by Donna Hatch
“Sir.” His greeting carried some hidden meaning, but she was at a loss as to decipher what.
Her father extended a hand. “It appears I am, once again, in your debt, Mr. Amesbury. Indeed, I can never repay the service you rendered to my daughter and my sister yesterday.”
Mr. Amesbury took the hand, his features schooled into perfect impassiveness. “I’m glad the outcome was not more serious.”
“It would have been, if you hadn’t come to their aid. How can I thank you properly?”
Mr. Amesbury blinked as if unaccustomed to such an outpouring of gratitude. “No need. Their safety is enough. I enjoy administering a bit of justice now and again.”
The corner of his mouth twitched and an unholy gleam shimmered in the hardness of his eyes. For a fleeting moment, a vision of Grant Amesbury hunting down the criminal who’d attacked her and exacting some form of vengeance upon him flashed through her mind. He was like a rogue knight with his own code of honor and his own methods of justice. But that was a silly fantasy. Men like that lived in the Middle Ages, not in today’s world.
Papa tilted his head as he regarded Mr. Amesbury. “We are having a house party next week. We’ll have archery and fencing tournaments as well as riding, fishing, shooting. Perhaps a little cricket. We may have a few political discussions as well. We’d be pleased if you’d join us.”
“It sounds like a pleasant diversion,” Mr. Amesbury replied. This time he was all courtesy. “I accept.”
“Grand. I thought you the type who would enjoy such activities. Nice to get out of London for a while, too.”
They discussed details while Jocelyn mentally worked out the sleeping arrangements for next week. She could put Grant Amesbury in the west wing, in the green room. He might appreciate the masculine décor, and she doubted he cared that it failed to offer a view of the gardens. She’d move Doctor Blake to the red room—smaller, more ornately decorated, and a view.
“I look forward to it, sir,” Mr. Amesbury said.
Jocelyn led him to other gentlemen in attendance. “And you remember Mr. Dawson from the ball, of course.”
Mr. Amesbury seemed to grow even more alert, and his darting gaze probed deeper into Mr. Dawson’ face. He inclined his head in a brief bow. “Yes, of course. You are advocating for Fairley to be the best prime minister, if I recall.”
“Of course I do.” Mr. Dawson sniffed. “He’d do a better job than that monkey in the seat now.”
Mr. Amesbury asked casually, “You don’t view Mr. Redding as a candidate?”
Dawson waved off his question. “Not at all. He’s not strong enough get our country back on track after the war.”
Mr. Amesbury digested that information. “I agree the current prime minister should be removed posthaste. It’s a wonder we’ve put up with him for as long as we have.”
“It is my hope after the king’s coronation we can recommend Fairley to His Majesty.”
“How likely do you think that is?”
Dawson straightened. “It’s not all in my hands. If it were, there would be no question.”
Jocelyn studied Mr. Amesbury’s profile, fascinated with his cautious probing. He was so solemn, so intense. If only he’d smile. But no, perhaps it was best he didn’t. He’d probably be so handsome she would be rendered unable to utter an intelligent word.
When the butler opened the door to announce dinner, she said quietly, “I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Amesbury, but I’ve seated you next to me.”
He blinked as if he’d forgotten she stood next to him. “Why would I mind?”
She huffed out a self-deprecating laugh. “You seemed a bit ill at ease yesterday when you came for tea.”
His pale gray eyes passed over her. Again came that intensity. His hard edges softened. “Not because I object to your company, Miss Fairley.”
It was ridiculous, really, the warmth that wrapped around her like a blanket at his words. She probably grinned like some kind of silly schoolgirl. His crusty, protective barrier returned in his posture and his expression. How long would it take her to break open his emotional armor and find the real Grant Amesbury?
Dinner passed uneventfully with conversation that shifted between politics to gossip to the growth of America. Mr. Amesbury ate silently, alert as a watchdog but offering very little comment. He moved his hands beautifully as if performing some kind of dance as he ate and lifted his glass to drink, each motion a study in seamless grace. His posture remained utterly still as if he were encased in a bubble and any sudden movement might pop it, yet poised to leap to his feet if necessary. Years of war must have made wariness a part of life.
Jocelyn tried to imagine the kind of danger he must have endured, but all the stories she’d heard were likely transparent echoes of the true horrors brave Englishmen faced. The thought tugged at her heart, urging her to offer him comfort, a gesture he would, no doubt, soundly reject.
Once the guests finished dessert, Jocelyn stood and raised her glass. As the assembly followed her lead, she said, “A toast to my father. With a little luck, the future Prime Minister of England.”
A chorus of, “Hear, hear” rang out and all glasses raised to her father.
They drank and she held up a hand of entreaty. “Ladies, if you’ll follow me?”
As she stepped away from her chair, she nodded to Mr. Amesbury. For a second, she faltered under his focused stare. Was that desire in his gaze? Admiration? Or did he find her no more important than a vase? She longed to ask him what he was thinking but doubted he’d be open enough to tell her. He returned her nod briefly. Remembering herself, Jocelyn led the ladies out of the room to leave the men to their brandy. All the while, she puzzled over the mystery of the intriguing Grant Amesbury and his many secrets.
Chapter 9
Seated at the Fairley’s dinner table, Grant sat back and toyed with the stem of his glass, leaving it largely untouched so as not to cloud his head. With the ladies gone, conversation turned to politics. As far as Grant could determine, all tonight’s guests served in Parliament. He watched Fairley work the room using the right balance of charm, humor, and intelligence. Based on the nods, smiles, and thumping on the table with the occasional ‘hear, hear,’ gentlemen liked Fairley and agreed with the points he made. Dawson, in particular, supported Fairley enthusiastically.
Despite the condemning evidence against him, Fairley didn’t seem desperate enough to want to kill the prime minster so he could take his place. But one of the informants had named Fairley in connection with the conspiracy—not to mention Barnes’ famous instincts—so Grant had better not make the mistake of allowing his opinion to distract him from his mission.
As conversation waned, Fairley spread his hands. “Gentlemen, shall we join the ladies?”
A chorus of agreement accompanied the scraping of chairs as men stood and followed the host out of the dining room toward the drawing room.
Grant sidled up to Dawson. “I must admit, I’m convinced Fairley is the man for the job. Too bad there isn’t a way to guarantee his success.”
Dawson’s gaze slid to Grant. “Too bad, indeed. But I have every confidence the best man will win this one.”
“I hope you’re right. I only wish I had the power to help you make that come to pass.”
“As do I. He’s like a brother to me; there’s no length I wouldn’t go for him—and for his family.”
“He’s fortunate to have such a loyal friend.”
Dawson inclined his head. Grant let the subject drop, content to let the seed germinate in Dawson’s mind that Grant might be a possible candidate for their secret club sworn to remove the prime minister and make way for Fairley to step into the role. If Fairley were part of the conspiracy, surely his closest friend was, as well.
The men joined the ladies who sat chatting comfortably. Miss Fairley sat next to an attractive woman he recognized from the ball a few nights’ past—Lady Everett, if he remembered correctly. Fairley went to the woman’s side immediately,
and they conversed in low voices, their postures intimate. A love interest, possibly.
Fairley turned to address the group. “Ladies and gentlemen, shall we begin a game of whist? Ladies, choose your partners.”
Dawson called to Grant. “Come, Amesbury, do join us.” He introduced Grant to the couple present as Lord and Lady St. Cyr.
Grant inclined his head and took a chair. As the cards were dealt, he surreptitiously observed the men, St. Cyr especially, since he’d also received a covert message outside Westminster.
Lord St. Cyr cast a glance at Grant over the top of his cards. “Mr. Amesbury, I don’t recall seeing you at many social events.”
“I don’t often attend them,” Grant said.
Lady St. Cyr eyed him, her gaze pausing only briefly on his scar. “Not much interested in frivolous social functions?”
“Nothing that involves girls looking for husbands.” Grant allowed a wry smile.
While the others chuckled appreciatively, Dawson nodded toward the host’s daughter sitting at a table with three other ladies. “The only unmarried girl here is Fairley’s daughter, and she’s absorbed entirely on helping her father, not searching for a husband. At least, not this Season.”
“No?” Grant asked, in case any useful information about Fairley arose.
Dawson placed his bet. “She’s focused on being the perfect hostess and daughter. If I had a son old enough to wed, I’d send him her way. She’s a fine girl, very fine girl. Her head isn’t stuffed with all that nonsense like so many her age.”
Lord St. Cyr let out a sigh. “I have three daughters, and they do nothing but chatter about dresses and boys.”
Lady St. Cyr raised a brow and said defensively, “And sew and study French and play music and dance and draw…”
With a nod and a gesture of surrender, Lord St. Cyr acquiesced.
Dawson’s gaze flicked to Grant. “I’m well acquainted with your eldest brother. He’s a fine man, and his political views seem well aligned with Fairley’s.”
Lady St. Cyr put a hand on her chin. “Your brother is Lord Tarrington, is he not?”
“He is.” Grant nodded. Quickly, he added, lest the lady verbalize ideas about his eligibility for her afore mentioned daughters, “I don’t get into political discussions much with him, so I don’t know who he favors as prime minister.”
Dawson leaned back in his chair. “Have you ever thought of running for the House of Commons, Mr. Amesbury?”
“No, but after making your Mr. Fairley’s acquaintance, I’d almost be tempted to do it so I could take a seat and vote for him.”
“Politics is not for the faint of heart,” Lord St. Cyr said with a slight grimace. “It takes a strong constitution to endure all those speeches without falling asleep.”
Grant allowed the corners of his mouth to curve upward. Confident that his bait had been taken if these were indeed the conspirators, he played out the rest of game then made an excuse about an early appointment tomorrow and bade his farewells.
Miss Fairley rose to escort him to the door and saw to it that he got his hat and coat. Her smile was part teasing and part sympathetic, as if she sensed Grant’s discomfort in social gatherings. “I hope you enjoyed yourself, Mr. Amesbury.”
“More than I expected.” He faced her fully. “You really believe in your father, don’t you?”
Her eyes shone with undisguised admiration and affection. “He is the finest man I’ve ever known. Our country needs him. Besides,” she paused, “he is so much more alive since he decided to run. When Mr. Dawson first approached him about the office, my father was still so deeply grieving my mother’s death that he had faded away to a mere shadow of himself.” Her brows pulled together and some of the light left her eyes. Then she visibly brightened. “But when he found a new purpose, he became himself again.”
Grant turned over her words and explored them from all angles. “Every man needs a cause, something to live for.”
“That’s exactly right.”
“So it was Dawson’s idea?”
“Yes. He’s been such a devoted friend, always buoying up my father when he doubts himself.” She smiled, that persistent sunshine returning like a ray spearing the clouds. He’d seen her frightened and sad, but always quickly recovering to a state of joy.
Grant bowed. “Good night, Miss Fairley.”
He turned to go, but she touched his arm, a light touch, no more than the feathering brush of a butterfly. Still, he stiffened at the contact and withdrew. She blinked down at the thwarted contact as if searching for the source of his abruptness.
“Yes?” he prompted.
She faltered but seemed to draw from that endless well of happiness, and managed a sincere smile. “I look forward to seeing you at our house party.”
If Miss Fairley knew her father was his prime suspect, she wouldn’t be treating him with such kindness and familiarity. Her devotion to her father was clear. She’d be devastated when he brought her father to justice for conspiring to murder and treason. That Grant might play a part in dimming that ray of sun felt a tragedy. But better that than allowing a group of radicals commit murder.
“I look forward to it as well.” He inclined his head in farewell and left.
The touch of her hand still burned through his sleeve to his skin. A great pit of loneliness opened up inside him. He would never find joy to shine light into all the dark places of his soul.
No matter. He had work to do, and that required he become a creature of darkness.
Chapter 10
Jocelyn’s heart started an odd thumpity-thumpity when Grant Amesbury arrived at their country manor for the house party. It wasn’t as if she had any designs on him. In fact, he’d make a terrible husband—dark, closed, unfriendly, solitary, and he clearly didn’t like to be touched judging from the way he jerked out of her hand at the end of their dinner party. But she wanted to peel away the protective layers around him and determine whether he were truly as dark as he seemed, or if his heart were so tender that he kept it carefully locked away to protect it.
That was an interesting notion: he didn’t not feel; he was afraid to feel. She would consider that later. For now, she’d settle for trying to make him smile. She could make it a game. And it certainly wouldn’t hurt him. Very well, she’d go to any lengths to make the overly serious man smile.
He had cast off his all-black attire in favor of fawn breeches and a bottle-green coat. He stood in the doorway shouldering a large bag, glaring fiercely at a footman who visibly shrank from him.
Jocelyn drew a breath and called upon all her happiness, letting it bubble up to the top, and hurried forward to Mr. Amesbury, smiling as if he were her dearest friend. “Mr. Amesbury, I’m so happy you’ve arrived. I trust your trip was pleasant?”
“Tolerable. Thank you.” He raised a brow as if he found her mildly amusing, the way one views a puppy’s antics.
“Wonderful! Where are your trunks?”
He jerked his chin toward the bag on his shoulder. “This is everything I brought.”
She raised her eyebrows. “A man who travels light. How refreshing.” She gestured to the nearest footman. “Westley, please take Mr. Amesbury’s bag to the Green Room. I hope you like it,” she said to Mr. Amesbury. “It doesn’t have a fine view but it’s very comfortable. And the fireplace doesn’t smoke, so that’s an advantage.” She smiled brightly.
Mr. Amesbury paused. Had she been babbling?
“Thank you.” He surrendered the bag he’d been easily supporting on his broad shoulder.
The brawny footman let out an umph as he took the bag and practically staggered away with it.
“Are your horses and coach being seen to?”
Her taciturn guest nodded. “I rode on horseback, but the groom is seeing to my mount.”
“Shall you take some refreshment first, or would you like me to show you to your room?”
“My room, please.”
She swept an arm out and offered a wel
coming smile. “This way. I hope you aren’t afraid of ghosts, Mr. Amesbury, because we reportedly have one.”
“Oh?” He kept pace with her as she led the way up the large curving staircase.
“Yes, it haunts naughty children who get out of their beds. Or so my nursemaid told me.” She smiled, watching for signs of amusement in him.
One corner of his mouth twitched. Not exactly the smile she’d hoped for, but it was something. “A tale born of necessity, no doubt.”
“I hated bedtime. There was always something to do instead.”
“Such as?” He studied her as if he truly wanted to know.
“Oh, look at the stars, listen to the nightingale, search for signs that the dolls and toys really come alive at night. I used to lie so very still, hoping they’d think I was asleep, and then open one eye to see if I could catch them moving. When that proved fruitless, I’d go to the window to watch the gardens for signs of fairies. They come out in moonlight, you know.”
“You have a vivid imagination.” His voice wavered between amusement and disapproval.
“Didn’t you play make-believe as a child?” She pictured him as a little boy with black curls and serious gray eyes. Surely, he’d been more talkative and more inclined to smile as a child.
“I did.”
She waited.
His eyes softened. “I used to play in the gardens with my brothers. One tree in particular often served as a lookout tower or a ship.” He broke off and the hardness returned to his eyes. One hand curled into a fist. “It was a long time ago.”
The gardens. He must be thinking about the brother he lost in the gardens. How old had he been when tragedy struck?
She led him to his room and peered in, content to see a fire crackling in the grate and his bag resting against a clothes press. No valet had unpacked his things. “You didn’t bring a valet?”
“I brought a boy who does odd jobs, cleans, fetches dinner, does my laundry—that sort of thing. He isn’t really trained as a valet. He has only been with me for about a year, and my needs are simple. He’s probably still belowstairs.”
