once and forever.

It had taken a strength of will that he hadn’t known he possessed to tear himself from her arms after she fell fast asleep. He scratched out a few words to her—words telling her to rest and a promise to send word to her at first light on how they were to proceed. And he had signed it…
Mr. Roijen
.

His heart lighter than it had been for years, he carefully peered from the upper-story windows to look for signs of potential trouble. He had calculated that it could be as soon as an hour before Manning might hear of his reappearance. Why, two or three of the carriages waiting in the huddle outside of Helston House had borne the Manning colors.

Michael slipped out of one of the ground-floor side windows, dropping the last few feet into a crouch.

He regained his footing, but the crunch of many footsteps on pea gravel surrounded him and he knew with sickening finality that his meager reserves of luck had finally run out.

G
race was so happy riding Sioux over the cobblestones of the small village toward Ivy cottage. Her heart swelled when she looked down to find Lara Peabody, from the foundling home, riding a pony beside her and wearing Grace’s pink gloves, which were too large for her small fingers.

The sound of the two animals’ hooves echoed sharply until Grace finally woke from the surreal dream to find that the sound was instead someone insistently rapping on her bedchamber door.

She sat up and turned sharply to find herself alone in the vast bed.

He was gone…

But a note on her table next to the bed caught her eye. Grace clutched the bed coverings closer and cleared her throat. “Come…Come in.” She hid the note in her hand.

Sally entered, red-faced, and bobbed a curtsy. “Pardon me, Lady Sheffield, but I can’t put them off any longer. The dowager duchess and her friends are belowstairs and threatening to, uh,
disturb
you.”

“Help me then, please, Sally?”

The little maid rushed forward with two morning gowns.

“Yes, the dotted silk…” As Sally set aside the other gown, Grace hurriedly read the note he had left for her, and she allowed a smile to blossom on her face.

“Where are your pearls, Lady Sheffield?”

Grace could feel a mottled flush rise from her neck as she hastened to retrieve them. “I have them.” Fastening them behind her neck, Grace stepped behind a screen and onto thick toweling to splash soap and water over as much of her person as possible, while Sally set out her articles of dress.

The maid murmured, “I shall see to your tea as soon as I take my leave, my lady.”

But before Sally could do up the last of the gown’s buttons Ata’s tiny wizened face peered around her door.

“Ah, you
are
here. Thank heaven.”

Rosamunde rushed past Ata along with Georgiana, Sarah, and Elizabeth.

“And why wouldn’t I be here?” Grace said, trying to push her usual mantle of complacency into place. “Thank you, Sally.” Her sweet maid disappeared.

Rosamunde’s face was ashen as she placed the
Morning Post
into Grace’s hands. She glanced at the folded section, the familiar swagged “Fashionable World” column exposed. The first words jumped out at her…

Their Royal Highnesses the Duke and Duchess of Helston entertained a party of fashionables last eve, for the annual celebration of the Devilish Duke’s Bad Luck Birthday. In keeping with the theme, an earl long lost was found only to be lost yet again! Ah, but the mysterious Lord W’s gigantesque figure should not be hard to find for the Countess of H insists she spied him entering a townhouse with Lady S, she of the recent spate of ruptured matrimonial engagements. La! What a to-do in Portman Square…

Grace lowered herself onto a chair Elizabeth had hastily brought behind her. With no emotion, she stared sightlessly out the window to see a pattern Jack Frost had etched on the panes.

“Is he here?” Rosamunde asked cautiously.

“Of course not,” Grace replied.

In the silence, Sally hurried in bearing a tea tray with an array of biscuits, buttered toast, and apricot preserves.

“Thank you, Sally.”

The maid began hesitantly, “My lady, will you be receiving today, as usual? It’s Thursday.”

Ata inserted herself, “Absolutely not.”

“No, Ata,” Grace contradicted, cool reason now restored. “Of course I will be receiving at the usual hour, Sally.”

The maid nodded and retreated from the room.

“Are you out of your mind, Grace?” Rosamunde asked. “I should warn you that Luc and Quinn are riding hell for leather to the foundling home this very moment. Mr. Brown at least saw fit to wake me before he went after them himself.”

“We must pray that Quinn will restrain my grandson,” Ata said.

Georgiana was pacing, her limp obvious. “While I would like to spare you this, I do believe it will be Quinn who will need to be brought to heel. I’ve never seen him in such a state. He left without a word, ignored my every protest to wait for me. I…I…” She covered her face and burst into tears. “I think he’s going to challenge him to a duel.”

Grace, with great tranquility, attended to the tea tray, pouring, straining, and preparing each of the cups precisely as her friends liked their tea. She then poured her own and took a small, delicate plate. Placing three pieces of toast on it, she carefully slathered jam on each one before taking a large bite of the first. Grace looked up from her task to see all of her friends staring at her. “What?”

Elizabeth giggled. “Well, I rather think we all expected that at the very least, your appetite would be off.”

“She’s in shock, I tell you.” Ata harrumphed.

“No, I’m not. I’m not worried about Luc or Quinn finding Michael for I’m certain he’s long gone.” She took another leisurely bite and a sip of tea. “And I’m going away to join him, so none of this matters. I wasn’t going to tell you before I left, but I don’t want any of you to worry.”

“Oh God, she’s running away again,” Ata moaned.

“I’m not. I’m
going
away. There’s a difference.”

“Yes, rather like the difference between ham and bacon, don’t you think?” Rosamunde followed with a moan very much like Ata’s. “Oh, Grace, you can’t go away. Please. If only for all of us. We can withstand this again if we face them together—but we have to do it straight from the start. You can’t leave again.”

“Rosamunde, my dearest friend, I hadn’t thought I’d quite used up all of my pity chits yet.”

“But this is such nonsense,” Georgiana continued. “If your Mr. Ranier really and truly is the lost Earl of Wallace, you can be married and within the week everything will be forgotten.”

“It’s true, Grace,” Sarah said, coming forward. “And we will put it about how romantic your courtship was.”

Grace looked at her friend with doubt. “Look, it’s far too complicated to explain it all right now, but suffice it to say that we need a bit of time and privacy to sort out a few, um, problems of a delicate nature.”

“Time and privacy?” Ata huffed. “I rather think you’ve had a bit too much of both with that man, and I don’t care what modern thoughts have gotten into your head, missy. You cannot continue down this wicked path, no matter how tall he is or how seductive his eyes are.”

Rosamunde bit her lower lip to keep from laughing. “She’s right, Grace. None of us recognizes you any more. Not that I don’t like this new version of you quite a bit.”

Ata rolled her eyes. “Do not think you can just go away again without telling us precisely what level of madness you are considering, Grace.”

She glanced at the concerned expressions from her dearest friends in the world and finally consented, pouring out a small portion of Michael’s past, and her future. She had promised not to reveal the name of the influential man who had leveled the murder charges and she did not mention the name given to Michael at the foundling home.

“But surely there is some sort of terrible mistake,” Rosamunde said, crumpling in a heap at Grace’s feet. “Surely Luc and Quinn, and also Lord Palmer will band together. Under their combined influence, and others, Lord Wallace will be fully restored with time, and then this man’s accusations will be discredited and dismissed.”

“I don’t know, Rosamunde. That is what should happen, but would you want to expose the man you cherish”—she choked a bit on the word and Sarah and Elizabeth rushed toward her—“no, wait, I’m perfectly fine. He and I both agree that we must disappear for a short while, so we can consider the best course of action. And no, I won’t say where we are going, but I will write to you.”

“But Quinn may be able to—” Georgiana was interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the hallway.

A quick rap and Sally entered and bobbed a curtsy. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but a Miss Givan is most insistent and—”

“Please show her in.” Grace crossed the room to greet the exuberant beauty. Her hair and gown in disarray, Victoria Givan rushed forward.

“Oh, Lady Sheffield, I’m sorry to intrude, I’m sorry to—”

“What is it, Victoria?”

She finally took notice of the other ladies in the chamber and stood silently clutching her hands. Grace led her to a settee and they both sat.

“It’s Michael,” she whispered. “He’s…oh, he’s been taken to Newgate.” The woman burst into tears. “Gordon Lefroy, a former foundling who is still employed by Mr. Manning, came to warn us this morning.”

Grace felt the room spin on its axis until the gnarled hand of Ata grounded her. “Good God, this involves Rowland Manning? He’s so terribly powerful. Shall I fetch salts?”

“No, no,” Grace whispered brokenly.

Rosamunde and Georgiana were conferring, but Grace could make little sense of their hurried words. God, she had to go to him. Straightaway.

“Grace?” Rosamunde broke through her tangled skein of thoughts. “Georgiana and I will find Luc and Quinn. They will sort through this, I promise you.”

A course of action now forming in her mind, Grace moved methodically to the door. “I know. Victoria, thank you for coming to me. I fear I must look like a wretch. May I beg you to excuse me while I finish my toilette?”

Ata nodded. “Very good idea, my dear. So rational you are. We should all take a lesson from you.”

The ladies rose en masse and thinned into a two-by-two queue out her door, Sally leading the chattering group toward the salon below.

Grace gathered her reticule, her cloak, and gloves as she counted to twenty. And then with spurious vigor born of ungodly fear, she rushed from the room, down the spiral servants’ stair, and into the teeth of the winter morning. She dashed inelegantly from Portman Square and hailed a hack for the first time in her life. Scuttling inside, she directed the hansom cab to the infamous prison.

She could barely breathe as horrid visions tumbled in her mind—of Michael straining against heavy manacles, being dragged in chains to the deepest dungeons of hell right in the heart of London. She gulped and dragged air into her tight lungs, fighting back the paralyzing effect of powerlessness.

Nearly flinging the fare at the stunned driver, Grace flew from the confines of the hackney and stumbled in her haste to reach the grim and imposing stone entrance to Newgate.

The terrible stench of unwashed and untended humanity assaulted her senses once inside. Gaol keepers, turnkeys, and men who brought others to justice milled in a confusing mass. An elderly woman carrying a child pleaded with a jailer to see her son, while a manacled criminal attempted to pick another’s pocket. At long last, Grace worked her way past a group of leering and overly bold characters to face a man with a dirty wig seated at a long, rough-hewn desk with many ledgers.

“Aye?” the man said without glancing at her.

“I understand a gentleman was brought here today, and I wish to see him.”

At her cultured voice, the man looked up, his eyes nearly black but displaying a sign of intelligence. “Yer ladyship?”

“I demand to see a gentleman who was brought here this morning,” she repeated more forcefully.

Perplexed lines appeared on his forehead. “Gen’l’men are not brought ’ere, yer ladyship.”

“I realize that, but he is being wrongly held. He is, indeed, a gentleman.”

A few cackles of laughter floated in the air and the man before her scratched his head, leaving his wig slightly askew.

“And ye be?”

“The Countess of Sheffield,” she said with no small amount of irritation.

He skimmed the page in front of him. “Yer ladyship, only one man was taken within this morning. A large bloke. Saw ’im meself, I did. Now what would a charming lady such as yerself want to be doing with the loikes of that murdering smithy?” The man’s jowls trembled as his cockney accent threatened to overtake his words. “’e’s too dangerous by half, that one. Took down four men within these walls, ’e did. I’m under strict orders from the magistrate not to allow anyone closer ’an fifty feet from ’is cell.”