by Amy Quinton
He held up a hand in the universal sign of “Shut up and listen a moment.”
“Grace, no one suspects your father had anything to do with the duke’s death.”
She, having sat forward in her outrage, leaned back in her seat and crossed her arms again. “The current duke most certainly does. Do you not recall his inquisition at Stonebridge Park? The one where he all but made the same such accusations against my father?”
“I do recall, and in his defense, he had to ask the hard questions—it’s his job. Do you honestly think he enjoyed it?”
“It certainly seemed that way at the time, yes.”
“Trust me. I doubt he found any delight in it at all. Now, let’s get back to the point, shall we? We have since confirmed that your father and the old duke were friends and had been since their time together at Oxford.”
“So, the information in my lockbox, the duke’s research notes, has some bearing on a case you both are involved in now?”
At his affirmative nod, she continued, “And has the information proven useful?”
“The evidence does not paint the full picture, no, and most of it is conjecture, but it does give us some direction. It’s a starting point.”
It all sounded quite ominous.
“So what is your motive in telling me all this? Why not just lie and say the lockbox was empty like Stonebridge commanded you to do? I would have believed you, you know. Probably.”
That thought was unnerving. She certainly had an awful lot of faith in him. Was it misplaced?
“I know. I can be quite convincing even when I am being judicious with the truth.” They both laughed at that. “And I had hoped that, assuming your responses to my tale were responsible and reasonable, one day in the future, should it be necessary, we might prevail upon you to assist us with our investigation.”
She was quite surprised by that.
“As in…spy for you?”
“If it is required, then, perhaps.”
“How…em, why me? I’m not sure I see how I could even begin to help you.”
“That’s because I haven’t told you anything. Generally speaking, there’s not a lot I can tell you at the moment; however, I will say that our inquiry centers on your uncle.”
She broke eye contact and looked down at the ribbon in her hand, which had started to fray due to her fidgeting. Her hands were shaking. She feared her uncle.
But she strengthened her resolve and looked up at Dansbury; the shredded ribbon dropped to her lap, all but forgotten.
“What would you have me do?”
“Good girl,” he said with respect. “For now, just be you, beautiful you. I’ll let you know if or when we need your help. But in the meantime, you must steer clear of the earl.”
“Done and done. Now, about my bookstore…”
“Ahhh, yes. I’m working on it; however, I can say with supreme confidence that it will be back in your possession soon enough.”
She sighed dramatically before smiling and saying, “Liar.”
“Grace, I mean it; you’ll have your place back.”
“Oh, that I don’t doubt. I mean the other bit. The part about you working on it? You were lying: I could tell, but it doesn’t signify. I believe the rest of it, and that’s what matters, doesn’t it?”
“Undoubtedly.” He checked the road behind him and clucked to the horses. Their carriage moved forward with a jerk.
“Well, since we’ve exhausted those unpleasant subjects for the time being, why don’t we continue on our ride and enjoy the rest of our afternoon? How about another pass through the park, shall we?”
“Lead on, sir.”
* * * *
As Dansbury and Grace drove on, the couple failed to notice Stonebridge, across the way, watching them. Grace chattered on animatedly, while Dansbury drove, markedly enchanted by Grace’s zest for life.
The duke’s envy flared hot and bright. He wanted desperately to run across the street, heedless of the scandal, and carry her away. From his best friend, who he knew was an honorable man. Obviously, he restrained himself from behaving so brashly, but deep inside, his jealousy burned, making him want to scream aloud at the injustice of it all.
“Darling.”
He tried not to recoil at the grating sound of Beatryce’s voice as she attempted to reclaim his attention.
“Look over there. It’s Dansbury and Grace out for their drive. They invited me to go, of course, to chaperone, but you know I didn’t want to feel like an interloper. I think we might have a budding romance in the works—at least if Grace has anything to say about it—and I promised her I would give her a chance, if the opportunity arose, for some private time with Lord Dansbury—if you know what I mean?” She said the last with a hearty measure of innuendo.
He hoped her question was rhetorical, for he was too astounded to reply. He had always suspected something might be developing between them, but to hear it confirmed? It made him feel…lost. Bleak. He would give anything at that moment to be somewhere else, someone else. Never had he ever wanted to be someone else until he had met Grace Radclyffe.
Further, he had never before been envious of his best friend, but now his resentment was intense. Fortunately, Beatryce wasn’t expecting a response, and she carried on talking without caring or considering whether or not he was attending. Which was fine because he couldn’t respond rationally just now.
He focused on his inner turmoil and failed to notice the smug smile on Beatryce’s face as she spoke. Nor did he take time to consider that after yesterday’s scene in the dress shop, Grace and Beatryce were not likely to be speaking to each other, much less going on an outing together. Envy had a bad habit of polluting one’s thoughts.
However, his jealousy fizzled out as quickly as it started as he homed in on a shady character standing at the narrow opening of a nearby alleyway. The man was clearly out of place and trying to be inconspicuous, but failing miserably. He was dressed like a gentleman, though his demeanor was rough, more like a hired thug than a man about Town.
The stranger looked to be haggling with a dirty street urchin, a young boy of about seven or eight, while occasionally marking the carriages as they passed. At one point, the man nodded to the boy, and they appeared to come to some sort of understanding.
The gentleman-cum-thug flashed a coin, and the boy nodded his agreement just as the older man looked up and froze, his gaze trained on something in the distance. He tilted his head toward the road as he said something to the boy, who also turned to look.
The duke followed their gaze, his intuition screaming to life as he recognized Cliff’s curricle drawing near. He didn’t hesitate; he leapt from his curricle and ran, ignoring Beatryce’s gasp of outrage and the sounds of shock from nearby pedestrians.
He ran harder than he’d ever run in his life, his hands knifing the air as he pumped his legs faster and faster. The sound of his boot heels striking the cement throbbed in his head with each step. The guttersnipe was on the move ahead of him, running directly for the road and Cliff’s oncoming curricle.
This was going to be close.
He sidestepped pedestrians and walking sticks as he sprinted down the walk. He lost his hat at his first dodge of a twirling parasol. He leapt over a trash can, a gift from a dog and one awkwardly placed park bench in his haste. He was little more than a few steps behind his quarry now, but it felt like a thousand feet and a million inanimate objects separated them.
He managed to grab ahold of the boy mere moments before he would have stepped off the pavement in front of Grace’s carriage; the boy’s intention had been to spook the horses.
He spun himself and the boy, putting their backs to the carriageway. It was quite easy, for the boy weighed next to nothing. He set the squirming, smelling, foul-mouthed child down, though he kept a hold on the boy’s filthy shirt.
“What is your name, boy?”
The urchin stopped squirming, probably due to surprise, and answered, “John Paul Smith, mi
lord.” Then his eyes widened in fear. It was obvious he had told the truth out of habit.
He expected the boy to struggle and pull away in an attempt to escape. What he didn’t expect was the boy to rush him and kick him in the shin instead. He let go in surprise.
Damn, but that kid has some nerve. I just saved his life.
It was sad, really, what the hungry would attempt for very little coin.
Stonebridge chose not to give chase. Instead, he bent over at the waist and attempted to catch his breath. He rubbed his abused shins while he felt the muscles in his thighs twitch from his exertions. It took only a moment for him to recover—he was physically fit after all—and when he could breathe normally again, he straightened, turned around, and looked up to see Cliff and Grace looking down from their ride. Grace was on her feet showing more than a little concern.
Of course, he only had eyes for Grace.
She stood above him like an ethereal fairy amidst mere mortals. Tendrils of escaped hair blew gently in the breeze, and her eyes were wide pools of blue as she gazed at him in relief and obvious thanks. She recognized the danger they had been in and his herculean efforts to see her safe. He wanted to shout with unrestrained joy to see her look upon him so favorably. He was an animal, with heightened senses and excitement pulsing through his blood.
He barely noticed the men nearby who patted him on the back in support of his heroism. At the moment, he only cared about Grace and what thoughts possessed her mind.
All too soon reality intruded. Hell, he had left Beatryce spitting mad in his own curricle a few hundred yards back, and he had completely forgotten her. It was worth her wrath, of course, and he would do it all over again even if given the chance to think about it ahead of time, but alas, he had to return to her at once.
He bowed to Grace, never once uttering a word aloud, then looked to Cliff, who as expected, kept his horses under tight control. Their silent exchange said they would discuss this later. Tonight.
Crisis momentarily adverted, he returned to his own carriage and the dragon seething within.
Chapter 20
The Russell Ball…
One week later…
Grace tried—with little success—to keep from fidgeting. Her dress was already wrinkled from her fiddling hands. It was the night of the Russell Ball—the first ball of the season and her first ball ever—and she was nervous with anticipation. She tried to turn her anxiety into enthusiasm, for these events with Lady Harriett would be her only chance to experience this side of life, and it would be a relatively short experience—over all too soon. A month from now, she would be home, in Oxford, and her time here would be but a distant memory.
This evening, she was attired in a simple yet elegant ivory dress she'd designed and made herself with the help of Bessie. She was especially thrilled to wear it as the material was of the finest quality silk she had ever beheld, much less owned. The fabric was a gift from Lady Harriett and purchased right here in London on Bond Street. She had never before owned anything so fine.
Her long tresses were drawn up into a particularly nice coif by a maid of Lady Harriett’s who was skilled at dressing hair. The maid had woven a strand of pearls and sapphires into her coiffure—the jewels borrowed from Lady Harriett’s vast collection of gems.
Grace also wore sapphire earrings and a matching necklace—likewise on loan from Lady Harriett—and the blue hue of the gems coordinated perfectly with the simple, blue velvet ribbon tied beneath her breasts, all of which brought out the color of her eyes. A length of ivory tatted lace from Bessie adorned the short sleeves and neckline, completing the ensemble.
She felt like Cinderella on her way to the prince’s ball, and she couldn’t help but imagine what Stonebridge would do when he saw her. Would he seek her out across the crowded ball room and ask her to dance? Would he compliment her on her dress, her beauty? So, perhaps she was being vain, but she couldn’t help it. A part of her soul was desperate to bewitch the duke even though her head knew it was a pointless endeavor.
Dansbury arrived to escort her and Lady Harriett to the ball, promptly on time as usual, and she was satisfied by the dumbfounded look on his face when he saw her. She felt like the proverbial cat who got the cream, and her nerves relaxed in response. Now, if only the duke would be similarly awestruck.
She was a little ashamed of her prideful vanity, but she wanted badly to impress the duke, and knowing she looked fine greatly boosted her confidence and enthusiasm. It also helped ease some of her tension.
The carriage ride from Lady Harriett’s house on Belgrave Square to the Russell mansion on Grosvenor Square was relatively short, and Grace wondered about their early departure. However, as they turned the corner and Grosvenor Square came into view, she saw the reason for it. The carriage line around the square was extensive. Carriages were lined horse to rear wheels on both sides of the street and around all four sides of the square. The sound of horses whinnying, horseshoes striking cobbles, drivers and footman calling out to each other, and guests gossiping as they made their way up the pavement created a cacophony of noise that echoed oddly through the square. This ball was going to be a veritable crush, and her eagerness for attending it made the wait interminable.
She peered out her window and looked about in awe at all the people, especially the ladies with their ostentatious dresses. She was not unfamiliar with the latest fashions, of course, for she was going to be a dressmaker herself, but she only ever really saw the latest evening wear by looking at fashion plates from magazines and her own charcoal drawings. Certainly, she was familiar with the limited society about Oxford, but this was London. Seeing the ladies, the crème de la crème of the ton, in all their glorious colors and sparkling gems, was an altogether different experience from the guild teas and afternoon assemblies in Oxford.
For a moment, she thought she spied a familiar face in the crowd, but then the lady turned, and it was not someone she knew. However, the incident reminded her of the possibility of encountering the Becketts at this ball, and a little of her nervousness returned. She honestly didn’t know how she would react if she were to see them here. The letter from her uncle and her limited knowledge of Dansbury and Stonebridge’s investigation made her edgy about what to expect. In her mind, she imagined all sorts of different scenarios: her quivering in fear from a verbal set-down by the earl to her triumphantly giving them all the cut direct before being swept away into a scandalous waltz with the duke. That particularly pleasant dream currently occupied her thoughts, but was interrupted when the carriage door was opened in front of the Russell mansion by an attending footman. All too soon Dansbury, who had stepped out first, was reaching back in to assist her.
She was surprised to see that the pavement from the street to the door was covered with a red carpet, and that a dozen torches were lined up on either side. There was a slight warm breeze that blew the little tendrils of hair about her neck and carried with it the smell of perfumed water and burning torches. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell, and with the light from the numerous torches casting wavering shadows and sparkling lights from the myriad of ladies’ gems, the air had a magical quality to it—which filled her with a hopeful sense of anticipation.
Once inside the main doors, her breath was stolen by the beauty and opulence of the main foyer. A glistening chandelier with hundreds of sparkling crystals and five tiers of candles hung in the two-story room that was larger than her drawing room in Oxford.
Beneath the chandelier was a large and round mahogany table upon which sat a magnificent ice sculpture of two swans intertwined and what seemed like a thousand red candles. The candles were scattered haphazardly about the table’s surface. The entire foyer was black and white marble and paneled mahogany. Expensive and grandiose.
Two grand curved staircases, one on either side of the foyer, were covered with more of the same red carpeting from outside, and at the top was a long balcony that opened to the foyer below. She could see three sets of double doors, al
l ajar, along the back wall of the balcony that led to the ballroom. She could just make out the occasional swirl of a lady’s dress through the openings. Near the middle set of doors, the hosts for tonight’s fete greeted guests.
Grace could not conceive of what it must be like, living day to day with this sort of luxury, and though it was all brow-raising impressive, it also seemed like such a waste, really. So many people had so little, and yet these people seemed to have so much more than they could ever need in ten lifetimes. It left her feeling thoughtful.
The sounds above and around her were quite loud and distracting, thoroughly halting her inward reflection. Yet above the murmur of voices, she could just make out the sweet sound of a violin, and she could not stop herself from tapping her toes to the music as she waited in the receiving line that was so long it trailed down the stairs to the ground floor. She touched her hand to the brass railing, smooth and warm from the hands of so many guests, as her party made their way up the stairs. She looked everywhere, trying to take it all in while telling herself she was not looking for a certain dark-haired duke.
Twenty minutes later, Grace, Dansbury and Lady Harriett stood just over the threshold of the ballroom, taking in the scene. Several hundred people filled the room. Groups of guests stood clustered amidst dozens and dozens of potted plants around the perimeter of the room, while roughly a third danced in its center. The room was rectangular in size, with Grace and her party standing in the middle of one of the long sides. The opposite side held three sets of French doors leading to the back gardens, all of which were open to allow much needed fresh air into the room. Three chandeliers, double in size to the one in the foyer, hung from a three-storied ceiling painted with cherubs and angels. The walls were paneled, like the foyer, but this time they were painted white with gilded trim.
On the left wall of the room were more double doors leading to what promised to be a sizable buffet. Grace could scarcely take it all in.
“Dansbury, I see the Dowager Duchess of Lyme in the far corner. Take me there and then you may dance with Grace,” said Lady Harriett.
