Love Lost (Clean and Wholesome Regency Romance): Grace (The Stainton Sisters Book 3)

by Amy Corwin

  “How are you today, Mr. Dutton?” Grace smiled and was performing introductions when he cut her off.

  “I just wanted to say how sorry I was, Miss Stainton. That inquest, you see, well, I was just plain sorry.” His weather-beaten face tightened. “They had no call to talk about a lady like that—anyone can see a delicate little lady like you couldn’t do a thing like that.” He looked at Lord Glanville. “Maybe his lordship here can do something—he knows a lady like you wouldn’t do a thing like that. He must know that.”

  For some reason, Mr. Dutton’s fervent defense of her made Grace uncomfortable. She edged a step closer to Lord Glanville, wishing Mr. Dutton would drop the subject. Reviewing her behavior since returning from London, she sincerely hoped she hadn’t encouraged Dutton to form an attachment to her. She certainly hadn’t meant for him to misunderstand her friendliness for anything else.

  Glancing up at Lord Glanville, she was reassured by his relaxed, almost bored expression. He apparently saw nothing untoward in Mr. Dutton’s inexplicable defense of her.

  “You need not worry about Miss Stainton’s welfare—” Lord Glanville said.

  “Not worry! With that Gribble poking his ignorant nose into the matter?” A harsh, bitter snort escaped from Mr. Dutton. “Just trying to look good, if you ask me. Already made up his mind, our good constable has. It’s clear to all what he’s thinking. Something’s got to be done about it—they’ve no call to blame you, Miss Stainton. No call at all.”

  Despite Lord Glanville’s faint smile, her breath caught in her throat. They’d said persons unknown at the inquest, hadn’t they? Wasn’t that the decision? Surely, that meant that Constable Gribble was still searching for the murderer. Or had Lord Glanville and Sir Horace ignored the truth and painted a rosier picture to avoid worrying her?

  If the constable thought she were guilty, he would stop investigating. That would be a disaster.

  Lord Glanville shifted his weight, and although he still wore a bland expression, she could feel the tension in his muscles.

  He’d lied to her! Did he even believe her when she said she was innocent? Or was he simply hoping to lull her into an admission by claiming he’d found evidence that someone else was involved? Is that why he’d been so kind to her after their dreadful first meeting?

  “Something is being done, Dutton. The real culprit will be found,” Lord Glanville said in a bored voice. His unconcerned gaze drifted past Dutton to the rolling meadow beyond.

  With a sinking heart, Grace realized that Lord Glanville had not agreed that she was innocent. He’d merely stated that the person responsible for Blyth’s death would be found.

  Which meant that even he had enough doubt about her innocence to avoid claiming that she would not be arrested.

  Mr. Dutton crushed his cap between rough hands and straightened, clearly regaining a measure of his self-control. “No innocent lady should suffer such accusations. That’s all I have to say.”

  “Then we are in agreement,” Lord Glanville said.

  Desperate to change the subject to something less fraught with emotion, Grace forced a laugh and tapped Mr. Dutton’s bony wrist. She recounted how she and Martha had gone to his house to make the acquaintance of his sister and been frustrated by the attempt.

  It was the first thing she could think of, and she worked hard to make an amusing story out of her embarrassment when she’d been informed by his neighbor that he had no sister!

  “Sister!” Mr. Dutton’s startled gaze moved from Grace to Lord Glanville and back.

  “Yes.” Still grinning like an idiot, Grace shook her head. “I was foolish not to realize that she must be married and living elsewhere. Is she nearby? Do you visit her often?”

  Mr. Dutton studied her, his big, rough hands turning his cap over and twisting it into a corkscrew, his mouth set in a grim line. “Not so near. No.”

  “Oh, I am sorry. I wanted to meet her. I am just so grateful to you both for Flossie—she is such a dear. Is your sister terribly far away?”

  “Whatley—about twelve miles from Bath,” he replied in the cadence of someone repeating a phrase by rote. His gaze flickered away. He slapped his cap against his thigh and stared at the path rising over a nearby hill.

  “Whatley…” The name seemed familiar to Grace. “Don’t I… Oh, wait! Isn’t Mr. Blyth from Whatley? I thought he mentioned it to me, once. What a coincidence!” With a shock, she pressed her fingers over her mouth, suddenly realizing that Mr. Blyth was deceased. Her pleased tone was hardly appropriate, even if it was due to her ability to remember where she’d heard the name of the village mentioned before. “I do beg your pardon—I am so sorry.” She reached out to touch Mr. Dutton’s arm. “Please, forgive me. I should never have… Well, it was simply thoughtless of me. I do hope you’ll forgive me, Mr. Dutton.”

  “Nothing to forgive, Miss Stainton. But I’d best be on my way, so I’ll say good day to you both.” Mr. Dutton placed his cap on his head. “My lord…” He nodded respectfully to them both and loped away, his jacket flapping around him.

  Grace turned toward Lord Glanville. “I truly am sorry. Do you think I offended him?”

  “No.” Lord Glanville replied meditatively, his gaze following Mr. Dutton until he passed out of sight behind the nearby hilltop. “How long has Dutton lived in Kendle?”

  “What?” Grace’s brow wrinkled. “Lived in Kendle? I don’t know. That is, he’d been here for several months before my father…” Her mouth tightened at the unexpected return of grief. She’d thought she’d gotten over his death. But at odd moments, when she hadn’t even been thinking about him, she’d feel a sudden stab of pain, a sense of profound loss that never seemed to heal.

  A boat cast adrift without an anchor…

  “Now I am the one who is sorry.” Lord Glanville’s mouth twisted as his blue eyes filled with sympathy.

  “No—it is quite all right.” She took a deep, calming breath and gazed at the verdant rolling hills and distant bluish-green line of trees. A few lazy bees buzzed over a small clump of yellow flowers and the lilting whistle of a bird’s song arose from the direction of the trees. So beautiful and peaceful and yet, it somehow failed to soothe her. “I remember Mr. Dutton came a few months ago. Why?”

  “Nothing. Now I am the one overindulging in curiosity.” He grinned at her.

  A handful of feathers swirled around her middle as his smile deepened. She glanced away quickly and tugged at his arm. Walking would clear her mind, and perhaps she could avoid saying anything else regrettable.

  It appeared that neither of them was in the mood to discuss the inquest any further, so in tacit agreement, they exchanged tales of acquaintances they held in common in London, instead. To Grace’s surprise, Lord Glanville had met the Polkinghornes a few times and expressed his condolences to her over Mr. Polkinghorne’s recent death.

  That was another subject she had no wish to explore.

  Their conversation soon languished, and they returned to Hornbeam Manor. Lady Branscombe met them on the garden terrace. Her hands fluttered distractedly and repeatedly to her hair, her cheeks were flushed, and she had a distinctly flustered appearance.

  “What is it, Lady Branscombe?” Grace stepped closer and gently took one of Lady Branscombe’s nervous hands between her own. “Has something happened?”

  “No, no.” Lady Branscombe glanced over her shoulder at the shadowy library beyond the French doors. She drew Grace a step closer to the garden as Lord Glanville stood nearby, watching them curiously. “It is simply…” She took a deep breath. “Your cousin has arrived.”

  “My cousin?” Grace stared at her.

  “Mr. Polkinghorne,” Lady Branscombe clarified, her left hand fluttering to touch a curl of hair hanging over her forehead. “He is asking for you.”

  “Oh, dear.” Only iron strength of will kept Grace from looking at Lord Glanville.

  Cousin Stephen was the last person she wished to see. He would be horrified when he heard of Mr. Blyth
’s untimely end, and his subsequent ineffectual meddling would no doubt make a muddle of everything. In fact, if he stayed, she’d most likely end up begging for the opportunity to be convicted and hung, rather than face one more day of his helpful interference.

  Not that she didn’t care for him. She loved all her cousins, even when they were at their most hysterical and trying. But after Mr. Dutton’s unexpected outburst, she was hoping to avoid any more overwrought scenes.

  After all, the right to be hysterical ought to belong to her after everything that had happened.

  “Does he know about…” Grace glanced from Lady Branscombe to Lord Glanville.

  He gazed at her, one brow raised and a half-smile of curiosity lifting the corner of his mouth.

  “Did you tell him about Mr. Blyth?” Grace asked.

  “I did not.” Lady Branscombe’s left hand touched her hair again, her fingers trembling. “I did not know what to say. He was very… distraught. He asked for you, Miss Stainton.” Lady Branscombe’s gaze fixed beseechingly on Grace. “I left him with your sister. They are in the library.” She glanced over her shoulder at the terrace doors again and edged another foot closer to the wide steps leading down to the garden. She exhibited the tense manner of someone wishing to flee from an overly emotional situation.

  “Distraught? Did you say that he was distraught?” Grace repeated. Had he already heard the news, then? Or was he just upset because of her sudden departure? Neither idea encouraged her to enter the library.

  Sensible Martha was precisely the right person to speak to him.

  “Perhaps you should speak to him, Miss Stainton.” Amusement lurked in Lord Glanville’s eyes as he caught her gaze.

  Perhaps you should mind your own business. Grace frowned at him—she refused to stoop to glaring—before she straightened her shoulders. Very well, then.

  Gaze fixed on the dreaded terrace doors, she pressed Lady Branscombe’s right hand between hers and released her. “Let me go inside and speak with him.” She flicked a glance at Lord Glanville. “I suppose you will be leaving us to attend to your own affairs, my lord.”

  “Oh, no. I took care of my most pressing business this morning. My entire afternoon is at your disposal.” Eyes twinkling, he smiled with offensive graciousness and bowed to Grace and Lady Branscombe.

  Letting out a long breath, Lady Branscombe returned his smile. Her hand fluttered to touch the lace adorning the square neckline of her pale gold morning gown. “How delightful.” She tucked her hand around Lord Glanville’s elbow and turned, leaving Grace to lead the way into the library.

  Feeling like a prisoner mounting the gallows, she entered the library. Blinking, she almost walked into the back of a chair before her eyes adjusted to the dimmer, cool light of the room.

  “Cousin Grace!” Stephen leapt to his feet. He rushed over, caught her hands in his, and pressed a damp kiss against her cheek.

  With an effort, she smiled and kept from wiping her face. “This is a surprise. How are you, Cousin Stephen?”

  “Much better now that I see you are well,” he answered fervently. He tried to pull her into his arms, but she resisted. Their awkward dance only ended when Grace nearly stepped on Lord Glanville’s toes.

  Lord Glanville gripped her shoulders and gently set her aside.

  Stephen’s fervent gaze remained fixed on Grace, and he scarcely seemed to notice Lord Glanville. Her cousin edged around to try to grasp her hands, but she clasped them behind her back.

  Bereft of his quarry, Stephen drew himself up to his full height. His hands tugged on his lapels in the self-important manner of an orator about to launch into a speech on a beloved topic.

  Wincing, Grace couldn’t help but compare the two men. Stephen’s head barely reached Lord Glanville’s broad shoulder, and the earnest expression on his face made him appear like a schoolboy doing his best to act like an adult. And from the way Lord Glanville’s lips twitched, he was struggling to hide his amusement.

  “Cousin Grace,” Stephen said in his best oracular style. “I am here because Mother—that is—I am here because it is clear that you are in need of the strong hand of a man who can guide and protect you. Your sister has been recounting the events of the last few days, and I must say, I have never heard such a shocking recital in my life! It must be clear to you that a husband’s firm guidance is desperately required.” His glance strayed to Lord Glanville. Stephen cleared his throat, raised his chin, and tugged at his lapels as he puffed out his thin chest. “We must be married at once!”

  “Married!” Grace stared at him, appalled at the thought. A choked laugh escaped her. “Why, you are only seventeen—”

  “I shall be eighteen in two weeks,” Stephen replied gravely. “And Mother supports the idea wholeheartedly.”

  “I’m sure she does, but I…” Grace glanced around.

  Martha smiled serenely, clearly enjoying her younger sister’s discomfiture and curious to see how she would deal with Stephen.

  For his part, Lord Glanville moved to lean against the fireplace, one muscular arm draped over the mantle. When he caught her gaze, he nodded, seeming perfectly at ease.

  Lady Branscombe was flushing and staring at the floor, obviously wishing she were out in the garden and not inside, listening to such private matters.

  So, no help was to be had—or even offered—by anyone.

  Stephen stood straight, still clasping his lapels in both hands in proper oratory style, his gaze resting on Grace. “We will return to London at once, my dearest Grace. This evening!”

  “And drive all night?” Grace stared back, appalled. Then a worse suspicion struck her. “How did you come down? In your gig? Did you honestly expect to drive me all the way back to London in that conveyance? This evening? We won’t arrive until the middle of the night—or early morning! Why would you even suggest such a thing?”

  Flushing, Stephen yanked at his jacket, but he lost none of his strutting, rooster-like pose. With a reckless air, he said, “What does it matter if we spend the night together—”

  Lady Branscombe gasped, gripped the back of a chair, turned it around, and collapsed onto the seat.

  “We will not spend the night together, Stephen! Not now, not ever!” Grace stated.

  “While I dislike interfering, I feel obliged to mention that Constable Gribble has requested that Sir Horace ensure that Miss Grace not leave the area. I believe her presence is necessary for the next few weeks, at least,” Lord Glanville murmured.

  When everyone looked at him, he merely smiled blandly and studied a porcelain figurine of a shepherdess reckless enough to have lost any sign of her sheep.

  “I am truly sorry that you went to all the trouble of coming here, but under no circumstances will I return to London with you,” Grace said in her firmest voice. “I can not stress that enough.” She flashed an irritated glance at Lord Glanville. “And it has nothing to do with Constable Gribble’s request. I simply will not go.”

  Eyes brightening with a new notion, Stephen opened his mouth.

  Grace held up her hand. “No. And I will not marry you here, either. Put that notion out of your head.”

  “We will see,” Stephen replied with sickening confidence. “I intend to remain with you until you see reason. You love me. You may not realize it yet, but I will convince you of it. You will see.”

  The sad thing was that the notion of confessing to Mr. Blyth’s murder—even though she’d had nothing to do with it—was becoming more attractive all the time. She looked up to find Lord Glanville observing her, an inscrutable expression on his face.

  He pushed himself away from the fireplace and smiled at Stephen. “Since you intend to stay, allow me to escort you to the King’s Arm. They have a very fine brandy, and I’m sure you could use a glass after your long journey, Polkinghorne.” He moved over and rested a heavy arm on Stephen’s narrow shoulders. “Join me.” The request held the unmistakable firmness of an order.

  Stephen’s glance went from Gr
ace to Lord Glanville. He stuttered a few unintelligible syllables before clearing his throat. “Ah… Yes, of course. A room at the King’s Arm…” His helpless gaze went to Lady Branscombe.

  She studiously ignored him by examining the lush carpet at her feet.

  “I wasn’t prepared… That is to say…” Stephen flushed a deep cherry red and cleared his throat.

  “I can certainly understand your reluctance, but the rooms aren’t too bug infested. Or so I understand.” Lord Glanville physically turned Stephen toward the hallway. “Perhaps you would like to stay at Laurelwood House, instead? We are only renting, of course, but it is not bad for temporary quarters. What say you, Polkinghorne?”

  “Laurelwood?” Stephen hung back, staring even harder at Lady Branscombe.

  She examined the pattern of the thick Oriental carpeting even more intently.

  His loose-lipped mouth worked for a moment, like a fish gulping air. “I… Uh. Hornbeam Manor…”

  “I fear Lady Branscombe has her hands—and house—full.” Lord Glanville slapped Stephen on the back, gripped his neck, and thrust him toward the door leading to the wide hallway. “Laurelwood, it is, eh?” Another hearty slap sent Polkinghorne into the hallway. “Good day, ladies,” Lord Glanville said before he, too, disappeared through the door.

  “Well,” Grace said uncomfortably. She took a seat near Lady Branscombe and gave her a reassuring smile. “I must apologize—I hadn’t expected…”

  “It is quite all right.” Lady Branscombe straightened and some color returned to her cheeks. “One cannot always prevent—well, never mind.”

  Fortunately, the rest of the afternoon and evening was pleasant, mostly due to a lack of any more surprises.

  Grace was grateful to Lord Glanville when he appeared the next day, unaccompanied by her cousin. Whether he locked him in the cellars or had manacled him to his bed, she didn’t know, but she was relieved nonetheless. In fact, Lord Glanville visited her every afternoon for the next week, in what grew to be one of the happiest periods in her life. Although the excuse for their meetings was to discuss the inquest and Constable Gribble’s investigation, they never seemed to get around to the subject.