Untouched (31 page)

to give the impression that her friendship with the marquess hadn’t proceeded beyond the bounds of propriety.

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“Lord John’s greed is understandable if far from laudable. The Lansdownes were always confoundedly plump in the

pocket. We do this right or it’s not worth doing. At present, we know where the marquess is and we know what Lord John

is up to. If we signal our intentions, he could steal Sheene away, lock him in a public asylum under a false name. Then

we’ll never find him.”

“Lord Sheene has suffered so long.” Grace rose on trembling legs and stood before her godfather’s desk like a petitioner.

Why not? She was. She’d go on her knees if it would help. Love had crushed her Marlow pride to dust.

That clever vulpine face took on a thoughtful expression as he considered her. Perhaps her advocacy had been too

passionate. But any delay stung her like needles piercing flesh.

Oh, Matthew, stay alive for me,her anguished heart cried while the laden silence extended.

Kermonde gave her a faint smile. “I remember Sheene’s father. Fine fellow. Clever as a tree full of monkeys. Not

surprised his son inherited his brains. Very sad day when he and his marchioness died. Went to the funeral. Remember the

boy spoke bravely at the service. He must have been ten or eleven, I’d say. Nice-looking youngster. He’d be about twentyfive now.”

He paused to send Grace another speculative glance. Clearly, she hadn’t concealed her personal interest. How could she?

She was on fire with love and fear. Still, her reputation was at risk and she wanted no hint of scandal to prejudice

Matthew’s case. Nobody must ever know how joyfully Grace Marlow had whored herself to a madman.

“Uncle Francis, I’m doing this because I hate to see someone abused and imprisoned,” she said stiffly. “My husband died

only a few weeks ago.”

“But your husband was much older, wasn’t he, my dear?” Kermonde’s lips twitched. She’d told him little about Josiah,

but obviously enough for him to guess much she hadn’t said. “Dashed bad show this happened to young Sheene. I should

have taken an interest but I hadn’t heard anything against his uncle. Then news circulated that the boy was out of his head

and I haven’t given the poor chap a thought since. I was proud to call the late Lord Sheene a friend. If I save his son

further torment, it’s the least I can do.”

“So what are Your Grace’s plans?” Vere asked from behind her. She’d almost forgotten her cousin was present.

“I go to London where I’ll put qualified men on the case. Discreet men who can ferret out information without alerting

Lord John we’re onto him.”

“So when do we leave?” she asked eagerly.

Kermonde frowned. “Grace, I can’t take you with me.”

“But I’m the one…”

The elegant hand he held up was weighted with the ducal signet. “If everything you’ve told me is true, and I believe it is,

you’re in grave danger. Lord John has already threatened your life. You can’t swan around London under his nose. If

you’re seen in my company, he’ll know the game is up. I gather he has no idea of your connections.”

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She allowed herself a grim smile even while her heart protested that she and only she could save Matthew. “Lord John

believes I’m a prostitute who works the docks at Bristol.”

Her uncle looked shocked. She supposed he was unused to such free speech from a woman. Or at least from a woman he

considered a lady. He remembered her as a sheltered young girl. How could he know the ways life had changed her since?

He cleared his throat. “Yes, well, it’s imperative he has no idea where you are or who you’ve spoken to. I’ll keep you

informed. But I insist upon you remaining here.”

“At Fallon Court?”

Vere spoke quickly. “No need to inconvenience yourself, sir. My cousin was on her way to take up residence at the

vicarage when this unfortunate incident occurred.”

“I can protect her better here. My two aunts occupy the tower suites so there’s no impropriety about my bereaved

goddaughter staying. John Lansdowne will quail at snatching you from a ducal residence. Should he even think to look

here. He seeks Grace Paget, indigent widow, not Lady Grace Elizabeth Marlow, only daughter of the Earl of Wyndhurst.”

She hadn’t heard her real name in years. It seemed unfamiliar, as if it belonged to someone else. Lady Grace Marlow

seemed an altogether more refined creature than practical Grace Paget who kept her sheep run and nursed her husband

through the indignities of his final illness.

Vere bowed. “I’m sure my cousin appreciates your kindness.”

Kermonde had spoken his will and it would be done, much as God’s was. On the Kermonde estate, God and the duke

were interchangeable.

Her godfather ignored Vere and surveyed her with a frown of displeasure. “We’ll have to do something about your

clothes.”

She flushed with chagrin. “There’s no need to treat me as a charity case. Nobody will see me.”

“It won’t do, Grace. It just won’t do. That rag isn’t fit for a dish clout. Good God, my scullery maids dress better. You’ll

be the laughingstock of the servants’ hall.”

“I’m in mourning,” she protested, feeling like the greatest hypocrite who ever lived. Only two days ago, she’d rested

naked and satisfied in Matthew Lansdowne’s arms.

“Order a few black dresses if you must, but make sure you buy some pretty ones too. Sounds to me like you’ve paid

penance the last nine years. About time you regained your place in the world, girl.”

She couldn’t argue, not while he was being so kind. Not while with him on her side, she might save Matthew.

When she didn’t speak, Kermonde gave ahmph of approval. “Fetch your belongings from the vicarage. We’ll dine at

seven. Marlow, bring that wife of yours.”

“Thank you, Your Grace,” Vere said with another bow. “Mrs. Marlow will be honored.”

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The duke turned to Grace. “Tomorrow I’m for London. Keep your head down, young lady. Newly widowed. Makes sense

you want time to yourself. I’ll tell the aunts to leave you be. Those two can talk the leg off a chair if you encourage them.”

Grace vaguely remembered the aunts from her last visit. They’d squabbled through the afternoon, paying no attention to

anything except the sweets table and what the other did wrong.

Grace dipped into a curtsy. “Thank you, Uncle Francis. I can never repay you, but you have my undying gratitude.”

Her worldly godfather looked uncomfortable. “Oh, tosh, girl. Always wondered what happened to you. If your father

wasn’t so stiff-rumped, he’d have handled you better and you’d have made a marriage befitting your station. I’d be

dandling your babies on my knee now instead of rescuing your young man from this confounded mess he’s tangled up in.”

“He’s not…” She fell silent as the duke cocked a disbelieving eyebrow. Clearly, nothing—nothing—in her story had

escaped Uncle Francis. She suddenly remembered he was known as the terror of the House of Lords.

“As you wish, Your Grace,” she said sheepishly and allowed Vere to lead her out of the library.

After a fortnight, Grace was frantic with worry about Matthew. When he’d presented his plan as afait accompli , she

hadn’t realized how lack of news would wear her nerves.

Had he recovered from his self-induced illness? Was he even alive? Had his uncle punished him for what he must

immediately recognize as a well-organized plot? Lord John had beaten and tortured his captive before. The scars on

Matthew’s beautiful body bore mute testimony to that.

Was Lord John searching for her? Matthew’s uncle wouldn’t give up easily. Especially to ensure his safety and

reputation. While Grace was at liberty, both were at risk.

Did Matthew yearn for her the way she yearned for him? Or was he in too much pain? Had the herbs triggered his

madness?

That was her worst fear. He’d clawed his way back to sanity through will alone. She couldn’t bear to think he might lose

his mind again. Perhaps forever.

In the silken luxury of her bedchamber, she cried herself to sleep every night. She was so lonely for Matthew, she felt

she’d die.

What if she never saw him again? What if all she did now came to nothing?

By day, it was easier to cling to optimism. Wolfram offered undemanding company and a link to her lover. But at night,

as she lay watching the moon cross the sky, then dawn rise from the east, it was harder to hope. Lord John was clever and

ruthless. The outcome of her battle was far from assured.

It was almost worse when sheer exhaustion plunged her into a restless doze. Dreams of Matthew tormented her. Dreams

of him abused and starved. Dreams where he looked at her with the same cold gaze he’d leveled on her when she first

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arrived on the estate. Dreams where he reviled her for deserting him.

Even worse were the dreams where he made love to her. His touch was so real. His powerful body thundered into hers or

took her tenderly and slowly. The rapture rose and rose inside her.

Then…nothing.

She’d wake with tears on her face and empty arms.

Oh, Matthew, Matthew, come back to me soon.

Silence was the only answer.

A week after her escape, proof arrived that there would be no child. Although she thought she’d long ago reconciled

herself to barrenness, she’d cried all day in her room. Her courses had been late and a tiny seedling of hope had begun to

unfurl, which only made her disappointment crueler.

She tried telling herself that a baby would add an impossible complication to an already fraught situation. But her

sorrowful heart didn’t feel like that. Her heart felt as though every day another thread of connection frayed between her

and the man she loved.

Kermonde was in London. She knew he worked on Matthew’s behalf but waiting tortured her worse than knives flaying

the skin from her body. He sent regular letters, even if they usually came in his secretary’s hand. Her godfather’s latest

note had just arrived and it contained news exciting enough to justify him setting pen to paper himself.

For what felt like the first time since she’d arrived at Fallon Court, she smiled as she dropped the closely written page to

her lap. She looked up and noticed it was a perfect day. For the last fortnight, she’d existed in a gray cloud and the outside

world hadn’t impinged.

Now she realized the bench where she sat was in a pleasant glade near a fast-flowing river. While she’d been locked in

wintry worry and despair, summer had arrived. Sunlight broke through thick green leaves and sparkled on running water.

Birds twittered and flew among branches that arched above her head.

There was beauty in the world.

One of Matthew’s doctors was in public disgrace. Dr. Granger was, by all reports, an out-and-out quack. The duke’s men

now scoured the country for him in the hope they could get him to admit he’d accepted a bribe to certify Matthew insane.

Hope.

She clung to the word the way she’d hold a candle up against a black night.

She looked down to where the letter with its marvelous news rested on the skirt of her pretty dimity dress. The village

dressmaker had supplied her with a wardrobe more elaborate than anything she’d worn since leaving Marlow Hall. Unless

one counted her whore’s dresses on the estate.

She remembered the flame that had kindled in Matthew’s golden eyes when she flaunted herself in those outrageous

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outfits. It had been a game, in a place where playfulness was an act of courage, a defiant gesture against darkness.

She prayed the darkness hadn’t engulfed him. Closing her eyes, she whispered a plea for his safety.

A twig cracked on the path and she opened her eyes to see one of the maids. “Begging your pardon, my lady.” The girl

curtsied and cast a nervous eye behind her.

“Yes, what is it, Iris?” Grace folded the precious letter. Most of the servants left her alone unless she summoned them.

She suspected her godfather had given orders to that effect.

“You’ve a visitor, ma’am.”

“A visitor?” That was unusual enough to bring her to her feet. Perhaps it was Vere although he tended to wait for her to

call. “Is it my cousin?”

She hoped there was no trouble. Vere had four children already and Sarah increased again. Pregnancy made her even

more ill-tempered than usual. This was one reason Grace hadn’t exactly been a regular visitor to her cousin’s neat stone

vicarage next to the glorious medieval church, St. Margaret’s.

“No, it’s your father,” came a voice she hadn’t heard in nine years. A tall gentleman dressed in black moved slowly into

view behind the maid.

Grace raised a shaking hand to her breast. Her heart pounded as if it fought free of her chest. What did the earl’s arrival

mean? Had he come to demand she leave her godfather’s house? Had he come to denounce her?

She wasn’t ready for this. She’d never be ready for this.

“The Earl of Wyndhurst to see you, my lady,” the maid said, curtsying again and backing away.