by Aubrey Wynne
“Well, I…”
A rustling came from the corner near a Greek bust of Helen. The heavy velvet drapes rustled then a sneeze echoed across the room.
Kit put a finger to his lips, handed his glass off to his mother, and motioned for them to keep talking. “It depends on if my father needs me to help with that estate south of London.” He moved to the corner.
“I doubt if he makes it here at all. He’ll end up meeting us in Brighton. That man cannot allow anyone to assume his business. Has to have a finger in every pot.”
Kit peered behind an ottoman. Two golden brown orbs blinked back at him. “What have we here? A fugitive highwayman?” He kicked away the cushioned seat. “Ladies, remove yourselves. My sword, load my pistol!”
A squeak sounded from the shadows, and then Sammy rose, his bottom lip stuck out, eyes downcast. “It’s only me.”
“Good gracious, boy. What are you doing hiding in here?” asked Lady Falsbury.
“Papa wanted me to bathe before he dressed for dinner. If he can’t find me, I won’t have to.” He kicked at the ottoman. “I hate baths.”
“You don’t look so dirty to me,” coaxed Lady Rafferton. “Come here and let me smell you.”
The boy looked up, hope brightening his face. He ran to the woman, stuck his head under her nose, and then presented his armpits. With a straight face, she sniffed his hair and then wrinkled her nose as he raised his arms. “I’d say the hair isn’t bad but the rest is a bit ripe.” She laughed at his forlorn look. “However, I’ve smelled much worse.”
The child nodded his head up and down. “That’s what I said.” He sat down next to her. “I haven’t seen you before.”
“This is our neighbor and one of my closest confidantes,” Lady Falsbury answered. “And this is Samuel, Lady Eliza’s cousin.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord,” she responded with a nod. “I’ve heard much about you.”
The boy stood and gave her a deep bow. “At your service, madam.”
“Why thank you, kind sir,” she replied, inclining her head as Sammy turned back to Kit.
“She broke your heart? Will she fix it? You have to help me with my theater tomorrow. The play has the”—he put his hands on each side of his mouth and whispered loudly—“explosion at the end.” His eyes moved sideways to see if the women had heard. “It’s a surprise I’m planning for everyone.”
“I love surprises,” said Lady Rafferton.
“You must come. We’ve been practicing The Miller and His Men. Everyone will be there.”
“Samuel,” bellowed a voice from the door. “I have had quite enough of your impudence. Come to your room now!”
Sammy cringed. “Please say you’ll come?”
Lord Boldon came up behind the boy. “Beg your pardon, my ladies, but I must remove my son in all haste,” he said through clenched teeth as bowed to the women. “It is good to see you again, Lady Rafferton.”
Lady Grace and Lady Eliza entered close behind, also searching for the filthy youngster. As Boldon dragged his unwilling son from the room, the boy choked out, “You will come, won’t you my lady? We have colored sheets for the background. And Eliza will accompany us on the pianoforte.” His tawny head disappeared around the corner.
“He stretches one’s patience, but he is sweet-natured child,” Lady Grace said in apology for her younger brother.
“I think he’s refreshing,” said Lady Rafferton. “He reminds me of my youngest son. He’s still a constant worry, either finding trouble in London and the gaming-hells or making the ladies swoon at the seaside resorts.”
“How many children do you have, my lady?”
“A daughter, who is a gift from heaven though recently married and gone from me, and three sons. The eldest is my stepson and has assumed the title, the second is a lieutenant colonel, and my youngest…” She shook her head. “He just finished university and applied to one of the Inns of Court.”
“He wants to be a barrister?” Lady Eliza asked. “I think the study of law and the courts is fascinating. You don’t approve?”
“If he’s in earnest, yes. If it’s an excuse to squander his allowance on Cyprians in the foyer of Covent Garden, no. But as my youngest, he knows how to get around me.” She gathered her reticule and bestowed a kiss on each of her friend’s cheeks. “Now, I must be off. It was lovely to meet all of you.”
“You must stay for dinner,” Lady Falsbury demanded.
“I wish I could. However, I do believe I’ll take Samuel up on his invitation tomorrow.”
Kit chuckled as he and Lady Grace groaned at the same time. “I cannot guarantee the performance. Except for the explosion, the author would barely recognize his work. The young man has condensed most of it to get to the good part, as he puts it.”
“Don’t be fooled, my lady. Lord Sunderland is an excellent and brave hero.” The smile Grace bestowed upon him was warm and playful. He looked to the ceiling and once again thought of a freezing swim in April.
Grace closed her eyes and said a quick prayer that all went well. It had taken them a week of coloring and cutting and pasting to prepare for the play. Lord Sunderland’s infinite patience had surprised her. He seemed to know just when Sammy had had enough, and they would go outside and romp on the lawn to expel the boy’s energy. The juvenile drama put her in the earl’s constant vicinity each afternoon. That fact was the only reason she might be disappointed after the performance.
She had learned his mannerisms: he stroked his chin in deep thought, his jaw ticked when he was irritated, humor made his eyes sparkle, and flirting made them darken. When truly amused, a deep rumble would start low in his chest and come out a husky, masculine laugh that made her skin tingle. Sometimes he teased her, and his look seemed so intimate, she thought he would reach out and take her hand.
“Gracie, hurry. We don’t have long.”
Lady Falsbury had put her foot down and refused to allow the gunpowder in the drawing room. A tent had been set up outside the drawing room window, so Eliza would be able to provide the music from inside. The attendants would be under shade, and if anything went wrong, the tiny theater and perhaps the lawn would be the only casualties.
At least twenty chairs had been set up. Eliza had requested some of the staff to come and watch so there would be enough for an audience. Samuel surveyed the scene and nodded in approval. He placed the sturdy paper characters on their stands and pushed them along the slits in the board until they were center stage. The villain Grindoff stood with his gang of thieves, plotting against the count. Sammy pushed the background along another slit, depicting the thieves’ secret hideout. Then he placed the sheets for the corresponding scenes behind that.
“Are we too early?” asked their father, standing with Lady Falsbury on his arm. “Shall we find our own seats or is there an escort?”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” Sammy rubbed his jaw in a perfect imitation of Lord Sunderland.
Grace hid her smile. “There are three places of honor in the front, Papa,” she informed him.
As they both settled themselves, the servants arrived one by one and filled the back rows. Sammy went to the open window and called up, “Start the waiting music, Eliza.”
“Yes, my lord,” came a muffled reply.
“She’s here, she’s here,” cried Sammy. “Lady Rafferton is coming.”
The marchioness patted Lord Boldon’s arm. “Would you escort my dear friend?”
“Of course, I’d be happy to.”
Grace watched her father walk away, his confident, long stride carrying him quickly to the long drive. When he reemerged with the viscountess on his arm, they were both laughing. Before she could even consider the pair, a shadow fell over her. His nearness was alluring and disturbing at the same time. Earthy mint and faint orange tickled her nose and sent her pulse into a staccato rhythm. The scent would forever bring to mind Lord Sunderland and this most excellent summer.
“Claudine, my love. I
have come to make you mine.” He bowed, a smirk on his lips as he recited a line from the play. “But first, mademoiselle, I must play with fire.”
“Please, my dear Lothair, do be careful. I shall die of a broken heart if you do not return.” She placed her hand on her forehead and attempted a heroine’s dramatic pose.
He leaned close and whispered, “Tell me true, my darling.”
She saw the change in his eyes, the heat that deepened the brown to clear midnight sky. A shiver passed over her. Grace realized how much she would miss this man when she went home next week. He had attached himself to her daily routine, and the thought he would no longer be a part of her day, left a place in her heart empty.
The earl gave her a half smile then took her arm. “We’d better get in place behind the theater.”
The audience quieted and Sammy stood before them. Eliza’s introduction sonata floated through the window. “Our play begins with the evil Grindoff. He worked for the count until he was discovered to be untrustworthy. Sent away in disgrace, he disguised himself as a miller.”
Kit moved the miller back and forth.
“Grindoff had a plan. First, he gathered a gang of thieves.”
Grace wiggled the group of paper men.
“He would trick the richest villager, take his money and his beautiful daughter, Claudine.”
Grace picked up the paper girl and slid her into the theater. “No good sir,” she said to the villain, “I have already given my heart to Lothair.”
Lothair appeared alongside Claudine. Another female character slid in next to Grindoff. “You oaf, I am your woman. How can you betray me?” Grace did her best to sound like a vixen.
Sunderland was so close, she could feel the heat emanating from his body. Or was that hers? He made her senses come alive. As the play continued, she was acutely aware of the brush of his sleeve, the skim of his finger against her hand. The blades of grass beneath her each made their own cool dent against her stockings. The breeze rustled loose curls against her neck, tickling and teasing her skin. His nearness sent ripples of sensation through her body. It was a new feeling, this desire, this physical need for someone.
It became difficult to remember her lines; her breathing grew more rapid. Once she lost her balance, but he caught her. His hands grasped her waist and lingered, the pressure intimate and inviting. The single touch burned through the layers of her muslin dress, petticoats, and chemise. Startled, she watched his mouth curl, transfixed as it slanted up, white teeth flashing between firm, sensual lips. In her mind, his head tipped for a kiss… Sunderland’s elbow unromantically poked her side when she missed her cue, and the poor paper count crumpled in her fist.
“I shall find them out, sweet Claudine. Wait for me.”
He gave her a curious look as she searched her brain for the next line. “Take care, Grindoff’s gang is a dangerous bunch.”
The rest of the play went off perfectly. Grace focused on her lines and did not allow her thoughts to stray again. Lothair was discovered in the thieves’ cave but rescued by the spurned lady of Grindoff. As the gang realized they had been found out, they rushed after Lothair.
“He ran across the bridge with great speed—”
Sunderland tried to move the figure up along the bridge, lost his grip, and Lothair clattered to the stage floor. Sammy never lost a beat. “…and tripped and fell over the side. But he was a strong swimmer and pulled himself to shore.”
The earl bobbed Lothair to the other side of the bridge and called, “Fire the bridge! Fire the bridge!”
Grace pushed the gang of thieves toward the bridge. Sammy ran behind the theater to join them, pulsating with excitement. A small pile of gunpowder lay inside a tin cup, a string hanging across the edge. Sunderland dipped a match head into a small asbestos bottle of sulfuric acid to produce a flame. He handed it to a solemn Sammy, who set the small flame to the wick. It sizzled and sparked red as it moved inside the cup. Boom! Red and yellow flashed through the smoky explosion. Embers burned the edges of the theater and the earl squashed the would-be fire out using his hands and several of the other characters. The three actors coughed and spluttered. Grace used one of the backdrops to fan away the smoke.
The audience gasped and clapped while Sammy jumped with delight, his arms flailing above his head. Then remembering his role, he stood before the group again. “Grindoff is seized and the thieves run away to whence they came.” He looked over his shoulder at Sunderland and his sister. “Lothair returned to Claudine. They embraced.” He waited for the two singed characters to touch. “And lived happily ever after. The end.”
Sammy motioned his actors to join him. They all clasped hands and took a bow together.
“Brava! Bravo!”
“Magnificent!”
The boy beamed as everyone stood for a standing ovation. Grace stood with one hand clasped in Sammy’s and the other in the earl’s. She felt moistness in his palm and opened his palm for inspection. She wondered what the roughness of those fingertips would feel like against her cheek, her neck until she saw the oozing burn. “You have blisters,” she gasped.
“It’s nothing. I’m fine.”
“If not treated, it could become inflamed. Please, come to the kitchen, and I’ll apply a salve,” she said.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
Chapter 13
“He then, with great presence of mind, put a stop to any further recriminations by kissing her; and his indignant betrothed, apparently feeling that he was too deeply sunk in depravity to be reclaimable, abandoned (for the time being, at all events) any further attempt to bring him to a sense of his iniquity.”
Georgette Heyer, Sylvester
Mrs. Whitten once again came to their rescue. Following them after the production, the cook sent a boy to the icehouse for a cup of shavings off the huge block stored underground. Kit found himself once again at the stain-darkened table. He held the chips in a cloth against his palm, while Grace oversaw the tobacco poultice made with yesterday’s moistened bread, meal, and the plant leaves. He studied the silver serving platters and porcelain dishes along the wall shelves, the pots hanging from the ceiling, and the ceramic jar near the copper-lined sink. The hiding place for Mrs. Whitten’s dry sweetmeats. His mouth watered. When his hand was numb, she took a needle and pierced the blisters then applied the poultice. He winced once when she missed the blister and the point went deeper into his hand. The look of pain on her face was much worse than what he had suffered. He had been foolish to make notice of it and cause her concern.
“Have I thanked you properly for all your attention to Sammy? You are a hero to him, equal only to my father in his eyes.” Grace kept her eyes on the blisters, the needle steady in her small capable hand. Her head was bent low as she concentrated. She was so close he had to move but a few inches and his mouth would be on her cheek. If she turned her head, it would be her lips.
“That depends on what you consider a proper thank you.” He goaded her, he knew. But time was no longer on his side. She returned to her own estates in a few short days, and he would be left…alone. He needed to tell her how he felt, that he couldn’t imagine not seeing her again, that he had grown fond of her. More than fond.
Grinning, she said drolly, “Perhaps Mrs. Whitten could witness a proper thank you, if you described such a thing to her.”
Embarrassment crept up his neck as the image of her gratitude formed in his mind. No, he certainly didn’t want any witnesses. She smirked at his silence, a raised eyebrow telling him that she had seen through his ploy.
“When this begins to hurt again, add more ice and then another poultice. Mrs. Whitten has agreed to make up more for you.”
He looked over Grace’s shoulder and saw the cook was busy at the other end of the room. “Lady Eliza and Sammy will be here soon. I need to speak with you privately.”
A startled look passed over her face, and she repeated his motion, glancing over her shoulder to see who was close. “Yes, my lor
d?”
“I fear a fit of the blue devils when you leave Falsbury at the end of the week.” He’d said it. Told her he had grown attached. In a roundabout sort of way.
Mrs. Whitten interrupted them. “I need to fetch some more lard to finish these poultices, my lady. I’ll be right back.” They were alone.
“I-I have grown used to your company also.” In those deep emerald eyes, he saw it: love, fear, hesitation. The world stood still as the breath was sucked out of him; nothing existed but the two of them. With a strange certainty, he knew they shared the first emotion. It hit him as hard and fast as an enemy ambush. He’d never experienced this kind of romantic love. The only people in the world that he’d associated the word with were his mother and Carson. Yes, and now Grace. This helped him understand the second emotion. It was frightening indeed. The void that Carson had left in his soul only resulted from true affection. And they both recognized they had come too far to pretend otherwise.
“Lady Grace, I ask your permission to speak with your father. I would like—no, I need to see you again. Might you possibly feel the same?” He was a Johnny Raw once more, kissing his first girl.
Her scrutiny made him shift in his seat, and the needle poked through his skin again. He made a small noise, and their attention was drawn to the drop of blood that spread in his palm. A tear fell and mixed with the deep red, forming a tiny pink puddle between the two blisters. His chest tightened, not understanding the meaning of it.
Grace swiped at her eyes with the back of a hand. Her voice was steady when she spoke but her gaze remained lowered. “I am honored by your request. In truth, if it were not for my situation, I would welcome your courtship. But in my present position, I cannot.”
“If it’s concern over my attitude as a husband, I may not be as doting as your father but I certainly won’t quash your spirit.”
“It is too much to risk.” Her head snapped up, and the words came out in a rush, passionate and urgent. “It is not only my independence. There is my father, he leans on me for companionship, to run the household, help him plan events and act as hostess. Who would take care of Sammy? I am like a mother to him. The thought of leaving…”
