The dowager was powerfully demanding, whether vertical, horizontal, or, should she ever figure out how to hold the position, at a slant.
And so even though she tossed and turned, and refused to lift her head from the pillow, she still managed to summon Grace six times.
The first hour.
Finally, she had become engrossed in a batch of letters Grace had dug up for her at the bottom of her late husband’s old desk, tucked in a box labeled:
JOHN, ETON.
Saved by school papers. Who would have thought?
Grace’s moment of rest was interrupted not twenty minutes later, however, by the arrival of the Ladies Elizabeth and Amelia Willoughby, the pretty, blond daughters of the Earl of Crowland, longtime neighbors and, Grace was always delighted to note, friends.
Elizabeth especially. They were of an age, and before Grace’s position in the world had plummeted with the death of her parents, had been considered proper companions. Oh, everyone knew that Grace would not make a match like the Willoughby girls-she would never have a London season, after all. But when they were all in Lincolnshire, they were, if not equals, then at least on something of the same level. People weren’t so fussy at the Dance and Assembly.
And when the girls were alone, rank was never something they noticed.
Amelia was Elizabeth’s younger sister. Just by a year, but when they were all younger, it had seemed a massive gulf, so Grace did not know her nearly so well. That would change soon, though, she supposed. Amelia was betrothed to Thomas, and had been from the cradle. It would have been Elizabeth, except she was promised to another young lord (also in infancy; Lord Crowland was not one to leave matters to chance). Elizabeth’s fellow, however, had died quite young. Lady Crowland (who was not one for tact) had declared it all very inconvenient, but the papers binding Amelia to Thomas had already been signed, and it was deemed best to leave matters as they were.
Grace had never discussed the engagement with Thomas-they were friends, but he would never talk about something so personal with her. Still, she had long suspected that he found the entire situation rather convenient. A fiancée did keep marriage-minded misses (and their mamas) at bay. Somewhat. It was quite obvious that the ladies of England believed in hedging their bets, and poor Thomas could not go anywhere without the women attempting to put themselves in the best possible light, just in case Amelia should, oh, disappear.
Die.
Decide she didn’t wish to be a duchess.
Really, Grace thought wryly, as if Amelia had any choice in the matter.
But even though a wife would be a far more effective deterrent than a fiancée, Thomas continued to drag his feet, which Grace thought dreadfully insensitive of him. Amelia was one-and-twenty, for heaven’s sake. And according to Lady Crowland, at least four men would have offered for her in London if she had not been marked as the future Duchess of Wyndham.
(Elizabeth, sister that she was, said it was closer to three, but still, the poor girl had been dangling like a string for years.)
“Books!” Elizabeth announced as they entered the hall. “As promised.”
At her behest, Elizabeth’s mother had borrowed several books from the dowager. Not that Lady Crowland actually read the books. Lady Crowland read very little outside the gossip pages, but returning them was a fine pretext to visit Belgrave, and she was always in favor of anything that placed Amelia in the vicinity of Thomas.
No one had the heart to tell her that Amelia rarely even saw Thomas when she was at Belgrave. Most of the time, she was forced to endure the dowager’s company-company, however, being perhaps too generous a word to describe Augusta Cavendish whilst standing before the young lady who was meant to carry on the Wyndham line.
The dowager was very good at finding fault. One might even call it her greatest talent.
And Amelia was her favorite subject.
But today she had been spared. The dowager was still upstairs, reading her dead son’s Latin conjugations, and so Amelia had ended up sipping tea while Grace and Elizabeth chatted.
Or rather, Elizabeth chatted. It was all Grace could do to nod and murmur in the appropriate moments. One would think her tired mind would go utterly blank, but the opposite was true. She could not stop thinking about the highwayman. And his kiss. And his identity. And his kiss. And if she would meet him again. And that he’d kissed her. And-
And she had to stop thinking about him. It was madness. She looked over at the tea tray, wondering if it would be rude to eat the last biscuit.
“-certain you are well, Grace?” Elizabeth said, reaching forward to clasp her hand. “You look very tired.”
Grace blinked, trying to focus on her dear friend’s face. “I’m sorry,” she said reflexively. “I am quite tired, although that is not an excuse for my inattention.”
Elizabeth grimaced. She knew the dowager. They all did. “Did she keep you up late last night?”
Grace nodded. “Yes, although, truthfully, it was not her fault.”
Elizabeth glanced to the doorway to make sure no one was listening before she replied, “It is always her fault.”
Grace smiled wryly. “No, this time it really wasn’t. We were…” Well, really, was there any reason not to tell Elizabeth? Thomas already knew, and surely it would be all over the district by nightfall. “We were accosted by highwaymen, actually.”
“Oh, my heavens! Grace!” Elizabeth hastily set down her teacup. “No wonder you appear so distracted!”
“Hmmm?” Amelia had been staring off into space, as she frequently did while Grace and Elizabeth were nattering on, but this had clearly got her attention.
“I am quite recovered,” Grace assured her. “Just a bit tired, I’m afraid. I did not sleep well.”
“What happened?” Amelia asked.
Elizabeth actually shoved her. “Grace and the dowager were accosted by highwaymen!”
“Really?”
Grace nodded. “Last night. On the way home from the assembly.” And then she thought-Good Lord, if the highwayman is really the dowager’s grandson, and he is legitimate, what happens to Amelia?
But he wasn’t legitimate. He couldn’t be. He might very well be a Cavendish by blood, but surely not by birth. Sons of dukes did not leave legitimate offspring littering the countryside. It simply did not happen.
“Did they take anything?” Amelia asked.
“How can you be so dispassionate?” Elizabeth demanded. “They pointed a gun at her!” She turned to Grace. “Did they?”
Grace saw it again in her mind-the cold round end of the pistol, the slow, seductive gaze of the highwayman. He wouldn’t have shot her. She knew that now. But still, she murmured, “They did, actually.”
“Were you terrified?” Elizabeth asked breathlessly. “I would have been. I would have swooned.”
“I wouldn’t have swooned,” Amelia remarked.
“Well, of course you wouldn’t,” Elizabeth said irritably. “You didn’t even gasp when Grace told you about it.”
“It sounds rather exciting, actually.” Amelia looked at Grace with great interest. “Was it?”
And Grace-Good heavens, she felt herself blush.
Amelia leaned forward, her eyes lighting up. “Was he handsome, then?”
Elizabeth looked at her sister as if she were mad. “Who?”
“The highwayman, of course.”
Grace stammered something and pretended to drink her tea.
“He was,” Amelia said triumphantly.
“He was wearing a mask,” Grace felt compelled to point out.
“But you could still tell that he was handsome.”
“No!”
“Then his accent was terribly romantic. French? Italian?” Amelia’s eyes grew even wider. “Spanish.”
“You’ve gone mad,” Elizabeth said.
“He didn’t have an accent,” Grace retorted. Then she thought of that lilt, that devilish little lift in his voice that she couldn’t quite place. “Well, not much of one. Scottish, perhaps? Irish? I couldn’t tell, precisely.”