Love With the Perfect Scoundrel (27 page)

She ignored his attempt to divert the conversation and searched his face. “We could find a way to sort through all of it. Perhaps if you were willing to confide in Luc or Quinn, they might be able to secretly help you find a solution.”

“I rather think they’ll secretly arrange to string me up using your pearls. Even you must see they are aching to escort me back to Yorkshire.” He whispered it into her ear as he wound his hands into the silvery locks of her soft hair. “Grace, you don’t understand I made my choice seventeen years ago. And while there have been times when I wished that I had been of a more mature mind when fate knocked on my door…ah, Grace, I regret very few things. I regret having to tell you all of this. But I assure you that if there was the slightest chance of giving you a normal life I would grab it. There is not.”

Grace hung her head.

“Darling, don’t be sad. I’m happy I’ve finally told you. Now you will understand why I said the things I did, and why I’ve acted as I have. And now I want you to do me one last favor.”

“But Michael, I’m certain if I—”

He touched his forefinger to her lips to silence her.

“What is it?”

“I want you to promise me you will not speak of this to anyone. And I want you to promise me that we will endeavor to see one another at least one last time before I return to Brynlow, because I’m just that selfish to want one happy memory of you—without any discussion of my past and without any falsehoods. Grace, I want you to remember me with fondness, if that is possible after I’ve told you about my unsavory past. But I also want you to let the memory fade in the half light of time and go on to a better life, a happier life with someone your equal in every respect.”

“You wouldn’t say that if you really—”

A tap on the door interrupted her words. And the dark-haired duchess slipped her head around the corner. “I’m so sorry to intrude, but Luc is breathing fire and is threatening—well, I shall try to keep him in check for another few moments.”

Michael gripped Grace’s wrist and pulled her to the door. “We’ll be right behind you, ma’am,” he said then leaned against the door when she was gone.

He pulled Grace into his arms and looked down into her wistful eyes. “God, how did I ever find you? How did I ever deserve you—even for just this little while?” He swallowed painfully against the ache in his throat and claimed her lips with his own. He tried desperately to imprint the memory of this moment on his mind. They had so very little time left. He must not waste a minute of it. Must not waste a single fragment of a single second with her.

T
wo days later, in the privacy of her beautiful suite adjacent to her bed chamber, Grace dipped the quill into her inkwell and circled a notice in the
Morning Post
. Abstractedly, she feathered the soft end of the quill against her chin as she pondered her predicament.

Michael had asked her to make the most of the handful of days before he left for Brynlow and she would do as he bid, the mystery of what he had revealed to her still swirling in her head.

She had pieced together all the conflicting actions and conversations they had shared in the North, all he had said in their bitter parting, and all his words here in town. And the more she thought about it, the stronger her convictions became, and the more she wanted to be everything he needed her to be. He needed for her to be as strong as he had been for so long.

And she would rise to the occasion. Because she was almost sure she had seen the truth in his eyes…that he cared for her, truly cared. And she was even more certain he was as innocent as the day he was born.

She looked down at the advertisement before her. It had taken two days of scouring the morning and afternoon papers before she had found a cottage villa not forty miles from Hyde Park corner. The solicitors in London offered immediate tenancy but required a one-year term. She would let the modest Berkshire dwelling, even though she would not need it nearly so long, all for the chance to be with him in secret while they planned their ultimate departure. It was the only solution given the circumstances.

As she wrote a letter accepting the conditions and noting her early arrival date, she also planned how best to ask her loyal maid, Sally, to deliver it furtively to the solicitors with the requisite number of gold guineas.

She paused for a moment before she signed the letter using her given name coupled with her mother’s maiden name,
Roijen
. Grace caught the edge of her lower lip between her teeth. She might very well have to endure a new name if Michael was ever discovered in future. Since he was a commoner and could not escape the charges, they’d have to flee, have to go away for a lifetime. But she could easily afford to buy a new life with him, far away from everything they both knew. It was too dangerous to return to Yorkshire given the unfortunate garrulous new connection with the Duke of Beaufort. Perhaps Mr. Brown would help them find an isolated property in Scotland if it came to the point.

And how could they marry given the danger of the public reading of the banns for many weeks? Grace buried her face in her hands. It appeared so impossible. All of it. She hated deception and that’s what all of this was. She finally understood what Michael had been trying to tell her.

And yet…it made her want to fight the injustice of it all the more. It would take endless hours to convince Michael to allow her to go away with him. But she would explain how she’d come to a decision today, on Boxing Day, when she’d endured a stream of the same people she had always known parading through Sheffield House while they boasted about their annual offerings. She didn’t care about any of these people.

At the sound of a light tap at the door, Grace quickly finished sanding the letter and hid it beneath a book on her escritoire. “Yes? Come.”

Rosamunde flew inside her chamber, a smile of mischievous delight on her face. “Well, are you ready? I’m half surprised to find you here. Thought you were trying to play a prank.”

Grace grabbed her veiled riding hat and swept the heavy skirt of her habit behind her as she rose. “You should know me a bit better than that. Have I ever played a prank on anyone?”

“No, but there’s always a first time.”

Grace arched a brow. “How very true. Come to think of it, I might just surprise you after all. And it might be very soon.”

As he had done every cold dawn for the last several days, Michael swung his leg over Sioux and carefully wended his way through the half-dark maze of London’s streets.

He told himself he did it to find the chimney sweep. To find
James
. But he knew deep in his heart, he did it in fear. He felt far too restless no matter where he was: in the foundling home, in the great houses of Grace’s friends, even in the very streets he now tried to lose himself in. He had to go away. He only stayed because of the request he’d made to see her one last time.

He pulled the edges of his long slashed riding coat about himself to ward off the chill. His mare tossed her head at the sight of an expanse of grass in front of them and he let her have her head. Sioux lengthened her neck and her stride and broke into a gallop. Yes, even his horse was trying to tell him they needed to get out of the cramped spaces of London and return to the open moors of Yorkshire, a place that promised relative obscurity.

By the time they reached the other side of the park, his mare had released her energy and relaxed into a fast trot. And the exertion had also released the worst of Michael’s own doubts. He could do this. He could stay and attend Helston’s small celebration, stay for a last chance to snatch forbidden happiness with Grace, stay until he could say good-bye properly.

So deep was he in his thoughts, he did not hear the approach of a carriage along the street bordering the park. In the instant the driver passed him, their eyes met and Michael recognized him. Gordy Lefroy, grown much older, just as surely as Michael. Without thought, Michael turned his head to look back at the familiar dark blue and gold markings of Manning’s Livery, and Gordy’s head peered around the edge of the carriage in that same moment.

Fear clawing at his belly, Michael turned Sioux in the opposite direction and urged her away as fast as he dared. His mare sensed his fear and galloped as if all the Indians of the Carolinas were come to steal her from him.

Good God. Would Gordy say something to Manning? He prayed not. Gordy had been one of the best stable hands at Manning’s; he’d have known who was in the wrong even if he hadn’t witnessed the accident. But Michael knew better than to count on him. The lure of a reward might prove too strong for his former acquaintance.

Within the hour, runners might be sent in search of him. Hardening himself to the bitter possibilities, Michael knew what he had to do, what he would do until he saw her tonight at Helston House, the last place the runners would ever search for him.

He would hide all day today, damn it all. If there was one thing he knew how to do well, it was hide.

Time had run out and there would be no waiting until the first of January. He forced the bile of dread back down his throat.

“Grace, dearest, do come in. Gracious! Where have you been? We were beginning to worry,” Ata clucked as Grace entered Helston House’s grand entranceway. A bevy of footmen ushered the last of the guests to the supper chamber or card room beyond as Ata gathered all the widows in a corner of the great hall.

“I’m so sorry,” Grace replied. “It took longer than I thought to take Lara to the circulating library and then to feed the ducks at the Serpentine.”

“Goodness, you’ve spent a lot of time with that little girl,” Ata said with a smile.

“You are to be commended, Grace,” Georgiana continued. “Your notice of her no doubt means the world to her.”

“No, it’s nothing, really. I assure you I receive more pleasure watching her eyes light up with joy than she does,” Grace murmured.

“
Brrrr
…” Ata interjected. “It’s so very cold tonight. I wonder if it will snow. It would play havoc on driving tonight. Remind me to have Phipps lay down straw if it does. Well”—she sighed—“I suppose winter will have its day after all, and of course it would happen on Bad Luck Day, would it not? Now Rosa, come, you promised to be my partner, yes? I’ll need you on my side if I hope to finally win a few shillings from the Countess of Home.”

“You obviously enjoy a challenge.” Rosamunde smiled and smoothed the folds of her deep crimson gown. She was so lovely with her vivid aquamarine eyes and shiny raven hair that Grace could not help but feel like a pale doll in comparison.

“I shall stay in the supper chamber to make sure your guests are in comfort if that is all right with you, Ata.” Sarah, dressed in a simple dove-gray gown, looked expectantly toward Georgiana and Ata.

“I know better than to try and cajole you otherwise, Sarah. But where is Eliza? She should be here already.” Ata turned toward Grace. “You will want to know that Mr. Ranier arrived two hours ago and disappeared with Luc, Quinn, Mr. Brown, and the Duke of Beaufort. Luc has been breathing fire for two days. If Ranier wins more than Luc at faro, I rather think my grandson will scorch a path all the way to Yorkshire to help him on his way home.”

“Oh, I do wish they hadn’t dreamed up this nonsense,” Grace uttered in vain.

Ata patted her arm. “Come, come…boys will be boys.”

Rosamunde twisted her lips in mirth. “Well I only think it fair to admit that girls will be girls, too, Ata. Did you not just tell me you were going to fleece the Countess of Home tonight like a sheep in summer?”

“No. I said earlier I wanted
Grace
to fleece that gossiping magpie, the Duchess of Kendale. I simply plan to gull our neighbor until she coughs up some vowels.”

Georgiana pursed her lips to keep from laughing. “Ata, your language has certainly taken on bold, new colors.”

“And I’d stake my future winnings tonight that we have the Duke of Beaufort to thank for that,” Rosamunde murmured with a smile.

“Ata, I already told you I won’t play,” Grace inserted. “I’ll stay with Sarah and Georgiana.”

Ata and Rosamunde exchanged knowing looks and then moved in the direction of the card room. Grace sighed heavily and glanced at Georgiana and Sarah. “Well, I know I can depend on you both not to plague me. Now, shall we?”

In deference to the Devil of Helston’s birthday, not a trace of holiday greenery dripped from the opulent sconces, chandeliers, or balconies of Number Twelve in Portman Square. Instead the bold black-and-white checkered parquet floor gleamed opposite the glorious yet brutal battle scenes of heaven and hell painted on the ceiling by a master.

Grace, Georgiana, and Sarah linked arms and entered the milling crowd in the wood-paneled dining chamber flanked by enormous yawning fireplaces, which were often likened to the infamous entrances to hell. The door to the card room lay on the opposite side of the room from Grace and she could discern the green baize card tables. A coldness raced in her veins. She wasn’t sure she had the nerve to go to him. She just couldn’t bear to see him gaming.

She feared he’d be wearing the expression of an inveterate gambler. It was always the same; agitated visages, some absurdly jubilant, others in despair, and all feverish with the addiction to play…like her father’s face.

She wished Michael hadn’t taken the bait to play the game. It irked her that with so little time left in London, he had chosen to spend it in that room, even if it was with the very gentlemen whom Grace had secretly nurtured a hope—it seemed a very long time ago now—he would form lasting friendships. Now it was all such wasted effort.

She stiffened her spine to mingle with the crème de la crème of the beau monde who had been lucky enough to receive the coveted invitations to Helston’s Bad Luck Birthday. And as Grace perused the room, she noticed, not for the first time, that many of the bejeweled guests appeared somewhat absurd. Their heads held all in the same condescending manner, their chins high, their shoulders low, and their cheeks sucked in as if tasting lemon ice. And most noticeable, the darted glances and whispers punctuating every banal conversation were all conducted with practiced looks of boredom in their eyes. Truth be told, they mostly appeared like some sort of royal school of lemmings. Why had she ever coveted spending days on end among them?