“Poor mug just found out his father spent the family fortune on whor—on evening entertainment. He’s near to blown up at Point Nonplus, as they say. Just yesterday, Carlisle sold all but the scrawniest of his horses and most of his carriages. Wanted to get my hands on his matched grays, but some blackguard beat me to it.”
Grace couldn’t hide her shock. Her relief at not having been lied to paled next to the horror of Lord Carlisle finding himself penniless because his father had wasted his future on whores. And yet Lord Carlisle made no complaint. Instead, he’d noted her unhappiness, regardless of her being too wrapped up in herself to note his own.
Despite being desperate enough to unload his remaining possessions on acquaintances who would obviously gossip, he still put her peace of mind before his own worries.
She swallowed hard. She wished she could marry him. But if he was reduced to selling off horses, he needed far more than her dowry could provide. Even if she were in the position to let him have it all, she suspected one thousand pounds was nowhere near enough to save a destitute earldom.
“What’s he going to do?”
“Got bets on that at White’s. Most obvious thing would be to get rid of the Black Prince, but someone would have to pry that portrait out of Carlisle’s cold dead hands.”
“Black…Prince?”
“Oh, right. You’re American.” Mr. Leviston tapped his chin as he considered his explanation. “The Black Prince is more rightfully known as Edward of Woodstock, Prince of Wales, Duke of Cornwall, and Prince of Aquitaine. King Edward the third made him the first duke in England, almost five hundred years ago.”
“Why would Lord Carlisle care about that?”
“They’re cousins. Or so the story goes. His father—old Carlisle—used to drag every person who crossed his threshold into the family Hall of Portraits. Had the Black Prince hanging right there where his son’s face ought to be. Only painting in the entire gallery framed in gold, although it wouldn’t really matter. Canvas like that would be valuable no matter what.”
She recoiled at the injustice. “Why on earth wasn’t it the first thing Lord Carlisle got rid of? It sounds horrid. I can’t imagine hanging onto something like that.”
“Then you’re not as sentimental as Carlisle. His land is entailed, and that painting might as well be.” At her blank expression, Mr. Leviston shook his head. “American, right. Entailed means he legally can’t get rid of his land, because it belongs to the title, not to the person. Carlisle would never sell that portrait. It’s hung in the family gallery ever since the paint first dried. Trust me, I heard the story from Carlisle’s father a thousand times. Can’t blame the Black Prince. Not his fault old Carlisle was a terrible father.”
“I’m glad he’s dead,” she blurted. “Let him go be with his Black Prince if he loved him so much.”
“Family,” Mr. Leviston said with a shrug. “Can’t pick ’em.”
How true. Grace’s shoulders caved inward. She couldn’t even pick the husband she wanted.
Chapter 7
“Higher, if you please, mademoiselle.”
Grace lifted her arms into the air. She forced herself to smile at her grandmother over the top of the latest modiste’s head. It was not their fault that Grace wasn’t enjoying being pinned and measured and fitted. She didn’t feel like a story princess at all. In the beginning, she couldn’t help but be dazzled by the sweeping gowns and candlelit ballrooms, but she would trade it in a heartbeat for the money to go rescue her mother.
Trade it all. Her mouth twisted. If only she could. But everything within sight belonged to her grandparents. Even if they gifted her this trousseau, it wouldn’t help. There were exclusive venues throughout London dedicated to the sale and resale of diamonds or racing horses, but not for gowns. They might be expensive to design and custom fit, but were hardly a premium commodity. Who would Grace sell her used clothes to, even if she could? Her lady’s maid?
Grandmother Mayer nodded at the modiste approvingly. “She’s going to look splendid. Just as beautiful as her mother did during her come-out. She cannot fail to make a fine match.”
Somehow, Grace kept a determined smile fixed on her face. She didn’t want to look splendid. She wanted to be halfway back to America. But since she had to marry in order to achieve that goal, she was determined not to ruin her grandmother’s excitement any more than she had to. The woman was under no legal obligation to clothe and feed her, much less provide a dowry. Grace was quite conscious of her tenuous fortune.
Although they had been complete strangers when she appeared on the Mayers’ doorstep a little over a fortnight ago, her grandparents had welcomed her into their home…and had been furious that her mother had stayed behind. No matter how many times Grace explained that her mother was back in Pennsylvania because she was literally too ill to even rise from bed, her grandparents wouldn’t believe a word of it. They were convinced that Grace’s presence was nothing more than a scheme to run back to America with a portion of the Mayers’ money.
Because her grandparents refused to be taken advantage of in such a nefarious manner, they gave her no pin money of her own and never left her alone with so much as a piece of cutlery.
Grace didn’t even have the right to be offended. She was here because she wanted money, and she absolutely intended to abscond with it at the first opportunity. Her grandparents were wrong about Grace’s reasons, but right to be suspicious. She hadn’t diminished their misgivings by reminding them that she only intended to take advantage of her future husband.
That was another score on which they failed to see eye-to-eye.
Grace needed to marry someone who didn’t need her. Someone with enough money and mistresses that they wouldn’t miss her or the dowry once she was gone. She intended to return, of course. She would dishonor neither holy matrimony nor her husband by disappearing for good. Her stomach twisted at the thought of abandoning a husband so soon after the wedding.
But that was why she needed to marry someone who wouldn’t trouble himself over a brief separation. Her mother needed her, and Mama came first.
Grandmother Mayer, on the other hand, wanted Grace to become the toast of the ton. She said Grace’s striking looks and unconventional background would make her an Original, and put her on the path to becoming a duchess, or perhaps even catching the eye of some foreign prince.
The flowers accumulating in the front parlor only exacerbated her grandmother’s mania. She was determined Grace would marry well. Not just because of Grandmother Mayer’s blatant frustration that her own upward mobility had peaked, no matter how much money she and her husband amassed. Not even because she saw in Grace the opportunity to make the sort of match she’d always dreamed of for her own child.
Worse. Grandmother Mayer truly believed that Grace and a besotted suitor joining hands at the altar would be the only enticement capable of inducing her coldhearted, money-hungry, not-remotely-sick mother into hopping onto a boat and crossing the Atlantic Ocean.
Upon which, what precisely was supposed to happen? Mama and Grandmother Mayer would fall tearfully into each other’s arms? Duel at dawn? Attack each other with parasols? Grace had no idea, and she doubted her grandmother did, either. She spoke of her daughter with disdain and contempt and bitterness, and yet wished more than anything for her return.
But all she got was Grace.
Grandmother Mayer didn’t love her unexpected granddaughter, or even particularly like her. She didn’t bother to try to get to know her. Grace wasn’t family, but rather a means to an end. She certainly wasn’t interested in Grace’s impassioned pleas of sickness and urgency. She was too busy scheming about how she might get Grace into Almack’s.
“When we’re done with the fitting, may I go to Hyde Park with Miss Downing?” she asked quietly.
Grandmother Mayer’s sharp gray eyes snapped toward Grace. “Why?”
Grace bit back a sigh. Since arriving, she hadn’t been allowed to leave the Mayers’ residence unle
ss she was en route to a location her grandmother chose, dressed as her grandmother wished, seen by those her grandmother sought to impress. Every other moment was spent with dance instructors, etiquette tutors, fashion plates…anything that might help a gauche American become more attractive to those who mattered. Perhaps the Duke of Ravenwood or the Duke of Lambley, her grandmother suggested often. Sometimes the pressure was more than Grace could stand.
For the moment, all she wanted was a friendly face. Somewhere far from her grandmother’s watchful eye. Somewhere she wouldn’t be expected to flirt or simper.
Of course, saying something like that aloud was the quickest way to get stuffed back into her room until Candlemas. She had to try a different tack.
“The ladies promenade there every afternoon, and the gentlemen ride by on their curricles. Miss Downing says it’s the best place to see and be seen.”
Her grandmother frowned. So far, Grace had only been permitted to attend balls and soirées. Locations where music and dancing might help ensnare the heart of a Corinthian. Her grandmother’s skeptical look indicated this pattern was unlikely to change.
“Both Carlisle and Ravenwood will be there,” Grace rushed to add. “And many other dukes and earls.” She had no idea if this was true, but if they did not show, Grandmother Mayer could hardly blame their absence on Grace. “Perhaps one of the haut ton will become hopelessly enamored.”
This, at last, proved too much temptation. “Very well. Take your maid. I won’t have you damaging your reputation. I’ve worked hard to bring respectability back to the Mayer name.” Grandmother frowned. “I do want you to succeed, Grace. Your triumph is my triumph. Seeing you well-matched may not undo the mistakes of the past, but it will improve our futures. I cannot manipulate the ton for you. To do that, you must take care to stay on your very best behavior.”
Grace nodded. To most of society, one’s reputation was even more important than one’s dowry. The last thing she needed was to make it harder to snare a husband. She already had her dowry spent.
The smallest piece of the pie was the return ticket home. Two more tickets would be required to return with Mama, but first was whatever doctors and medicines she needed to get well. If it looked like it might take months for her mother to return to full health, Grace would have to fortify their home. There were a hundred repairs to be made to the little shack, not to mention clothes to darn, food to eat… A thousand-pound dowry seemed a princely sum when she had first learned of it, but she now worried it would barely get her mother back on her feet.
“C’est tout,” announced the modiste, plucking a pin from Grace’s hem. “You are finished, mademoiselle.”
Grace lowered her aching arms with a grateful smile. “Thank you.”
Her grandmother gave a brisk nod. “You may send your bill to Mr. Mayer once you’ve completed all the new gowns. We’ll need the first within a week.”
The modiste nodded quickly. “As you please. I thank you for—”
Before the modiste could finish speaking, Grandmother Mayer was out of Grace’s dressing room and gone.
The modiste dipped an awkward curtsey in Grace’s direction and hurried out into the hall after her patroness.
Grace turned to her lady’s maid, who was picking stray pins from the floor. “Will you accompany me to Hyde Park, Peggy?”
The girl glanced up from her task only long enough to cut a flat-eyed stare in Grace’s direction before returning her gaze to the carpet. “If you wish.”
Grace sighed. Normally, the upper class would inform, rather than invite, their servants. But Grace had been part of that world for less than two weeks, and she still wasn’t used to other people doing things for her. Her hesitancy showed.
Peggy, for her part, only did the bare minimum required. She ensured Grace was dressed and untangled the occasional knot from her hair, but they certainly weren’t forming any sort of bond. Perhaps it was Grandmother Mayer’s tendency to speak of Grace like an object—or not at all. Or perhaps it was simply the ignominy of being forced to wait upon someone with absolutely no claim to aristocracy. Or even money.
Unlike Grace, Peggy was used to living in a grand house and wearing pretty dresses and eating delicious meals. It wasn’t that the maid thought herself above her station. It was that she didn’t believe Grace to deserve hers.
Problem was, Peggy was right. Grace didn’t belong in high society. Or in England. She missed the simplicity of her life back in Pennsylvania, and she deeply missed her mother. But the only way to get her mother back was to continue with this charade and shackle herself to the first suitor with enough coin that he wouldn’t miss Grace’s modest dowry.
She pulled a spencer from her wardrobe and shoved her arms into the sleeves. Someone might give her a second glance. Perhaps today would be the day she managed to turn an admirer into a suitor.
Peggy followed at a respectable, if lackluster distance as Grace hurried downstairs to have one of her grandparents summon a carriage. She found them in a sitting room, enjoying an afternoon tea.
Her grandfather glanced up first, and smiled. “Off to snare a beau, are you? Well, you look pretty enough. I shan’t be surprised if you summon a passel of proposals by nightfall.”
“Better someone else’s money than ours,” her grandmother added without looking up from her biscuit. “Your new gowns are costing me twice as much as your dowry. Until you get a suitor, don’t ask me for more charity.”
Grace’s entire body tensed. “For the last time, I am not after your money!”
“I thought you said you wanted a few hundred quid,” her grandmother said around her biscuit. “For your ‘sick’ mother, of course.”
“Yes! Not for personal gain, but for my mother. She is sick. Deathly sick. She could use your help.”
“Oh, for the love of…” Grandmother Mayer stabbed a fork in Grace’s direction. “Your mother isn’t sick. She’s crafty. Clara sent you so she could get her hands on our money. I know it. You know it. When can we stop playacting?”
Grace’s throat clogged with rage. “I am not—”
“I posted a boat ticket the morning you arrived,” her grandfather said casually. Both she and her grandmother turned to stare at him.
“You what?” Grandmother Mayer demanded, slamming her fork onto the table. “Why bother? Clara swore she’d never step foot back in England.”
“Her daughter’s here,” Grandfather Mayer said simply. “Didn’t you say she might return if Grace gets married? She can’t swim across the Atlantic. She needs a boat ticket. Just in case she truly is too beggared to buy her own, I went ahead and sent her passage. I got the address from Grace’s letter home. I expect to see her before too long.”
Grace rubbed her temples. “You didn’t send money?”
He shook his head. “No. I sent a ticket. For the best ship I could find.”
Grandmother Mayer harrumphed. “More than she deserves. Some of us work for our money. She had her chance to make a good match and she squandered it.”
“Don’t be so hard on the girl,” Grandfather Mayer interrupted. “Clara chose love over money because of her youth. Grace isn’t silly enough to make that mistake. When Clara comes home, I don’t want you browbeating her with ancient quarrels. Not when we’re so close to being a family again.”
Grace’s legs trembled. “None of that matters. How is Mama supposed to get to the port and on a boat when she’s too sick to get out of bed?”
Grandmother Mayer rolled her eyes skyward. “Stop it. If she were half as sick as you say, you’d never have left her in the first place.”
Grace’s fingernails bit into her palms. “I had no other choice!”
“Clara is fine. She’s always fine. This is just another scheme.” Grandmother Mayer tossed a pointed look at her husband. “Don’t you see? Grace is just as much of a liar as her mother was. I don’t feel bad at all about reading those letters.”
Grace’s blood ran cold. “What letters?”
&nbs
p; “The letters your mother wrote you. If I had any doubt about your perfidy, her words proved it.”
Grace’s mouth fell open. “My mother wrote to me? What did she say? Where are the letters?”
“In the fireplace, along with yours. What does it matter? All she said is that she’s fine and hopes you’re enjoying England.”
“You burned my correspondence?” Grace nearly choked. No wonder her mother had vowed never to return! “You’re wrong about Mama. She has to say she’s fine. That’s what mothers do. She’d tell me that with her very last breath.”
Grandmother Mayer shrugged and turned back to her tea cakes. “I wouldn’t trust either one of you with a sack of beans. Clara ran off the moment our backs were turned, and you’ve already said that no matter how many gowns and opportunities our money affords you, you fully intend to do the same. Very pretty manners. How do you expect me to react?”
Grace’s stomach twisted. “I know it makes me a horrible person for leaving my husband as soon as I have my dowry, but I’ll be back as soon as Mama’s well enough to come with me and then you’ll see—”
Grandmother Mayer gurgled with laughter. “See? That’s precisely how I know you’re lying. Your mother would never have suggested a plan that foolish. Clara was born here. She knows how matrimony works. I can’t believe she’d puff you full of empty dreams, just to chase down a penny.”
Grace turned her uncomprehending gaze toward her grandfather.
He shook his head. “Your dowry isn’t for you, child. It’s for your husband. And he’s not required to give you a penny of it—now or ever.”
Grandmother Mayer lifted her cup of tea in mock salute. “Open your eyes, child. You’re never going back to America. I won’t buy you a ticket to that godforsaken place and neither will your future husband.”
Chapter 8
By the time Grace alighted in Hyde Park, she was in no mood to engage in mindless flirtations. Unfortunately, her feelings didn’t enter into the equation. Even if there had been no reason to rush home to America, she couldn’t bear to live under the same roof as her grandparents for even a moment longer.
The Dukes of War: Complete Collection Page 11
