The Lost Duke of Wyndham (2 page)

“Take her!” the dowager suddenly cried out, grabbing Grace's arm and thrusting her at the highwayman. “You may hold her hostage, with a gun to the head if you desire. I promise you, I shall return, and I shall do it unarmed.”

Grace swayed and stumbled, the shock of the moment rendering her almost insensible. She fell against the highwayman, and one of his arms came instantly around her. The embrace was strange, almost protective, and she knew that he was as stunned as she.

They both watched as the dowager, without waiting for his acquiescence, climbed quickly into the carriage.

Grace fought to breathe. Her back was pressed up against him, and his large hand rested against her abdomen, the tips of his fingers curling gently around her right hip. He was warm, and she felt hot, and dear heaven above, she had never—
never
—stood so close to a man.

She could smell him, feel his breath, warm and soft against her neck. And then he did the most amazing thing. His lips came to her ear, and he whispered, “She should not have done that.”

He sounded…
gentle
. Almost sympathetic. And stern, as if he did not approve of the dowager's treatment of her.

“I am not used to holding a woman such,” he murmured in her ear. “I generally prefer a different sort of intimacy, don't you?”

She said nothing, afraid to speak, afraid that she would try to speak and discover she had no voice.

“I won't harm you,” he murmured, his lips touching her ear.

Her eyes fell on his gun, still in his right hand. It looked angry and dangerous, and it was resting against her thigh.

“We all have our armor,” he whispered, and he
moved, shifted, really, and suddenly his free hand was at her chin. One finger lightly traced her lips, and then he leaned down and kissed her.

Grace stared in shock as he pulled back, smiling gently down at her.

“That was far too short,” he said. “Pity.” He stepped back, took her hand, and brushed another kiss on her knuckles. “Another time, perhaps,” he murmured.

But he did not let go of her hand. Even as the dowager emerged from the carriage, he kept her fingers in his, his thumb rubbing lightly across her skin.

She was being seduced. She could barely think—she could barely
breathe
—but this, she knew. In a few minutes they would part ways, and he would have done nothing more than kiss her, and she would be forever changed.

The dowager stepped in front of them, and if she cared that the highwayman was caressing her companion, she did not speak of it. Instead, she held forth a small object. “Please,” she implored him. “Take this.”

He released Grace's hand, his fingers trailing reluctantly across her skin. As he reached out, Grace realized that the dowager was holding a miniature painting. It was of her long-dead second son.

Grace knew that miniature. The dowager carried it with her everywhere.

“Do you know this man?” the dowager whispered.

The highwayman looked at the tiny painting and shook his head.

“Look closer.”

But he just shook his head again, trying to return it to the dowager.

“Might be worth something,” one of his companions said.

He shook his head and gazed intently at the dowager's face. “It will never be as valuable to me as it is to you.”

“No!”
the dowager cried out, and she shoved the miniature toward him. “Look! I beg of you,
look
! His eyes. His chin. His mouth.
They are yours
.”

Grace sucked in her breath.

“I am sorry,” the highwayman said gently. “You are mistaken.”

But she would not be dissuaded. “His voice is your voice,” she insisted. “Your tone, your humor. I know it. I know it as I know how to breathe. He was my son.
My son
.”

“Ma'am,” Grace interceded, placing a motherly arm around her. The dowager would not normally have allowed such an intimacy, but there was nothing normal about the dowager this evening. “Ma'am, it is dark. He is wearing a mask. It cannot be he.”

“Of course it's not he,” she snapped, pushing Grace violently away. She rushed forward, and Grace nearly fell with terror as every man steadied his weapon.

“Don't hurt her!” she cried out, but her plea was unnecessary. The dowager had already grabbed the highwayman's free hand and was clutching it as if he was her only means of salvation.

“This is my son,” she said, her trembling fingers holding forth the miniature. “His name was John Cavendish, and he died twenty-nine years ago. He had brown hair, and blue eyes, and a birthmark on his shoulder.” She swallowed convulsively, and her voice
fell to a whisper. “He adored music, and he could not eat strawberries. And he could…he could…”

The dowager's voice broke, but no one spoke. The air was thick and tense with silence, every eye on the old woman until she finally got out, her voice barely a whisper, “He could make anyone laugh.”

And then, in an acknowledgment Grace could never have imagined, the dowager turned to her and added, “Even me.”

The moment stood suspended in time, pure, silent, and heavy. No one spoke. Grace wasn't even sure if anyone breathed.

She looked at the highwayman, at his mouth, at that expressive, devilish mouth, and she
knew
that something was not right. His lips were parted, and more than that, they were still. For the first time, his mouth was without movement, and even in the silvery light of the moon she could tell that he'd gone white.

“If this means anything to you,” the dowager continued with quiet determination, “you may find me at Belgrave Castle awaiting your call.”

And then, as stooped and shaking as Grace had ever seen her, she turned, still clutching the miniature, and climbed back into the carriage.

Grace held still, unsure of what to do. She no longer felt in danger—strange as that seemed, with three guns still trained on her and one—the highwayman's,
her
highwayman's—resting limply at his side. But they had turned over only one ring—surely not a productive haul for an experienced band of thieves, and she did not feel she could get back into the carriage without permission.

She cleared her throat. “Sir?” she said, unsure of how to address him.

“My name is not Cavendish,” he said softly, his voice reaching her ears alone. “But it once was.”

Grace gasped.

And then, with movements sharp and swift, he leaped atop his horse and barked, “We are done here.”

And Grace was left to stare at his back as he rode away.

S
everal hours later Grace was sitting in a chair in the corridor outside the dowager's bedchamber. She was beyond weary and wanted nothing more than to crawl into her own bed, where she was quite certain she would toss and turn and fail to find slumber, despite her exhaustion. But the dowager was so overset, and indeed had rung so many times that Grace had finally given up and dragged the chair to its present location. In the last hour she had brought the dowager (who would not leave her bed) a collection of letters, tucked at the bottom of a locked drawer; a glass of warm milk; a glass of brandy; another miniature of her long-dead son John; a handkerchief that clearly possessed some sort of sentimental value; and another glass of brandy, to replace the one the dowager had knocked over while anxiously directing Grace to fetch the handkerchief.

It had been about ten minutes since the last summons. Ten minutes to do nothing but sit and wait in the chair, thinking, thinking…

Of the highwayman.

Of his kiss.

Of Thomas, the current Duke of Wyndham. Whom she considered a friend.

Of the dowager's long-dead middle son, and the man who apparently bore his likeness.
And
his name.

His name. Grace took a long, uneasy breath. His
name
.

Good God.

She had not told the dowager this. She had stood motionless in the middle of the road, watching the highwayman ride off in the light of the partial moon. And then, finally, when she thought her legs might actually function, she set about getting them home. There was the footman to untie, and the coachman to tend to, and as for the dowager—she was so clearly upset that she did not even whisper a complaint when Grace put the injured coachman inside the carriage with her.

And then she joined the footman atop the driver's seat and drove them home. She wasn't a particularly experienced hand with the reins, but she could manage.

And she'd had to manage. There was no one else to do it. But that was something she was good at.

Managing. Making do.

She'd got them home, found someone to tend to the coachman, and then tended to the dowager, and all the while she'd thought—

Who
was
he?

The highwayman. He'd said his name had once been Cavendish. Could he be the dowager's grandson? She had been told that John Cavendish died without issue, but he wouldn't have been the first young nobleman to litter the countryside with illegitimate children.

Except he'd said his name was Cavendish. Or rather,
had
been Cavendish. Which meant—

Grace shook her head blearily. She was so tired she could barely think, and yet it seemed all she could
do
was think. What did it mean that the highwayman's name was Cavendish? Could an illegitimate son bear his father's name?

She had no idea. She'd never met a bastard before, at least not one of noble origins. But she'd known others who had changed their names. The vicar's son had gone to live with relatives when he was small, and the last time he'd been back to visit, he'd introduced himself with a different surname. So surely an illegitimate son could call himself whatever he wanted. And even if it was not legal to do so, a highwayman would not trouble himself with such technicalities, would he?

Grace touched her mouth, trying to pretend she did not love the shivers of excitement that rushed through her at the memory. He had kissed her. It had been her first kiss, and she did not know who he was.

She knew his scent, she knew the warmth of his skin, and the velvet softness of his lips, but she did not know his name.

Not all of it, at least.

“Grace! Grace!”

Grace stumbled to her feet. She'd left the door ajar
so she could better hear the dowager, and sure enough, her name was once again being called. The dowager must still be overset—she rarely used Grace's Christian name. It was harder to snap out in a demanding manner than
Miss Eversleigh
.

Grace rushed back into the room, trying not to sound weary and resentful as she asked, “May I be of assistance?”

The dowager was sitting up in bed—well, not quite sitting up. She was mostly lying down, with just her head propped up on the pillows. Grace thought she looked terribly uncomfortable, but the last time she had tried to adjust her position she'd nearly got her head bit off.

“Where have you been?”

Grace did not think the question required an answer, but she said, nonetheless, “Just outside your door, ma'am.”

“I need you to get me something,” the dowager said, and she didn't sound as imperious as she did agitated.

“What is it you would like, your grace?”

“I want the portrait of John.”

Grace stared at her, uncomprehending.

“Don't just stand there!” the dowager practically screamed.

“But ma'am,” Grace protested, jumping back, “I've brought you all three of the miniatures, and—”

“No, no, no,” the dowager cried, her head swinging back and forth on the pillows. “I want the portrait. From the gallery.”

“The portrait,” Grace echoed, because it was half three in the morning, and perhaps she was addled by
exhaustion, but she
thought
she'd just been asked to remove a life-sized portrait from a wall and carry it up two flights of stairs to the dowager's bedchamber.

“You know the one,” the dowager said. “He's standing next to the tree, and he has a sparkle in his eye.”

Grace blinked, trying to absorb this. “There is only the one, I think.”

“Yes,”
the dowager said, her voice almost unbalanced in its urgency. “There is a sparkle in his eye.”

“You want me to bring it here.”

“I have no other bedchamber,” the dowager snapped.

“Very well.” Grace swallowed. Good Lord, how was she going to accomplish this? “It will take a bit of time.”

“Just drag a chair over and yank the bloody thing down. You don't need—”

Grace rushed forward as the dowager's body convulsed in a spasm of coughing. “Ma'am! Ma'am!” she said, bringing her arm around her to set her upright. “Please, ma'am. You must try to be more settled. You are going to hurt yourself.”

The dowager coughed a few last times, took a long swallow of her warm milk, then cursed and took her brandy instead. That, she finished entirely. “I'm going to hurt
you
,” she gasped, thunking the glass back down on her bedside table, “if you don't get me that portrait.”

Grace swallowed and nodded. “As you wish, ma'am.” She hurried out, sagging against the corridor wall once she was out of the dowager's sight.

It had begun as such a lovely evening. And now
look at her. She'd had a gun pointed at her heart, been kissed by a man whose next appointment was surely with the gallows, and now the dowager wanted her to wrestle a life-sized portrait off the gallery wall.

At half three in the morning.

“She can't possibly be paying me enough,” Grace mumbled under her breath as she made her way down the stairs. “There couldn't possibly exist enough money—”

“Grace?”

She stopped short, stumbling off the bottom step. Large hands immediately found her upper arms to steady her. She looked up, even though she knew who it had to be. Thomas Cavendish was the grandson of the dowager. He was also the Duke of Wyndham and thus without question the most powerful man in the district. He was in London nearly as often as he was here, but Grace had got to know him quite well during the five years she'd acted as companion to the dowager.

They were friends. It was an odd and completely unexpected situation, given the difference in their rank, but they were friends.

“Your grace,” she said, even though he had long since instructed her to use his given name when they were at Belgrave. She gave him a tired nod as he stepped back and returned his hands to his sides. It was far too late for her to ponder matters of titles and address.

“What the devil are you doing awake?” he asked. “It's got to be after two.”

“After three, actually,” she corrected absently, and then—good heavens,
Thomas
.

She snapped fully awake. What should she tell him? Should she say anything at all? There would be no hiding the fact that she and the dowager had been accosted by highwaymen, but she wasn't quite certain if she should reveal that he
might
have a first cousin racing about the countryside, relieving the local gentry of their valuables.

Because, all things considered, he might not. And surely it did not make sense to concern him needlessly.

“Grace?”

She gave her head a shake. “I'm sorry, what did you say?”

“Why are you wandering the halls?”

“Your grandmother is not feeling well,” she said. And then, because she desperately wanted to change the subject: “You're home late.”

“I had business in Stamford,” he said brusquely.

His mistress. If it had been anything else, he would not have been so oblique. It was odd, though, that he was here now. He usually spent the night. Grace, despite her respectable birth, was a servant at Belgrave, and as such privy to almost all of the gossip. If the duke stayed out all night, she generally knew about it.

“We had an…exciting evening,” Grace said.

He looked at her expectantly.

She felt herself hesitate, and then—well, there was really nothing to do but say it. “We were accosted by highwaymen.”

His reaction was swift. “Good God,” he exclaimed. “Are you all right? Is my grandmother well?”

“We are both unharmed,” Grace assured him, “although our driver has a nasty bump on his head. I took the liberty of giving him three days to convalesce.”

“Of course.” He closed his eyes for a moment, looking pained. “I must offer my apologies,” he said. “I should have insisted that you take more than one outrider.”

“Don't be silly. It's not your fault. Who would have thought—” She cut herself off, because really, there was no sense in assigning blame. “We are unhurt,” she repeated. “That is all that matters.”

He sighed. “What did they take?”

Grace swallowed. She couldn't very well tell him they'd stolen nothing but a ring. Thomas was no idiot; he'd wonder why. She smiled tightly, deciding that vagueness was the order of the day. “Not very much,” she said. “Nothing at all from me. I imagine it was obvious I am not a woman of means.”

“Grandmother must be spitting mad.”

“She is a bit overset,” Grace hedged.

“She was wearing her emeralds, wasn't she?” He shook his head. “The old bat is ridiculously fond of those stones.”

Grace declined to scold him for his characterization of his grandmother. “She kept the emeralds, actually. She hid them under the seat cushion.”

He looked impressed. “She did?”

“
I
did,” Grace corrected, unwilling to share the glory. “She thrust them at me before they breached the vehicle.”

He smiled slightly, and then, after a moment of somewhat awkward silence, said, “You did not men
tion why you're up and about so late. Surely you deserve a rest as well.”

“I…er…” There seemed to be no way to avoid telling him. If nothing else, he'd notice the massive empty spot on the gallery wall the next day. “Your grandmother has a strange request.”

“All of her requests are strange,” he replied immediately.

“No, this one…well…” Grace's eyes flicked up in exasperation. How was it her life had come to this? “I don't suppose you'd like to help me remove a painting from the gallery.”

“A painting.”

She nodded.

“From the gallery.”

She nodded again.

“I don't suppose she's asking for one of those modestly sized square ones.”

“With the bowls of fruit?”

He nodded.

“No.” When he did not comment, she added, “She wants the portrait of your uncle.”

“Which one?”

“John.”

He nodded, smiling slightly, but without any humor. “He was always her favorite.”

“But you never knew him,” Grace said, because the way he'd said it—it almost sounded as if he'd witnessed her favoritism.

“No, of course not. He died before I was born. But my father spoke of him.”

It was clear from his expression that he did not wish to discuss the matter further. Grace could not think of anything more to say, however, so she just stood there, waiting for him to collect his thoughts.

Which apparently he did, because he turned to her and asked, “Isn't that portrait life-sized?”

Grace pictured herself wrestling it from the wall. “I'm afraid so.”

For a moment it looked as if he might turn toward the gallery, but then his jaw squared and he was once again every inch the forbidding duke. “No,” he said firmly. “You will not get that for her this evening. If she wants the bloody painting in her room, she can ask a footman for it in the morning.”

Grace wanted to smile at his protectiveness, but by this point she was far too weary. And besides that, when it came to the dowager, she had long since learned to follow the road of least resistance. “I assure you, I want nothing more than to retire this very minute, but it is easier just to accommodate her.”

“Absolutely not,” he said imperiously, and without waiting, he turned and marched up the stairs. Grace watched him for a moment, and then, with a shrug, headed off to the gallery. It couldn't be that difficult to take a painting off a wall, could it?

But she made it only ten paces before she heard Thomas bark her name.

She sighed, stopping in her tracks. She should have known better. The man was as stubborn as his grandmother, not that he would appreciate the comparison.