The Lost Duke of Wyndham (18 page)

“Thank you,” he said. And then, seemingly out of nowhere: “We depart for Liverpool in two days.”

Grace nodded. She knew this already. And surely he should have known that she was aware of the plans. “I imagine you have much to do before we leave,” she said.

“Almost nothing,” he said, but there was something awful in his voice, almost as if he were daring her to ask his meaning. And there had to be a meaning, because Thomas always had much to do, whether he had a planned departure or not.

“Oh. That must be a pleasant change,” she said, because she could not simply ignore his statement.

He leaned forward slightly, and Grace smelled spir
its on his breath.
Oh, Thomas
. She ached for him, for what he must be feeling. And she wanted to tell him:
I don't want it, either. I want you to be the duke and Jack to be plain Mr. Audley, and I want all of this just to be over
.

Even if the truth turned out to be not what she prayed for, she wanted to know.

But she couldn't say this aloud. Not to Thomas. Already he was looking at her in that piercing way of his, as if he knew all her secrets—that she was falling in love with his rival, that she had already kissed him—several times—and she had wanted so much more.

She
would
have done more, if Jack had not stopped her.

“I am practicing, you see,” Thomas said.

“Practicing?”

“To be a gentleman of leisure. Perhaps I should emulate your Mr. Audley.”

“He is not my Mr. Audley,” she immediately replied, even though she knew he had only said as much to provoke her.

“He shall not worry,” Thomas continued, as if she'd not spoken. “I have left all of the affairs in perfect order. Every contract has been reviewed and every last number in every last column has been tallied. If he runs the estate into the ground, it shall be on his own head.”

“Thomas, stop,” she said, because she could not bear it. For either of them. “Don't talk this way. We don't know that he is the duke.”

“Don't we?” His lip curled as he looked down at her. “Come now, Grace, we both know what we will find in Ireland.”

“We don't,” she insisted, and her voice sounded hollow. She
felt
hollow, as if she had to hold herself perfectly still just to keep from cracking.

He stared at her. For far longer than was comfortable. And then: “Do you love him?”

Grace felt the blood drain from her face.

“Do you love him?” he repeated, stridently this time. “Audley.”

“I
know
who you're talking about,” she said before she could think the better of it.

“I imagine you do.”

She stood still, forcing herself to unclench her fists. She'd probably ruined the writing paper; she'd heard it crumple in her hand. He'd gone from apologetic to hateful in the space of a second, and she
knew
he was hurting inside, but so was she, damn it.

“How long have you been here?” he asked.

She drew back, her head turning slightly to the side. He was looking at her so strangely. “At Belgrave?” she said hesitantly. “Five years.”

“And in all that time I haven't…” He shook his head. “I wonder why.”

Without even thinking, she tried to step back, but the desk blocked her way. What was wrong with him? “Thomas,” she said, wary now, “what are you talking about?”

He seemed to find that funny. “Damned if I know.”

And then, while she was trying to think of a suit
able reply, he let out a bitter laugh and said, “What's to become of us, Grace? We're doomed, you know. Both of us.”

She knew it was true, but it was terrible to hear it confirmed.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” she said.

“Oh, come now, Grace, you're far too intelligent for that.”

“I should go.”

But he was blocking her way.

“Thomas, I—”

And then—dear heavens—he was kissing her. His mouth was on hers, and her stomach flipped in horror, not because his kiss was repulsive, because it wasn't. It was the shock of it. Five years she'd been here, and he'd never even hinted at—

“Stop!” She wrenched herself away. “Why are you doing this?”

“I don't know,” he said with a helpless shrug. “I'm here, you're here…”

“I'm leaving.” But one of his hands was still on her arm. She needed him to release her. She could have pulled away; he was not holding her tightly. But she needed it to be his decision.

He
needed it to be his decision.

“Ah, Grace,” he said, looking almost defeated. “I am not Wyndham any longer. We both know it.” He paused, shrugged, held out his hand in surrender.

“Thomas?” she whispered.

And then he said, “Why don't you marry me when this is all over?”

“What?” Something akin to horror washed over
her. “Oh, Thomas, you're mad.” But she knew what he really meant. A duke could not marry Grace Eversleigh. But if he wasn't…If he was just plain Mr. Cavendish…Why not?

Acid rose in her throat. He didn't mean to insult. She didn't even feel insulted. She knew the world she inhabited. She knew the rules, and she knew her place.

Jack could never be hers. Not if he was the duke.

“What do you say, Gracie?” Thomas touched her chin, tipped her face up to look at him.

And she thought—
maybe
.

Would it be so very bad? She could not stay at Belgrave, that was for certain. And maybe she would learn to love him. She already did, really, as a friend.

He leaned down to kiss her again, and this time she let him, praying that her heart would pound and her pulse would race and that spot between her legs…Oh, please let it feel as it did when Jack touched her.

But there was nothing. Just a rather warm sense of friendship. Which she supposed wasn't the worst thing in the world.

“I can't,” she whispered, turning her face to the side. She wanted to cry.

And then she did cry, because Thomas rested his chin on her head, comforting her like a brother.

Her heart twisted, and she heard him whisper, “I know.”

J
ack did not sleep well that night, which left him irritable and out of sorts, so he dispensed with breakfast, where he was sure to run into persons with whom he might be expected to converse, and instead went directly outside for his now customary morning ride.

It was one of the finest things about horses—they never expected conversation.

He had no idea what he was meant to say to Grace once he saw her again.
Lovely kissing you. Wish we'd done more.

It was the truth, even if he'd been the one to cut them off. He'd been aching for her all night.

He might have to marry this one.

Jack stopped cold. Where had
that
come from?

From your conscience
, a niggling little voice—probably his conscience—told him.

Damn. He really needed to get a better night's sleep. His conscience was never this loud.

But could he? Marry her? It was certainly the only way he'd ever be able to bed her. Grace was not the sort of woman one dallied with. It wasn't a question of her birth, although that certainly was a factor. It was just…
her
. The way she was. Her uncommon dignity, her quiet and sly humor.

Marriage. What a curious notion.

It wasn't that he'd been avoiding it. It was just that he'd never considered it. He was rarely in one place for long enough to form a lasting attachment. And his income was, by nature of his profession, sporadic. He wouldn't have dreamed of asking a woman to make a life with a highwayman.

Except he wasn't a highwayman. Not any longer. The dowager had seen to that.

“Lovely Lucy,” Jack murmured, patting his gelding on the neck before dismounting at the stables. He supposed he ought to give the poor thing a man's name. They'd been together for so long, though. It'd be hard to make the change.

“My longest lasting attachment,” Jack murmured to himself as he walked back to the house. “Now that's pathetic.” Lucy was a prince, as far as horses went, but still, he was a horse.

What did he have to offer Grace? He looked up at Belgrave, looming over him like a stone monster, and almost laughed. A dukedom, possibly. Good Lord, but he didn't want the thing. It was too much.

And what if he wasn't the duke? He knew that he
was, of course. His parents had been married; he was quite certain of that. But what if there was no proof? What if there had been a church fire? Or a flood? Or mice? Didn't mice nibble at paper? What if a mouse—no, what if an entire legion of mice had chewed through the vicarage register?

It could happen.

But what did he have to offer her if he was not the duke?

Nothing. Nothing at all. A horse named Lucy, and a grandmother who, he was growing increasingly convinced, was the spawn of Satan. He had no skills to speak of—it was difficult to imagine parlaying his talents at highway thievery into any sort of honest employment. And he would not go back into the army. Even if it was respectable, it would take him away from his wife, and wasn't that the entire point?

He supposed that Wyndham would pension him off with some cozy little rural property, as far away from Belgrave as possible. He would take it, of course; he'd never been one for misplaced pride. But what did he know about cozy little rural properties? He'd grown up in one but never bothered to pay attention to how it was run. He knew how to muck out a stall and flirt with the maids, but he was quite certain there was more to it than that, if one wanted to make a decent go of it.

And then there was Belgrave, still looming over him, still blotting out the sun. Good Lord, if he did not think he could properly manage a small rural property, what the devil would he do with
this
? Not to mention the dozen or so other holdings in the Wynd
ham portfolio. The dowager had listed them one night at supper. He couldn't begin to imagine the paperwork he'd be required to review. Mounds of contracts, and ledgers, and proposals, and letters—his brain hurt just thinking of it.

And yet, if he did not take the dukedom, if he somehow found a way to stop it all before it engulfed him—what would he have to offer Grace?

His stomach was protesting his skipped breakfast, so he made haste up the steps to the castle's entrance and went inside. The hall was quite busy, with servants moving through, carrying out their myriad tasks, and his entrance went mostly unnoticed, which he did not mind. He pulled off his gloves and was rubbing his hands together to warm them back up when he glimpsed Grace at the other end of the hall.

He did not think she'd seen him, and he started to go to her, but as he passed one of the drawing rooms, he heard an odd collection of voices and could not contain his curiosity. Pausing, he peeked in.

“Lady Amelia,” he said with surprise. She was standing rather stiffly, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. He could not blame her. He was sure he'd feel tense and pinched if he were engaged to marry Wyndham.

He entered the room to greet her. “I did not realize you had graced us with your lovely presence.”

It was then that he noticed Wyndham. He couldn't not, really. The duke was emitting a rather macabre sound. Almost like laughter.

Standing next to him was an older gentleman of middling height and paunch. He looked every inch the
aristocrat, but his complexion was tanned and wind-worn, hinting at time spent out of doors.

Lady Amelia coughed and swallowed, looking rather queasy. “Er, Father,” she said to the older man, “may I present Mr. Audley? He is a houseguest at Belgrave. I made his acquaintance the other day when I was here visiting Grace.”

“Where
is
Grace?” Wyndham said.

Something about his tone struck Jack as off, but nonetheless he said, “Just down the hall, actually. I was walking—”

“I'm sure you were,” Wyndham snapped, not even looking at him. Then, to Lord Crowland: “Right. You wished to know my intentions.”

Intentions? Jack stepped farther into the room. This could be nothing but interesting.

“This might not be the best time,” Lady Amelia said.

“No,” said Wyndham, his manner uncharacteristically grand. “This might be our only time.”

While Jack was deciding what to make of
that
, Grace arrived. “You wished to see me, your grace?”

For a moment Wyndham was nonplussed. “Was I
that
loud?”

Graced motioned back toward the hall. “The footman heard you…”

Ah yes, footmen abounded at Belgrave. It did make one wonder why the dowager thought she might actually be able to keep the journey to Ireland a secret.

But if Wyndham minded, he did not show it. “Do come in, Miss Eversleigh,” he said, sweeping his arm in welcome. “You might as well have a seat at this farce.”

Jack began to feel uneasy. He did not know his newfound cousin well, nor did he wish to, but this was not his customary behavior. Wyndham was too dramatic, too grand. He was a man pushed to the edge and teetering badly. Jack recognized the signs. He had been there himself.

Should he intercede? He could make some sort of inane comment to pierce the tension. It might help, and it would certainly affirm what Wyndham already thought of him—rootless joker, not to be taken seriously.

Jack decided to hold his tongue.

He watched as Grace entered the room, taking a spot near the window. He was able to catch her eye, but only briefly. She looked just as puzzled as he, and a good deal more concerned.

“I demand to know what is going on,” Lord Crowland said.

“Of course,” Wyndham said. “How rude of me. Where
are
my manners?”

Jack looked over at Grace. She had her hand over her mouth.

“We've had quite an exciting week at Belgrave,” Wyndham continued. “Quite beyond my wildest imaginings.”

“Your meaning?” Lord Crowland said curtly.

“Ah, yes. You probably should know—this man, right here”—Thomas flicked a wrist toward Jack—“is my cousin. He might even be the duke.” He looked at Lord Crowland and shrugged. “We're not sure.”

Silence. And then:

“Oh dear God.”

Jack looked sharply over to Lady Amelia. She'd gone white. He could not imagine what she must be thinking.

“The trip to Ireland…” her father was saying.

“Is to determine his legitimacy,” Wyndham confirmed. And then, with a morbidly jolly expression, he continued, “It's going to be quite a party. Even my grandmother is going.”

Jack fought to keep the shock off his face, then looked over at Grace. She, too, was staring at the duke in horror.

Lord Crowland's countenance, on the other hand, was nothing but grim. “We will join you,” he said.

Lady Amelia lurched forward. “Father?”

Her father didn't even turn around. “Stay out of this, Amelia.”

“But—”

“I assure you,” Wyndham cut in, “we will make our determinations with all possible haste and report back to you immediately.”

“My daughter's future hangs in the balance,” Crowland returned hotly. “I will be there to examine the papers.”

Wyndham's expression grew lethal, and his voice dangerously low. “Do you think we try to deceive you?”

“I only look out for my daughter's rights.”

“Father, please.” Amelia had come up to Crowland and placed her hand on his sleeve. “Please, just a moment.”

“I said stay out of this!” her father yelled, and he
shook her from his arm with enough force to cause her to stumble.

Jack stepped forward to aid her, but Wyndham was there before he could blink. “Apologize to your daughter,” Wyndham said.

Crowland sputtered in confusion. “What the devil are you talking about?”

“Apologize to her!” Wyndham roared.

“Your grace,” Amelia said, trying to insinuate herself between the two men. “Please, do not judge my father too harshly. These are exceptional circumstances.”

“No one knows that more clearly than I.” But Wyndham wasn't looking at her as he said it, nor did he remove his eyes from her father's face when he added, “Apologize to Amelia or I will have you removed from the estate.”

And for the first time, Jack admired him. He had already realized that he respected him, but that was not the same thing. Wyndham was a bore, in his humble opinion, but everything he did, every last decision and action—they were for others. It was all for Wyndham—the heritage, not the person. It was impossible not to respect such a man.

But this was different. The duke wasn't standing up for his people, he was standing up for one person. It was a far more difficult thing to do.

And yet, looking at Wyndham now, he would say that it had come as naturally as breathing.

“I'm sorry,” Lord Crowland finally said, looking as if he was not quite certain what had just happened. “Amelia, you know I—”

“I know,” she said, cutting him off.

And then finally Jack found himself at center stage.

“Who is this man?” Lord Crowland asked, thrusting an arm in his direction.

Jack turned to Wyndham and quirked a brow, allowing him to answer.

“He is the son of my father's elder brother,” Wyndham told Lord Crowland.

“Charles?” Amelia asked.

“John.”

Lord Crowland nodded, still directing his questions to Wyndham. “Are you certain of this?”

Thomas only shrugged. “You may look at the portrait yourself.”

“But his name—”

“Was Cavendish at birth,” Jack cut in. If he was going to be the subject of the discussion, he would bloody well be given a place in it. “I went by Cavendish-Audley at school. You may check the records, should you wish.”

“Here?” Crowland asked.

“In Enniskillen. I only came to England after serving in the army.”

“I am satisfied that he is a blood relation,” Wyndham said quietly. “All that remains is to determine whether he is also one by law.”

Jack looked to him in surprise. It was the first time he had publicly acknowledged him aloud as a relative.

The earl did not comment. Not directly, at least. He just muttered, “This is a disaster,” and walked over to the window.

And said nothing.

Nor did anyone else.

And then, in a voice low and furious, came the earl's comment. “I signed the contract in good faith,” he said, still staring out over the lawn. “Twenty years ago, I signed the contract.”

Still no one spoke.

Abruptly, he turned around. “Do you understand?” he demanded, glaring at Wyndham. “Your father came to me with his plans, and I agreed to them, believing you to be the rightful heir to the dukedom. She was to be a duchess. A duchess! Do you think I would have signed away my daughter had I known you were nothing but…but…”

But one such as me
, Jack wanted to say. But for once it did not seem the time or the place for a light, sly quip.

And then Wyndham—
Thomas
, Jack suddenly decided he wished to call him—stared the earl down and said, “You may call me Mr. Cavendish, if you so desire. If you think it might help you to accustom yourself to the idea.”

It was exactly what Jack would have wanted to say. If he'd been in Thomas's shoes. If he'd thought of it.

But the earl was not cowed by the sarcastic rebuke. He glared at Thomas, practically shaking as he hissed, “I will not allow my daughter to be cheated. If you do not prove to be the right and lawful Duke of Wyndham, you may consider the betrothal null and void.”

“As you wish,” Thomas said curtly. He made no argument, no indication that he might wish to fight for his betrothed.

Jack looked over at Lady Amelia, then looked away.
There were some things, some emotions, a gentleman could not watch.

But when he turned back, he found himself face-to-face with the earl. Her father. And the man's finger was pointed at his chest.