A Lord Rotheby's Holiday Bundle (46 page)

Alex lifted his hands. “Easy, easy.
You know me better than that. This is not permanent. Far from it.”
He tugged at his cravat so he could breathe again. Blast the fussy
things. “I am traveling to Somerton for awhile. Lord Rotheby sent
for me. He wants me to visit him, and I want to get away from
London for a time. Perfect situation, if you ask me.”

“
Get away from London?”
Derek asked, perplexed. “Why? Good God, there is nothing of
interest to do in the country. And Rotheby’s a fussy old
goat.”

“
There is nothing of
interest to do in town, either! Truth be told, it is more Mama that
I want to get away from than London.”

Priscilla raised an eyebrow in an
unasked question.

“
Ah…well, she’s matchmaking
again, you see. Peter believes she will start with me, even when he
is the far worthier candidate.”

“
Ha!” Derek’s burst of
laughter filled the small room.

“
You needn’t be so jolly
about it.”

“
But what could be better?
You, Lord Alex Hardwicke, are running in fear from your mother. Why
is that, I wonder? The only reasonable answer I can see is you fear
she’ll be successful in her bid.”

Good Lord, why had he
shared what he did about Mama? He would never hear the end of it
from Derek. The dolt would probably go tell Sir Jonas and the rest
of the crowd at White’s that evening, passing it all on like the
latest
on dit
.

“
I am most certainly
not
afraid of my mother,
or that she could be successful. She can’t very well make an offer
for me, can she?” She had better not get such an idea in her head.
He shuddered and a pregnant pause filled the air, loud and
unwieldy.

“
How long will you be
gone?” Trust Priscilla to get things back to the point at hand. She
pulled her stitch tight and knotted it before she looked at Alex
again, ever at work at something. Dear God, he wished he could
change things for her, make things easier for
her—something.

“
I don’t know. For that
matter, I’m unaware why Rotheby wants to see me. I only know I need
to get away and he’s given me the perfect reason to do so without
upsetting Mama.” Deuce take it, why did he have to bring Mama back
into this conversation when he had just got her out of
it?

“
You’ve been unhappy here
for a long time, Alex. This is a wonderful idea.” Priscilla smiled
across at him with genuine warmth lighting her eyes. “Don’t fret
about me and Harry. We’ll be just fine.”

“
But I do worry about you.
I will continue to worry about you. I made you a promise,
Pris—”

“
You made a very foolish
promise a very long time ago.” She forcefully pushed her stitchery
away and struggled to her feet, reaching for the cane resting next
to the bay window. “You know what I think, Alex? I think it’s high
time you found a wife, settled down, and stopped ambling through
your life. Perhaps you ought to stay in London, after all, and
allow your mother to do what she will.”

Derek earned a glare when he barely
stifled a snicker. Priscilla ignored him. “Now why would marriage
be so ghastly? You cannot go on like you are forever, you
know.”

“
But if I were to marry a
lady from society, what would I do with you and Harry? How could I
continue to care for you?”

“
I told you long ago we do
not need you.”

“
That is bollocks, and you
know it, Pris. What would you do for money? Harry will need to go
to school someday. How would you pay for that? Christ, you cannot
even walk without assistance, so what kind of work could you do?”
He flinched at the sharp look she gave him, then rushed on. “I
cannot sit by and allow you both to fall by the wayside. I will
not.”

She frowned at him. “Alex—”

Why did the blasted woman even think
he would consider it? “No, I told you before and I am telling you
again, I will take care of you. Mama must accept the fact that I
will not bow to her every whim.” Alex paced through the room,
careful to step over Harry and his toys. “Derek, I need you to look
after them while I am away.”

“
But—”

“
But nothing. I swore to
you I would care for you, and I intend to do just that. Derek will
help.” He hoped he was right.

“
Of course I will. If you
need anything before he returns, you need only send for me.” He
leveled a glare at Alex. “I will ensure you keep your promise to
Pris and Harry. They need you.”

“
I realize that. And you
know I’ll come back to you as soon as I can.” He strode over to
where she stood near the window and placed a chaste kiss on her
cheek. “I promise.” He took the cane from her hands and guided her
back to her seat.

He would not leave them alone for
long.

~ * ~

Grace waited until she was absolutely
certain her father had passed out from his drink. She could not
risk discovery. For once, she was glad he kept very few servants.
It made her task this evening much easier.

She chose a small valise and packed
her meager belongings into it. When all her clothes were inside and
still she had more room, Grace chose a few books to take with her
as well.

Reaching beneath her mattress, she
retrieved a few bank notes. Not much, but it should cover coach
fare, at the very least. After taking one more cursory glance
around the chamber, the only thing left to pack was her battered
doll. She placed it gingerly inside amongst the clothing and books.
Her child might someday need a doll, and she might not be able to
provide one, otherwise.

Before she closed the valise, she
dashed off a brief note to her aunt and uncle.

Dear Sir Laurence and Lady
Kensington,

I realize this is terribly
short notice, but I have a need to visit you. Please accept my
apologies, but I have no time for further explanation now. I shall
strive to explain myself upon arrival in Somerton.

Your loving
niece,

Grace

She stashed the note in her bag and
climbed down the dark stairwell, careful to avoid the creaky steps
and the missing planks, before she let herself out the oak front
door. It thudded to a close behind her and she scurried down the
path to the street with her satchel at her side.

Bustling along the dark streets, she
prayed she was traveling in the right direction. Grace had spent
far too many years cooped up inside her chamber at Chatham House.
The time had come for change.

Finally, she spotted the posting inn
where the coach was preparing to leave. She took a moment to
deliver her note to the postmaster and prayed the mail coach would
arrive before the stagecoach. The Kensingtons needed at least some
warning of her looming arrival, however little it may
be.

The driver signaled to her time had
arrived for their departure. He assisted her aboard and she settled
in for the three day journey.

Grace hoped her travel would not be in
vain.

Chapter Two

Grace stared steadily out the window
of the coach in a studied effort to avoid looking at any of the
other passengers. In short order, she’d learned that making eye
contact signaled an open invitation for conversation.

Mrs. Laymore, the grey-haired,
self-proclaimed mistress of entertainment of the coach, did not
take the hint. “And my Poopsie, when he fell from the tree—which I
don’t know how he got into the tree in the first place, since I
thought dogs did not climb trees. Anyway, when he fell down from
the tree, from way up high on that limb up higher even than the
roof of the house, he broke both of his back legs, he did. Mr.
Laymore had a doctor in town fashion a contraption to put on his
hind end, so the bones could heal. But then we were forced to carry
the poor pup around. It’s certainly a good thing Poopsie is a
poodle and not a larger dog, because I don’t believe I could carry
one much larger than him.”

Mr. Turner interjected, “A dog that
climbs trees? Are you quite certain your poodle is not a cat, Mrs.
Laymore? I have never heard of such a thing.” His attire appeared
to be from a previous century, with everything down to the
cod-piece in position, and his teeth had seemingly not been cleaned
since the days when a cod-piece could be considered
fashionable.

“
No, he is as much a poodle
as any poodle, Mr. Turner, albeit a rather odd, tree-climbing
one.”

Grace closed her eyes and pretended to
sleep, but was jarred when Mr. Turner kicked her foot. Her eyes
flashed open and she bit back a howl of pain.

“
So sorry, Lady Grace,” Mr.
Turner said with a look of abject horror on his face. “My gout is
acting up again, it is, and I needed to move my foot to a new
position. I never meant to kick you, ma’am. I promise it won’t
happen again.”

His gout would be the death of Grace,
if the man refused to stop talking about it. She had heard about
gout ad nauseum today and learned more about it than she ever cared
to know in her lifetime in the bargain. She was tired of discussing
the various accidents of Mrs. Laymore’s precious Poopsie and the
gout plaguing Mr. Turner. She just wanted to arrive in Somerton.
That ought not to be too much to ask, after two full days stuffed
into a coach with these insufferable strangers and another day to
follow.

Grace shook her head. When
had she become so intolerant? Obviously her concerns weighed so
heavily on her mind that listening to the concerns of utter
strangers was no longer as simple as it used to be—or even as
simple as it
should
be, for that matter.

Being hungry didn’t help matters,
either.

She had spent almost all the money she
had procured before leaving London on the coach fare and on rooms
at the posting inns where they stopped along the way. Food was a
luxury she could scarcely afford, so she ate only a small bowl of
thin soup each day of the journey, casting envious glances at the
crusty breads and mutton pies her companions ate with robust
vigor.

Grace fell asleep after staring
through the dusty window, even though she had tried desperately to
stay awake.

It was the same nightmare she had
experienced for weeks now. His eyes, cold and black, stared into
her tear-filled ones through his untidy mop of blackish-greyish
hair. His rough hands tore at her clothes and body. She shuddered
at the grim set of his jaw as he forced himself on her, above her,
into her.

Grace jolted awake in a cold sweat as
the coach launched itself into a colossal rut in the road. She
glanced about to see if any of the other passengers were aware of
her nightmare, but none of them were paying her any attention. She
turned her focus to slowing her breath and calming her pulse, even
through the hollow rumble from her stomach. Perhaps the Kensingtons
would provide her with a meager tea upon her arrival. She didn’t
want to raise her hopes, though.

She had neither seen nor heard from
them since shortly after her mother’s death, so she had no reason
to expect they would take her in. At best, she could hope they
might allow her to stay for an evening, perhaps through the end of
the week if they were feeling terribly generous. But once they
learned of her true reason for the visit (if it could even be
termed as such), Grace held every expectation they would turn her
out. She ought not to expect the same amenities she was accustomed
to receiving in her father’s home, however marginal they may have
been.

She returned her gaze to the scene
passing by outside the carriage window. After an interminable day
of travel, houses and small shops started popping up along the
roadway amongst the trees and wildflowers. What a relief. They must
be approaching the posting inn where they would stop for the
evening.

Within a few minutes, the coach pulled
in front of the run-down building. The driver climbed down and
handed them out. Grace rushed inside, hoping to get away from her
irksome traveling companions and to the privacy of her own room.
She needed a meal, a bath, and a good night’s sleep—preferably in
that order.

~ * ~

When Grace boarded the coach the next
morning, she couldn’t decide whether to be pleased or upset. A
young woman with two toddlers and an infant sat in the coach, but
there was no sign of either Mrs. Laymore or Mr. Turner. Thank
goodness.

At least the day would be a short one.
They should arrive in Somerton by about midday. Thankfully, no
other passengers boarded, and Grace breathed a sigh of
relief.

The coach departed with a jolt. What
would life would be like for her in Somerton, should she be allowed
to stay? Grace had very little memory of Sir Laurence and his wife,
and the bits she did remember were spotty, at best.

After her mother had died,
her father had stopped allowing the Kensingtons to visit. Letters
from Somerton had slowed to a trickle, and then came to a complete
stop. They could be as horrid and heinous as Father, for all she
knew. Oh,
why
had
she thought this would be such a grand idea again? Her misgivings
threatened to take over. Perhaps she could convince the driver to
stop before Somerton, and she could get off there. Then she
wouldn’t have to deal with such a dreary outlook. Of course, then
she would never know the truth, too.