Love With the Perfect Scoundrel (34 page)

John Brown stepped sideways to block the duke’s attempted retreat. “I’ll have your answer now, if you please,
Your Majesty
.”

Beads of moisture had materialized on the duke’s upper lip and forehead despite the freezing draft. “You are fortunate, sir, that I refuse to duel demented souls who are beneath my notice.”

“Just as I thought,” Mr. Brown said with disgust. “It’s always the same with bullies. All puffery and no grit. Get out of here. And by the by, if I ever hear of you inconveniencing Her Grace again I shall round up every poacher in five counties and lead them to your bloody Beaulieu Park with an engraved invitation to hunt you down.”

“Now see here,” the duke blustered, backing toward the double doors, “I shall have the magistrate take you up on—”

“What’s this?” Luc asked as he nearly collided with the duke at the doorway. Quinn stood at his shoulder as their glances moved from each member of the group to the empty cage and open window.

“Not your affair, Luc,” Mr. Brown said in a clipped tone. “Just let the imbecile go before I change my mind.”

The Duke of Beaufort did not wait for a “by your leave,” but retreated as fast as any prey under scrutiny.

Ata crumpled onto a settee and covered her wrinkled face with one hand as her gnarled one rested uselessly in her lap.

Mr. Brown offered her his handkerchief and settled into a chair next to her. “There, there, my love. Take this.”

Luc’s eyebrows had nearly risen to his hairline. “Will the goings-on in this house ever cease?” Luc pointedly shot a glance at Grace before he strode to a glass-fronted figurine case. Upon opening it, he extracted a bottle of Armagnac from a large Grecian urn while Quinn secured the crystal.

Ata sniffed. “Luc, I shall require a larger glass, if you please. And, by the way, you are not to blame Grace for any of this.”

In the lengthening silence, Quinn coughed discreetly while he poured the Armagnac.

Luc paced the room restlessly. He stopped, and turned to Grace. Downing the contents of his glass, he glared at her. “She’s absolutely right. Actually, where Grace is concerned, I am fully to blame. I let you down, my dear. I should have followed my instincts and killed that man when I had the chance.”

“Killed him?” Ata restated. “Well, perhaps that’s a bit severe. I am guessing John would have merely shot His Grace’s foot as punishment. Although—”

“I’m not referring to that idiot Beaufort. I’m speaking of Ranier, or de Peyster, or Wallace—whatever you choose to call that criminal.”

Grace’s hand drifted over her heart as Luc extracted a letter from his pocket.

“Grace, please tell me that this outrageous letter, begging for my aid—a bit too late if you were to ask me—from a Mr.”—he glanced at the bottom of the note—“Williamson is a hoax. Dear God, there must be some mistake. You did not squander seventy-five thousand pounds, indeed, nearly your entire fortune, to save that murdering blacksmith from the gallows.” She had never seen Luc so stunned.

Ata moaned and Mr. Brown glanced at her with worry in his eyes.

“We missed you at every opportunity today, Grace,” Quinn murmured. “If we had not gone to the foundling home before Newgate, we might have had the chance of intercepting you at Manning’s and putting a stop to this insanity. But you are part of our family. We protect what is our own and we will shoulder this as—”

“Stop,” Grace insisted. “There’s no need to argue. What is done is done and cannot be undone. Not that I would choose a different course. That said, I came to ask a favor of you both. It will be the very last request, since I am well aware that I have outstripped anything either of you ever owed me.”

“My dear,” Quinn said, his desire to please her in great evidence. “What do you require? What do you want us to do for you?”

“Would you personally deliver this letter to Old Bailey tomorrow at first light? It’s from Rowland Manning officially withdrawing the complaints against Michael. I would ask you to see it through for me—see that he is, indeed, released.”

“Of course I will do it. Newgate and Old Bailey’s is no place for a lady.”

“It’s not that. I returned there not two hours ago but the guards said it was too late—that all matters would have to be addressed tomorrow. And…well, Mr. Brown and I are leaving straightaway, that is”—she turned to her old friend—“if you are still inclined to leave tonight, sir?”

Mr. Brown nodded in the tense silence.

“What?” Ata sat up abruptly and glanced from Mr. Brown to Grace. “Not that nonsense again. But with Michael to be released, and surely his title to be eventually restored, well, surely there’s no need…” She anxiously looked from Grace to John Brown. “Where are you going?”

“To Scotland,” Mr. Brown said firmly as Grace cleared her throat nervously.

Ata snorted. “Really?”

“We haven’t precisely come to an agreement,” Grace admitted. “Look, I told everyone I was going away and I haven’t changed my mind. If anything, I have no other choice now after that gossip column. And I must retrench immediately if I’ve a chance to live independently. Besides, I’ve no desire to stay to play the martyr while all of you try to resurrect my nonexistent standing in society all over again. It’s a complete waste of time and effort. Elizabeth and Sarah have kindly agreed to oversee the closing of Sheffield House. And Mr. Williamson will see to selling everything. I am only sorry you will all grieve for it. But I beg you not to.”

“But Grace,” Ata said. “What about Mr. Ranier, or rather, Lord Wallace? He will come after you—marry you. Why will you not wait for him?”

“Ata, in my heart, I know what is best. Lord Wallace told me himself that men base their worth on their fortune and station in life, and he will want to see to restoring both when he’s released. That, in addition to Brynlow…well, he will have much to do. And I must see to my own affairs. Perhaps, after we’ve had adequate time to reflect on our wishes for the future, we shall find we will not suit. When we first spoke of going away, it was to hide, but now he has no reason to go away—and every reason to stay and take his rightful place here.”

Luc made an exasperated sound. “Grace Sheffey, are you determined to ruin the peace of my dotage? You have clearly lost your mind.”

Grace smiled. “Yes.”

“The hell of it is that even I can’t decide if it would be better to strangle Wallace, or Manning, or you. And none of those options will restore your fortune. Perhaps, it will, indeed, be the most satisfying to watch you live in poverty, raising chickens and such with that Wallace fellow.”

“Oh, please. No more reproofs,” Ata said to her grandson. “We all know why you’re in such a black mood. You should have taken my idea of writing about all of us instead of some fusty tome about naval warfare. I keep telling you—you must write about the here and now, not the past. Then the creative process will unfold naturally, my love.”

Luc stared at his virago of a grandmother, his left eyelid twitching. “I require your solemn oath, madam, that you will never, ever, ever form another secret society without my express permission.”

“May I interrupt?” Grace’s smile had faded. “I had wanted to try and explain this one thing to all of you to lessen your worry. I finally realized during the carriage ride back to Sheffield House that I should be grateful for everything that has happened.”

Ata spoke up, “And why is that?”

Grace looked into the dark eyes of the dowager. “Because it took giving away almost everything to understand the ease of being free from all the obligations and trappings of before. The guilt of seeing so much of humanity living in squalor as I lived like a princess, the guilt of maintaining appearances—the horrendous expenses of fashion, frivolity, balls, furnishings, carriages, dozens and dozens of servants. Enough. I’ve had enough. And now that most of it will soon be gone, I also feel less cowardly. I’m glad I spent the money as I did. I’m proud of myself. I had a moral obligation to fight injustice. Before, I always withered from confrontation. I didn’t this time.”

Ata rose from the settee and grasped her hand. “I was never more proud of anyone, Grace. But won’t you let me go with you?”

Mr. Brown shuttered his faded brown eyes, and Grace responded. “Thank you, Ata, but no. You will miss your great-grandchildren too much. You’ve not been happy staying at my house instead of here. And Georgiana will need your help with her lying in. And Sarah and Elizabeth will require your good counsel. They’re packing your affairs and their own at Sheffield House as we speak.”

“John?” Ata questioned, her voice strained to breaking.

“I made a promise to take Lady Sheffield to the North several months ago, and I won’t let her down again.”

“This has nothing to do with that old promise. I want to come with you.”

John Brown cantilevered his stiff form from the chair. “I think it best if you stay.”

Ata’s eyes narrowed. “Well!”

“You do like to live dangerously, old man,” Luc murmured.

“I guess it comes from warming my bones too close to the Helston fires,” Mr. Brown muttered.

Grace walked to Luc, and instead of offering her hand, she hugged him to her breast and kissed the taut hollows of his cheeks. “Please don’t worry. I shall be much happier this way. And I won’t be a burden. I was not stupid enough to give away everything. I shall live quite comfortably—the way I did on Mann—simply and close to the land. I will be perfectly happy.”

“And perfectly poor,” Luc said gruffly, hugging her hard to his chest. “Have no fear, Grace, I shall probably only let you live in squalor for two months before I send the marquis to retrieve you. It should only take the remainder of a cold winter for you to learn your lesson. The true luxuries of life are to be revered, not mocked, my dear. We shall hear enough of the reverse nonsense when we are tossed before our maker in the end.”

With equal parts tears and good wishes, Grace and Mr. Brown said their good-byes to their friends. There was only one person who refused to see them off from the columned splendor of Helston House’s entrance. Ata.

And there was only one person who noticed. John Brown.

Grace gazed at the forlorn image of her traveling companion across from her in the carriage. “Mr. Brown?”

“Yes?”

“There is one last thing I must see to before we cross the bridge.”

“And what is that, Lady Sheffield?”

“Just a very little thing—an invitation, if you will.”

“Och, lass, I’d thought you finished with the trappings of society.”

“Actually, this is more like offering someone a wager.”

He shook his head. “Wagering’s an addiction, lassie. One you can no longer afford. You should know that better than anyone.”

“But this, I promise, will be my very last one.”

“Spoken like a confirmed gambler.”

“Good God,” Ata said three mornings later, nearly stumbling down the last three steps of Helston House’s grand staircase. “Leave him!”

Four liveried footmen, appearing every inch like identical tin soldiers and about as effective, released the various appendages of the purported Lord Wallace. Or someone who might be Lord Wallace if he’d been dragged through the streets and had the bloodied body and dirty clothes to prove it.

With horror, she rushed to him. “Is it you?”

“No.” Michael refused to smile. It hurt too much.

“It absolutely
is
you!”

“No. It’s only me if Grace is here.”

“And why is that?”

“Because if I were Helston I would have borrowed, loaded, sharpened and readied all of Beaufort’s weapons, including a few cannon, which I’d point at that door just in case I ever decided to stop by for a dish of tea.”

“Well,” Ata said sidling up to him, “he might have suggested such.”

“Where is she? And why will no one answer the door at her townhouse?”

“You smell.”

He chuckled and abruptly stopped, clutching his jaw. “Are you ever going to tell me where she is?”

“No. Not until you bathe. Phipps? Have water heated for Lord Wallace, send someone for his affairs at the foundling home, and arrange one of the chambers for his use.” She stopped the butler. “Oh, and Phipps?”

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“Make sure it’s very far from my grandson’s apartments but close to mine.” And then, Lord help him, she winked at Michael.

Perhaps the dowager duchess had been right, Michael conceded as he steeped in the largest, most impressive hip bath he’d ever seen in his life not an hour later. Christ, he felt almost human again. And yet, despite the hot water, the perfumed soap, and the clean clothes draped over the screen, his fears eddied through the corridors of his mind on well-worn pathways. For so long he had been living a half life, always hiding. He wondered if he’d ever be able to lead a normal, relaxed way of life—if he’d ever stop feeling hunted. He had a primal desire to find Grace and hole up in some godforsaken corner of nowhere and never leave. He plunged his head under water.

But, now that she had met Rowland Manning, there was every reason to believe she would never want to see Michael ever again. For surely Manning had told her his version of what had happened. And surely Grace had paid dearly to buy his release from Newgate.

Michael stood up, a rush of water sluicing down his toughened, bruised form. He was not a pretty sight, and would not be suitable for viewing for a long while. He needed to do so much, and yet, there was only one thing he wanted to do. To find her. To find out what had happened. He reached for the soft toweling as a familiar bark of irritation funneled from beyond the cracks of the door.

Without warning, the door banged open, Helston and Ellesmere gusting inside. The duke’s eyes squinted as he addressed the marquis. “Please tell me my eyes deceive me. Pray tell me the dirty dog did not have the audacity to trot here?”

Ellesmere merely raised his eyebrows and sighed heavily, while Michael donned the clothes that had been neatly pressed and laid out for him.

“Look, I have only two questions for you. How much did she pay him? And where is she?” He limped to the other side of the screen.

The duke traded glances with the marquis. “Everything she had.” Helston smiled viciously.