by Amy Quinton
Beatryce would be out of luck today.
Suddenly, Beatryce’s innocuous grin returned as if she hadn’t just been viciously cruel. “If you need anything, Grace, please let me know. I am perfectly willing to lend you some of my old things if you have need of them. In fact, just tell your maid to find mine, and she will be happy to help yours out in any way necessary.” Beatryce said it all with a look that suggested nothing whatsoever could help, and with that thought left hanging in the air, she glided out of the room with a mostly concealed smirk. Her words were ironic in light of this morning’s theatrics over the dancing slippers.
Grace wrapped her robe tightly about her as she slid to the floor; her knees finally giving away their strength. She was stunned and horrified over what had just happened. Why, oh why had she not leaped to action and prevented Beatryce from throwing her beloved journal in the fire? Or at the very least said something, anything, in some attempt to redirect Beatryce from her intent? She was used to Beatryce’s mercurial mood changes, but she still couldn’t understand them. My God, the loss of my work…It was still too unbelievable to fathom.
Grace cried in earnest now that she was alone. Her eyes were drawn to the fire, and her vision blurred from the moisture as she watched the pages with her sketches on them curl and burn. All her designs? Gone. All those dreams on paper, stemming all the way back to when she was a young girl dreaming of her future? Fuel for the fire. A lifetime lost in but a brief moment in time. Then there were the silly little notes from her parents: words of encouragement offered up when her doubts threatened to overwhelm her confidence.
The room was brighter now as the fire was bolstered from the added fuel. How curious it was to see the fire flare with brightness, when the added light was the result of destruction that might lead to dark times in Grace’s future, should she not find a way to recover from her losses today.
Grace pulled herself together. She wiped her eyes on the edge of her robe as she thought about what to do. She was a woman of strong will and knew she couldn’t allow this setback to defeat her, and as the light began to dim whilst the last of the pages turned to ash, she knew she would persevere because no one could forcibly take away her hope or determination to succeed.
* * * *
“Ambrose Philip Langtry, by my eyes,” boomed Clifford Ross, Dansbury.
Stonebridge, who had been gazing out the windows of the private sitting room adjoining his bedroom, glanced over his shoulder. He obviously hadn’t heard the door, engrossed as he was in his private thoughts.
Cliff sauntered across the room. His friend smiled at him, raised his brow in question, but didn’t rise in greeting. And without saying a word, the duke turned back around and resumed his study of the view outside.
Cliff was not offended. They had been friends for far too long. He proceeded directly to a side board to procure them both a drink.
“Yes, I had a pleasant journey south, thanks for asking,” he said with a devilish grin as he walked across the room. His smile was lost to Ambrose’s back.
“Hmmm? Oh, yes, wonderful, wonderful,” responded Ambrose, perfectly distracted.
Ambrose? Preoccupied? This was new. Ambrose was the most focused man in existence. Cliff abandoned his plans for a drink and approached his friend instead. He considered his friend’s profile as he said, “Yes, ahem, well, my mother fell in a ditch, you see, and I thought perhaps I should finally just pay the Prince Regent to haul her away. Clap her in irons and place her in the Tower, I say. She is far too much trouble to be sure, what? Ten pounds ought to do it, I should think. What think you, Ambrose?” He tried valiantly to keep a straight face as he watched his friend for any sign of awareness. Not only had he spoken utter nonsense, but he had spoken like a complete dandy, which was uncharacteristic of him and Ambrose knew it.
“Hmmm? For certain, yes, excellent decision,” replied the duke without a blink.
“Ambrose!” That should get his attention.
“What?”
“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said. What’s going on? You seem distracted.”
Ambrose pulled his fingers through his hair in agitation. “Nothing. Nothing at all. Everything will be just fine once this damned house party is over. That’s all.”
Hmmm…Ambrose Langtry, the Duke of Stonebridge, well known for his vocal eloquence and composed demeanor, was anything but calm at the moment. Curious. Cliff turned and headed to the bar after all.
“Here,” he said to his friend as he handed over a snifter half-filled with brandy. “It sounds like you might need this.”
“Indeed. Thanks,” replied Ambrose, again with that distracted air, but he wasn’t finished. “I’m not sure what has gotten into me, really. I think I just wish this party were through already, and I could continue on to my duties in town. I dislike jumping through these hoops to betroth myself to Beatryce. We’ve known each other for years and it is expected. Everyone knows. Why can’t we just make it so and move on? Yes, that was rhetorical.”
“Are you sure this betrothal is the right move for you just now?”
Ambrose stood and began to pace before the windows. “Of course I’m sure. I’ve known Lady Beatryce my entire life. She’s composed, prepared, beautiful, intelligent, graceful… Really, she’s the perfect duchess to stand by my side, host my parties, woo my political rivals…” Ambrose’s voice trailed off. Cliff couldn’t help but notice the emphasis placed on the word graceful. But the duke wasn’t finished. “And when this party is through, Lady Beatryce will head off to London with that cousin of hers and enjoy spreading the news of our impending nuptials, and that will be that.”
That cousin of hers?
“Cousin?” asked Cliff out loud. He was a good agent and had known his friend a long, long time. He knew how to pick out the meaningful words in his friend’s response.
“Yes. Cousin. One Miss Grace Radclyffe, daughter of Leanne and John Radclyffe, both deceased. Are you familiar with the name? For some unknown reason, I find myself wondering why I feel as if I should be familiar with that name.”
“I don’t recall anybody by that name.”
“From what I understand, Leanne, the mother, is…was…sister to Swindon’s first wife, Lady Florence Beckett, Lady Beatryce’s real mother. I believe Mr. Radclyffe was a commoner in trade, a bookseller, somewhere in Oxford, I think? Most importantly, Miss Radclyffe is a walking hazard to sane peoples everywhere.” Ambrose pointed his snifter as if warning of some dire threat. “This, I understand both through rumor and direct observation.”
Cliff watched and waited as his friend paused to sip his drink. He clearly had more to say on the subject. “Of this, I can say for certain, I shall be relieved to depart this madness on Sunday.”
Cliff chuckled. “Well, I, for one, cannot wait to meet this walking safety hazard. And it sounds like this week is going to be amusing, rather than the staid ton event I was expecting. In fact, I think I shall retire to my room to refresh myself posthaste. I wouldn’t want to miss a moment of tonight’s entertainment.”
“Hold! Might I assume there’s nothing new to report on the other matter?”
“Oh, you mean work? You actually want to discuss work? No. Nothing. I’ll check on our friendly neighborhood assassin this evening. I plan to steal away after dinner.”
“Excellent. Keep me posted.”
And like that, Ambrose was preoccupied again, which was quite unusual to say the least.
Hmmm…This week might prove to be most interesting indeed.
Chapter 6
The Drawing Room, Beckett House…
That evening before dinner…
“So, Stonebridge, where is the infamous cousin I’ve been dying to meet?” asked Cliff, sotto voce.
“She’s not here. Believe me, you’ll know she’s arrived when you hear the disturbance,” replied Ambrose, not willing to admit that he, too, had been looking for her dark head from the moment he walked into the drawing room to mingle before dinner. Self-prese
rvation should not be underrated.
As if summoned by their conversation, Miss Radclyffe appeared in the doorway and it was as if the room had brightened with the addition of a hundred more candles. Ambrose was speechless. The word that came to mind was: lovely. She was just that. Lovely. Her hair was simply arranged in a small bun atop her head with a few wisps pulled down to grace her neck and frame her face. Her dress was unadorned and blue to match her eyes. It was modestly cut and perhaps a little outdated and worn, but it fitted her lithe form to perfection. She was one of those women who would look lovely in rags, and she quite unexpectedly took his breath away.
Damn, but I really need to get a hold of myself.
She caught his eye and smiled, and if the earth had opened up and swallowed them whole, he would not have noticed as long as she did not break the connection. He was halfway across the room to her before he realized he had moved. He checked himself before he looked the complete fool, drawing on the self-control he had spent the last seventeen years perfecting.
So smoothly no one could possibly have noticed with the possible exception of Cliff, he readjusted his stride and approached Lady Beatryce who, fortunately, had entered the room behind Miss Radclyffe. He mentally winced when he realized he hadn’t even noticed her arrival.
“Lady Beatryce, how beautiful you look this evening. I must say that color of green becomes you immensely.” Perhaps he laid it on a little too strongly in some bizarre attempt to apologize for his cheating mind.
“Oh, Your Grace, how kind of you to say so,” replied Beatryce with a small smile. She flashed a coquettish look through her lashes, one she probably practiced in front of a mirror on a daily basis. It likely brought lesser men to their knees. Unfortunately, he was unaffected by her wiles.
“Your Grace,” inserted Lady Beatryce’s mother, “I hope your stay has been comfortable and agreeable, thus far. Truly, it is an honor for you to grace us with your presence. Thank you so very much for attending our small but exclusive gathering.”
“Indeed, the honor is all mine,” he replied, in no way revealing his inner thoughts.
There was a slight, almost uncomfortable pause in conversation while he waited for the countess to introduce him to her niece as manners dictated. It took every ounce of his self-control to maintain an unconcerned air and pretend as if every cell in his body were not completely attuned to Grace’s presence nearby.
“Oh, Your Grace, I almost forgot; pray excuse my lapse in manners. May I present my niece, Miss Grace Radclyffe? Grace, may I introduce His Grace, the Duke of Stonebridge?”
“Miss Radclyffe, it is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
He lifted her hand to his lips. If anything, his manners were impeccable. Inside, nothing existed but the two of them. The air was charged with an electric current reminding him of that feeling in the air just before a lightning strike. The charge blanked his mind completely, and he nearly forgot to let go of her hand. And she forgot to curtsey or even respond to his polite greeting at all. He might have been the only one to notice besides Grace. Beatryce and the countess were too focused on him to pay Grace any mind.
For an instant it seemed as if she, too, had noticed the charge in the air. He noticed her eyes flare with heat and untapped passion. He mentally shook himself and settled his mask of calm indifference firmly in place. He dropped her hand as if it would scald him. It certainly felt like it had.
A gong sounded, and for a minute, he wondered if it wasn’t his heart drumming loudly in his ears. Fortunately, that was not the case, and the sound of the gong meant dinner was ready. Ah, blessed relief. He was saved from trying to make small talk with someone who arrested his mind too completely at the moment. He just didn’t trust himself right now.
“Ladies, it has been a pleasure, but I believe as manners dictate, I must escort the Dowager Duchess of Lyme in to dinner. If you will excuse me?”
He didn’t wait for any of the appropriate inane responses, but turned quickly on his heel to attend the Dowager. He was loath to admit it, but he was inexplicably glad to be away from the countess’s censure. He wouldn’t admit he was too discomfited by Grace’s nearness to keep his composure intact, but honestly, it was with welcome relief that he sought out the Dowager to escort into the dining room.
* * * *
Grace looked about to see if anyone else was aware of the turbulent atmosphere. Her eye caught on a smiling, elderly woman sitting sideways on a settee across the room. She was a handsome, wiry woman and obviously petite because her legs dangled girlishly over the side of the settee without even brushing the floor. The mystery lady leaned forward on the cane she had perched in front of her as she thoroughly inspected Grace from head to toe. The woman was colorful in a bright blue dress with a tangerine orange crocheted shawl, which emphasized her faded ginger hair peeking out beneath a wreath of feathers encompassing her head. But what struck Grace the most was the fact that the lady seemed to have a decidedly mischievous look about her. Especially when she caught Grace’s eye and winked. Grace blushed in return, unsure of how to respond.
As the guests lined up for the promenade into the dining room, Grace stood back to allow the nineteen other diners to line up ahead of her. Firstly, with her penchant for mishaps, it was best that she allow a room to clear before she attempted to cross it. Secondly, with her lowly status compared to the other guests, she would most likely be entering last anyway, and she had no idea who her escort was supposed to be. Thirdly, she wanted to remain as far away from the disturbing duke as possible.
As she watched the gentleman find their dinner partners amidst the crowd, she noticed a tall, blonde man with laughing brown eyes headed in her direction. Despite walking in the opposite direction from the majority of the crowd, he proceeded across the room with absolute ease. Everyone automatically made way for this man as if directed by an unseen hand. Oh, she was envious at how easily he maneuvered through the throng of guests. He had a friendly, open smile on his face, and for a moment, she had the silly thought that he might be making his way to her.
“Miss Radclyffe?” he queried as he neared.
She looked behind herself. She still couldn’t believe this man was actually seeking her out, but of course, no one else was on her side of the room and he had used her name. She looked at him with a hesitant smile.
“Yes?”
“Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Clifford Ross, the Marquess of Dansbury, at your service.”
“A pleasure, my lord,” she replied with a gracious smile. Unlike the duke, this man’s open and welcoming countenance put her immediately at ease, as if she had known him for years. Strange, but true.
“Would you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you to dinner?”
“Is that proper, my lord? I mean I am…” her voice trailed off, unsure of what to say, really, without sounding gauche.
“Oh, I’ve known Stonebridge too long to care what he thinks about my manners and I certainly couldn’t care less about anyone else’s here with the exception of my aunt, but then she’s never been one to play by the rules herself and she knows me far too well. No. I am simply here to enjoy a week with my closest friend and it would be infinitely more enjoyable with the company of a beautiful lady, such as yourself, beside me at what is sure to be an otherwise tedious dinner. Besides, apart from my Aunt Harriett, the impish looking lady in the brightly colored shawl just rising from the settee over there, the remaining old biddies here can take a…”
She interrupted him with a laugh. She couldn’t help it. He truly did not seem to care about the rules and his pleasant demeanor was just what she needed at the moment. Clearly, the colorful lady with the wink was this man’s aunt, and they were obviously two of a kind.
“Not that my aunt is an old biddy,” he added.
“Oh? And what would your call her then?”
He looked across the room at his aunt as she rose from the settee with her escort in hand—as if giving the matter serious thought b
efore saying, “A dragon. A rascally, harmless, colorful dragon. But a dragon, nonetheless. Now, how about our walk into dinner? Shall we rattle the duke’s cage and set the biddies’ tongues to wagging?”
“I’m sure I’m supposed to walk in with…”
“Oh, I already spoke to your escort and assured him that Lady Beatryce would be delighted if he would escort her to dinner.”
Grace nearly exploded with laughter. She could just imagine how Beatryce felt about that. And his mischievousness must be contagious for Grace surprised herself by saying, “Well, when you put it that way…why not, my lord?”
“Please, call me Dansbury. When you say ‘my lord’, I have the sudden urge to look over my shoulder for my father.”
“Well, if you insist, my…er Dansbury,” she answered with a wide grin.
“Right, now that we have that sorted, let us proceed to dinner, shall we? I suspect we’re in for a marvelous time of it.”
And as she put her hand on his arm, Grace thought that perhaps this week might not be so bad after all.
* * * *
Grace was laughing at one of Dansbury’s jokes as they entered into the dining room, her hand on his arm. She stopped laughing when she realized everyone in the room, save for the duke and Beatryce, were seated, and all were watching her as if she were some obscene picture on display. Or perhaps some foul offal one picked off from under one’s shoe. No one uttered a word.
She dipped her head to hide her face from the curious stares and tried to ignore the tinge of heat she felt creeping up her neck and filling her cheeks. It wouldn’t do to faint from embarrassment. Not that she had ever fainted in her life. It bothered her that she was so prone to blushing and hadn’t mastered the skill of maintaining a calm, cool façade while under scrutiny. Papa had always said her blushing was a sign of innocence and a heart filled with love and passion. Besides her mother and Bessie, no one else ever appeared to return that sentiment.
Eventually, conversation resumed as the footman entered with the first course. Grace was delighted to find herself seated next to the marquess and far away from His Boorishness, the duke. Not that there was a chance in hell she would have been seated by him. In fact, the more she considered it, she realized it was odd that Dansbury was not nearer to his friend, or that he was even sitting by her at all.
