Stroke of Genius (28 page)

Grace was coming down the long corridor wearing that delectable chocolate and sapphire blue gown. Long limbed and elegant, she might have been a goddess condescending to join them. Just being able to see her determined stride made his heart lighter and convinced him that truth and beauty still existed in the world.

“Blast! Not that bloody brown and blue thing again. It’s not at all the done thing.” the marquess muttered with disgust. “Hasn’t the girl any other gowns?”

“None that are worthy of her,” Crispin returned smoothly, wondering at both the marquess’s eyesight and his sense.

“Well, that is something I’ll remedy once she is mine. A marchioness ought never wear the same gown twice,” Dorset said and pushed past Crispin to meet Grace before she reached the dining room door.

All the air fled from Crispin’s lungs. If the marquess had punched him in the gut, it wouldn’t have hurt as badly. Crispin knew the marquess was interested in Grace, but his tone was so blasé about making Grace his wife, it was as if it was an accomplished fact.

This had started as a game. A lark. Pull a fast one on the
ton
of London and fashion a bumptious Bostonian miss into the toast of the town.

For an unworthy moment, Crispin almost wished Grace would trip and fall headlong on the red and gold carpet runner. The marquess would probably not find her clumsiness as endearingly human as Crispin did. It was all that reminded him she wasn’t an angel who’d temporarily shed her wings.

But no, he really didn’t want her to fall. She might be injured or embarrassed and Crispin couldn’t bear that.

When the marquess made his obeisance over her hand and lingered in his kiss on her knuckles, Crispin vowed not to see her hurt any other way either.

He’d not lost one of his ‘games’ in a very long time, and he was very near to winning this one. Grace was about to bag her titled husband. But in winning the game, Crispin was actually the loser.

If Grace wanted to be a marchioness, so be it. But the bastard better treat her like the queen she was.

Growing up rough in Cheapside taught him there were lots of ways for a man to die. Crispin would see the marquess found one if he ever made her shed a single tear. 

* * *

Lord Washburn stared at his plate. Yes, it was Limoges. Yes, it was embossed with the marquess’s gilt crest. Yes, it was heaped with roast duckling and eel pie and a cranberry and raisin concoction that Lady Sheppleton declared “simply divine,” but Lord Washburn’s plate did not make him happy.

It was not located in the correct place.

He was seated at the furthest end of the marquess’s long table, with Lady Sheppleton on his left and her simpleton of a nephew, Manfred, across from him. There was an empty seat to his right at the foot of the table, where the marchioness should have been sitting, but they were informed Lord Dorset’s mother was dining ‘en suite’ that evening. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so humiliating if she’d been there. 

“You’re not eating, brother,” Mary said from her seat next to Lady Sheppleton’s nephew, the future Lord Brumford, should he ever find a woman daft enough to marry him.

“I’ve lost my appetite.” Jasper felt mildly guilty about throwing Mary to that particular wolf, but she was timid enough not to complain. He’d even seen his sister and Manfred Brumford in quiet conversation from time to time. Mary was the sort to make anyone feel more comfortable.

“You’re not the only one,” Manfred piped up between stuffing huge bites into his gaping maw. “Looks like Mr. Hawke is off his feed too.”

Jasper glanced up the table toward the end that tilted toward the power in the room. Lord Dorset had placed Grace Makepeace on his left hand and her mother at his right. Mr. Makepeace was at his daughter’s side and Hawke was across from him next to Mrs. Makepeace.

“He’s sitting next to my Cousin Minerva,” Jasper said sourly. “What would you expect?”

“My lord, such a remark is hardly worthy of you. That’s the sort of observation a gentleman keeps to himself,” Lady Sheppleton said primly.

If she only knew the observations he was keeping to himself about her! 

He’d have been perfectly happy to switch seats with Crispin Hawke, even if it meant sitting next to Minerva, whose gushing enthusiasm was beginning to dance on his last nerve. But he’d brave Minerva if it would get him further from Lady Sheppleton and closer to Cousin Grace.

Besides, he was a baron and Lord Dorset’s neighbor. He was the scion of an old and venerable English family. Why should he be relegated to the nether regions while some nobody of an artist basks in the light of Grace Makepeace and her lovely dowry?

Perhaps the marquess realized Jasper was a rival for Grace’s affections and that’s why he’d been disrespected. But after the grandeur of
Clairmont
, how could he tempt Grace with his little
Burnside Manor
?

Lord Dorset leaned one elbow on the table and spoke confidingly to his comely cousin. She laughed and then darted her gaze toward the artist. Hawke was back staring at her. A spark seemed to leap across the table between them.

Of course! Why hadn’t he seen it before? He’d thought Crispin Hawke merely one of those insufferable ‘self-made’ men that seemed to be sprouting up everywhere.

In a world where Beau Brummel, the mere son of a tailor, could rise to such prominence as to have the Prince of Wale’s confidence and friendship, many such nobodies were under the misapprehension that breeding no longer mattered. They could claw their way into the upper echelons of society on their own steam. Hawke was one of those.

But he wasn’t just out to annoy his betters.

Hawke is panting after Grace, too.

Jasper tucked that little gem of information into his pocket and wondered how best to make use of it.

“Oh, Lord Washburn,” Lady Sheppleton said. “Do you recall that matter we decided needed further investigation?”   

Crispin Hawke’s background.
“Indeed, I do. Has your agent discovered anything of note?”

She dabbed her thin lips with her linen napkin and smiled. “Oh yes. Quite a bit of fascinating information. And I fear most of the intelligence is severely damaging to the subject of the investigation.”

Her smile betrayed no fear whatsoever.

“I look forward to hearing more,” Jasper said.

“What are you talking about?” his sister asked.

“Something that needn’t concern you,” Jasper snapped. “Lady Sheppleton and I share a common interest in . . . a matter of some delicacy.” He raised a brow at his partner in crime. “A matter which will require discretion till we decide how best to proceed based on the knowledge we possess. We want to be certain the innocent aren’t tarred with the guilty. Shall we meet later in the library to discuss our mutual interests?”

“Quite,” she said with a nod. Then her sharp gaze snapped to her nephew. “Slow down, Manfred. That duck isn’t going anywhere.”

But evidently, Crispin Hawke was.

The artist pushed back from the table, mumbling what sounded like apologies. He bowed to his host and the ladies at the favored end of the table. Then he nodded in the direction of the less favored and limped out of the dining room, leaving his plate nearly untouched.

Grace’s eyes followed him until he disappeared down the long hall.

“Suddenly, my appetite is returned,” Jasper said as he attacked his eel pie with gusto.

Lord Dorset and Crispin Hawke were both revolving like rival moons around his comely cousin Grace.

Now all he had to do was figure out how to best use that unholy trinity, judiciously mixed with Lady Sheppleton’s nasty little tidbits, to further his own ends. 

Chapter 30

Pygmalion made many mistakes in her creation, but Galatea was fashioned with love.

And for love.

Since there was no hostess at the dinner, the ladies did not withdraw for tea in the parlor. Neither did the gentlemen repair to the smoking room for cigars and brandy, a situation Grace suspected sucked a good deal of pleasure from the evening for her father. Her mother however was in high spirits and once they all moved to the splendid music room, it took very little coaxing to persuade her to sing
The Maid of the Mill
while Cousin Mary played the piano.

Grace had longed to pop up when Crispin excused himself at supper and tag after him, but unless she could plead a convincing headache—and she’d never developed any theatrical talent—she was stuck with the whole party for the duration of the evening. She couldn’t remember what the topic of conversation had been when he made his exodus, but the tension in his jaw told her he was upset.

Lord Dorset insisted Grace share a spot on the padded window seat with him. It left them in full view of the rest of the company, but able to have a quiet private conversation.

“Tell me, Miss Makepeace,” the marquess leaned over and whispered to her as her mother launched into the second verse. “Do you also fancy yourself a singer?”

“No, my lord,” she whispered back. “That gift did not fall on me.”

Cousin Jasper was moved to join in on the chorus and splatted out a singularly bad high note.

“It appears the gift missed others as well, but you at least have the good sense not to advertise it,” Lord Dorset said. “Do you play?”

“Nothing more complicated than a tambourine,” she admitted. Perhaps her lack of accomplishments would make the marquess look elsewhere.

“Good. Nothing is more tiring than amateur performances,” he said. “What do you do?”

“I read. And I write.”

“I also enjoy quiet evenings with a book. Do you have a favorite?”

While the rest of the party entertained itself with an impromptu concert and sing-a-long, Grace and the marquess quietly got to know each other better. He seemed a thoroughly decent, perfectly honorable English gentleman. He was the sort of fellow Grace could see herself spending time with in companionable silence, like a pair of old socks comfortably rolled together and stashed in the same drawer.

But when his arm brushed against hers, there were no sparks, no flutters of awareness. No little faerie of pleasure danced up her arm.

“I met the marchioness earlier,” she whispered after wondering whether or not to tell his lordship she’d found his mother in the darkened portrait gallery. She wasn’t prepared to discuss the strange likeness of Lord Dorset’s father with anyone yet. “Your mother was kind enough to show me to your library.”

“Kind, you say? Then you must not have met
my
mother.”

Grace blinked in surprise. It was the sort of acerbic comment she expected from Crispin, not a well-bred lord.

Cousin Jasper launched into a recitation of
The Lay of the Last Minstrel
. The direction of the entertainment could only lead down from this point. Grace decided even if it wasn’t convincing, it was time to feign a headache. She asked Lord Dorset to excuse her.

“Not at all, Miss Makepeace,” he said, standing and extending a hand to assist her. “Allow me to see you safe to your chamber. This house is the sort that goes off in odd directions if one is unfamiliar with it.”

“Thank you, my lord,” she whispered, “but oughtn’t we wait till Lord Washburn is finished with his recitation so we can bid the others good evening?”

He shook his head and led her from the music room. “One of the privileges of rank is that one may come and goes as one pleases and there is none to gainsay it. I daresay Mr. Hawke had the right idea when he made good his escape during the meal.”

“Are you a recluse then?” she asked as they walked from one grand room to the next gilded space.

“No, just one who cannot abide the artifice of society. You may have noticed I am not at home in the whirl of London. And once the rest of the house party arrives tomorrow, the increased number will only have moved the mindless activity of the
ton
to my doorstep.”

In the exotic trophy room, the marquess put a hand to the small of her back to guide her around the elephant foot ottoman. 

Again no reaction, pleasurable or otherwise, greeted his touch.

Perhaps because he seemed to be saying he regretted their presence in his home.

“If you did not wish us to come here, you should not have invited us, my lord.”

He laughed.

“I didn’t say anything funny.” She hadn’t meant to in any case.

“No, I laugh because you make it possible to breathe, Miss Makepeace.” He smiled at her and she recognized his mother’s smile on his face, sardonic and cynical. “Do you have any idea how many people would dare speak so bluntly to me?”

“Not many, I suppose.”

“None who didn’t outrank me and there are precious few of those,” he said as they mounted the grand stairs side by side.

Grace noticed that he was very nearly her match for height. Her mother had been right to insist upon heel-less slippers for her this evening.

“Let us speak frankly then, Miss Makepeace. You are here because I am considering whether we are well-suited. I must confess, my estimation of your worth continues to grow.”

“May I take that as a compliment to me and not, as the gentlemen at White’s believe, a speculation on the size of my dowry?”