The Temptation of Grace

by Kristin Vayden

  “My lord.” The housekeeper curtseyed loyally, and her gaze turned to Samantha with delight. “And this is your lovely wife. I must say the entire staff is ever so happy for you! May I offer my personal congratulations, along with those of the staff.” She curtsied to Samantha, clearly pleased.

  Samantha stepped forward and nodded kindly. “Thank you.”

  “And this is Miss Iris Grace Morgan, my ward.”

  Grace stepped forward, nodding her head slowly to try and pretend at possessing more decorum than she actually had, even if it was just to a servant. “If you wouldn’t mind, I prefer to be called by my middle name, Grace. And it’s lovely to meet you.”

  Samantha cast her an approving smile. She might not be able to curtsey well, but at least she could nod without ill effect. If only she could nod to the rest of the London ton, but she had a feeling that a well-executed nod would be more offensive than a poorly executed curtsey.

  “We are ever so pleased to have you here.” Mrs. Marilla replied, then clapped her hands gently. “All is ready, my lord. And I informed cook of your arrival and refreshments will be served whenever you wish. Is there anything else that I may do to serve?”

  Grace turned to the viscount, watching as he gave an approving grin. “No, all is in order as usual. Between you and Mrs. Keyes, my life is well organized. We’ll take tea in the red parlor in a half hour.”

  The housekeeper nodded. “Would you care for me to show you to your rooms, Miss Grace?”

  Grace cast a quick glance to her guardians, then back to the housekeeper. “Yes, please.”

  “This way.” Mrs. Marilla gestured to the stairs and led the way up to the second floor. Grace cast a glance below to the viscount and his wife, but they were clasping hands as the viscount tugged Samantha into a side room. Grace blushed and turned her gaze away. The viscount and Samantha hadn’t been married so long that she was immune to their obvious affection, but she had become less embarrassed by it. Rather, she saw it as a grand example of how love should be. It was clear from their obvious affection that they were very much in love, and it was endearing to behold. Such thoughts made her focus shift to the future ahead of her, because love could be just over the horizon for her as well.

  Just as she started to think about it, the housekeeper paused by a large maple door. “These are your rooms. I had Regina prepare them and if you need anything at all, she is your personal maid and will take care of any needful thing. And as always, you may ask me for assistance at any time. We are so happy to have you here, Miss Grace.”

  Grace thanked her, and then softly turned the brass handle to the room that would begin her adventure.

  Yes. She resolved to think of the next step in life as an adventure. It was far less daunting to think of it in such a context. After all, much of her life had been one adventure after another; this was simply a different variety of adventure.

  Light spilled onto the polished wood floor from the windows opposite the doorway, and Grace paused a moment to acquaint herself with the room. It was decidedly feminine with the delicate canopy bed and its floral coverlet against one wall. Beside the bed was a side table that held a clear crystal vase of yellow tulips. As her eyes scanned further, she saw an expanse of green just beyond the window, and it called to her. Putting one foot in front of another, she walked to the window and pushed back the sheer curtains obstructing her view. The view was across the street directly in front of the house, overlooking a narrow strip of trees and grass that was the middle ground between another row of houses. A robin flew from a high branch and swooped down to the grass below, and then it was startled by a squirrel that rushed by. The robin took flight into the hazy gray sky.

  Grace released a breath, and then turned to survey the rest of her room. Beside the window was a writing desk, and along the same wall was the fireplace with two snug chairs framing the warm flickering flames. A looking glass and vanity completed the room before her gaze returned to the door. It suited her well, as she had every expectation that this room would be the perfect retreat when necessary.

  And she was certain that at times, a retreat would be very necessary. Samantha had explained that they would be engaging in several social gatherings upon their arrival, and there was no reason to expect that their social calendar would do anything but continue to fill up. There was one aspect that had them all concerned.

  The Duke of Chatterwoood.

  In short, the duke was Samantha’s father. But, because Grace had had the blessing of a wonderful father, she was disinclined to give the title of father to the man who had sired Samantha and her sister, Lady Liliah Heightfield. The duke was a cruel, tyrannical man whose oppressive nature had sent his daughters into hiding.

  But they were returning to London.

  Married, and as such, under the protection of their husbands, but none of them trusted the duke.

  His pride had been mortally wounded. And Grace had heard on more than one occasion that the viscount didn’t expect the duke to allow such a slight to go unpunished.

  Grace had tried to use this possibility as justification to stay in Scotland.

  But they, the viscount, Samantha, or Lord and Lady Heightfield, would not hear of such a thing.

  They thought of it as cowardly, and in truth, they had nothing to hide. But they would take extra care and be vigilant. So the decision was made . . . and here she found herself.

  In London.

  She took a seat by the low-burning fire and sighed.

  For better or worse, she was going to make a debut.

  And she was far more inclined that it would be for worse.

  Chapter Two

  Ramsey Scott, Marquess of Sterling, watched the floor of Temptations with a watchful eye. Already the evening buzzed with the news of the arrival of the Viscount of Kilpatrick and his new wife, the missing youngest daughter of the Duke of Chatterwood. It was a scandal for sure, and if there was anything Ramsey hated more than scandal, he couldn’t name it. Scandal. The very word caused his skin to crawl, his stomach to clench, and his mood to turn foul. Like walking on eggshells, trying to keep from fracturing them, he constantly tiptoed around the word, and the disasters it created.

  He pushed his thoughts aside and his gaze flickered toward the door. John was on the other side of the curtain, watching those who came, and those who left, making notes in the registry as each person passed him by. The card tables were full, and the brandy was flowing like the Thames in spring. All in all, it was a quiet night, aside from the gossip mill working overtime. But that was to be expected in a gambling hell; secrets were traded as currency just as frequently as pounds. Many a man had lost a fortune in the trade of secrets, and there was no reason to expect that truth ever to prove false.

  Just another reason to hate scandal. If it didn’t break your heart, it could break your bank.

  Or both.

  Oftentimes both.

  He would know.

  Again, he pushed his thoughts aside. Tonight they seemed to follow him like the London fog. Pushing off from the rail of the balcony, he walked down the carpeted hall and toward the servant’s staircase. The darkness was welcome, and he paused a moment in the cool stone hall of the stairwell. It was far easier to let your secrets be kept by the dark than by people.

  People betrayed you.

  People had their price.

  The darkness, it only repeated the secrets back to you.

  And then welcomed them to the grave.

  Ramsey continued down the stairs and out into the lower hall. He paused by one of the doors into the main gaming room. Everything was in order; he wasn’t needed, so he turned right and headed to his private office. The music faded slowly as he walked away from the people and toward the seclusion he knew and loved. As he reached his office, he unlocked the door, passed through, and closed the heavy wooden door with a soft click, a strong barrier between silence and folly.

  He turned to his desk and noted the several ledgers there awaiting his appr
oval. Numbers, now that was a friendly thing if ever there was one. They were constant, true, and easily understood.

  After pouring himself a small glass of brandy, he sat behind his desk and opened the first leather-bound book. As he scanned the numbers, his mind did the quick calculations and associated them with the columns to the right. In short work, he finished with one page, turning to another.

  When the new entries were complete, he turned to the book of wagers.

  This was the book that could make or break a patron. Because sometimes a game of faro wasn’t satisfying enough for a gambler’s heart, so often the men would offer a wager on something other than a card game.

  A marriage.

  A boxing match.

  The damn weather.

  It was insanity, yet he wasn’t opposed to taking their money when the wager was lost.

  He opened the red leather-bound book and began to read the wagers.

  Lord Garlington places a bet of five hundred pounds on Trent Waverly winning the boxing match on 15th May 1817. Lord Farthington accepts the wager and places five hundred pounds on the opposing fighter.

  Both men signed their names.

  It was a simple process really. Two men would wager each other, and Temptations would take a cut of the winnings.

  But if a man wagered against the house—which sometimes happened—then Ramsey would have to put forth the terms and sign.

  And most times, the house would win.

  He scanned the various wagers, his gaze narrowing upon seeing a familiar name.

  Westhouse.

  His blood chilled, and his teeth clenched.

  He was bloody well sure that Westhouse wasn’t a member of the club; in fact, he would bet his life on it. Yet there it was, clear as day.

  It was an innocuous bet, something about a horse race next week, but it was the name that sent him into a fit of rage and frustration.

  Perhaps the other person initiated the bet. He scanned the page for the name: Lord Wolfston. But it was not common for a patron to wager against a non-member.

  He made a mental note to ask John later. If Westhouse had darkened the door of Temptations, John would know. Nothing got past John; that was the reason Heathcliff, the Viscount Kilpatrick, had employed him as butler for his day job. He was the most secure individual one could ask for. A sniper, he was injured in the war against Napoleon and lost his memory. But his injury had an odd side effect. While the poor fellow couldn’t remember a thing about his life before the injury, he could remember every single detail since, with perfect clarity. Add in his lethal training and he was a formidable foe, or a great friend.

  Thankfully, they all counted him as a great friend.

  He would be invaluable at Heathcliff’s town home, especially with the duke’s wayward daughter returning as Lady Kilpatrick.

  Ramsey leaned back in his chair, closing the wager book. He had questioned Heathcliff’s plan of returning to London. He had encouraged his friend to wait a few months, hoping the Duke would take time to cool his temper. But Heathcliff had been insistent, saying that his ward needed to debut.

  Ramsey couldn’t understand what a few months, hell, a few seasons would do to harm the newly gained ward. But it wasn’t his business, and he wasn’t in any position to care. Rather, he just hoped it didn’t affect Temptations. Because certainly then it would be his business. Equal partners, Heathcliff, Lucas, and Ramsey himself were all staked in the exclusive club, owning it, sharing it, and using it to hide for various reasons.

  Ramsey thought back to almost a decade ago, when in his second year at Eton. What a bloody mess he’d been. He could see it now, but then, at the time, there was no other way to understand how life worked. There were those who succeeded in life, and those who did not.

  There was no in-between.

  No second chances.

  And once a failure, you had no hope of ever rising above it.

  Thus was his life, his mantra, his chains.

  His father had sent him to Eton as soon as he came of age, and it had been a welcome escape from Glenwood Manor and the iron control of his father’s cool calculations and demand for perfection. Eton had represented freedom, a chance to have some sort of privacy. But what he imagined was not what was to be. His father kept close correspondence with several of the professors at the institution.

  Ramsey discovered it on his first holiday home, and the reckoning that followed.

  He’d never been a particularly bad child; he just hadn’t been perfect.

  And perfection was the only acceptable trait.

  He’d come back to Eton a few days later with a new respect for following each and every rule. He took to memorizing them, much like his Latin biology vocabulary, and like proverbs, he’d speak the rules over situations.

  This, needless to say, didn’t earn him many friends.

  It did, however, earn a lot of ridicule.

  It wasn’t until he got between Lucas and Heathcliff during a fistfight that he stumbled upon a friendship that was as unlikely as it was ill fated. But even against all odds, the relationship stuck. And Ramsey accredited that friendship to saving his sanity, and even saving his life.

  Ramsey took a deep breath and pushed back from his chair, slamming the wager book shut with a final slap of the binding. It was enough reliving of the past.

  “I’m not who I once was.” He repeated the words to himself quietly, allowing them to wash over him like a cleansing rain. He closed his eyes for a moment, mentally shaking off the chains of his past and leaving them on the table . . . when they whispered enticingly for him to pick them up, to hold on to everything they represented.

  Old habits die hard.

  Old lies refuse to fade away.

  And somewhere deep in his soul the memory of his father whispered: history will always repeat itself . . .

  And worse than the lies and the habits, that was what chilled him most.

  Because the only way to keep from repeating the past is to learn from it. But what does one do when the past is now just a secret buried with the man who owned it?

  Ramsey could answer the question. Because it had been the only truth he’d ever been utterly sure of.

  What does one do? One fails.

  He would fail.

  Because deep in his soul, as much as he wished to deny it, he knew that only two options were possible in life.

  Perfection and failure.

  And he was the second.

  And would always be.

  Chapter Three

  Grace resisted the urge to scratch along the rough collar of the new gown that was being fitted. She tried to distract herself with the various baubles around the edge of the fitting room. When that failed, she turned her attention to the salt and pepper hair of Mrs. Bourne, who was meticulously, and rather slowly, pinning the hem of the new gown. Grace fancied that the woman’s coiffure had seen better days, but that could also be attributed to the fact that this was the third gown that Grace was being fit for, and there were certainly other ladies with appointments after her.

  It was at this point that Grace decided that she didn’t wish to be a bluestocking, as much as she had romanticized the idea. Perhaps just a bluestocking in personality, not in actual labor. Could that be an option? Mrs. Bourne stood and arched her back before evaluating her handiwork.

  And Grace held her breath, hoping for the words that meant she was finished.

  But alas, Mrs. Bourne’s brow puckered, her green eyes narrowed, and she bent down again and set to work.

  It was exceedingly difficult to not slouch, or sigh in irritation, but Samantha was just beyond, sitting on a chair and watching with that expression that let Grace know she was expected to behave well.

  Not for the first time, Grace imagined herself a young girl just out of leading strings, yet it wasn’t too far from the truth. Her attention span was probably comparable to that of a tot.

  Samantha had the patience of Job, Grace reminded herself.

&n
bsp; For that, Grace decided to be thankful and try her best to act civil.

  A few minutes later Mrs. Bourne stood up once more, and evaluated the hem.

  Grace tried to keep her expression from looking too hopeful.

  Samantha covered her mouth, but her eyes betrayed her amusement.

  Grace decided that hiding one’s feelings was overrated.

  Mrs. Bourne nodded, gave a bright smile to Grace, and then turned to Samantha. “My lady, I do believe I’m finished with this one. The alterations are minimal so I expect to have this and the other two dresses ready tomorrow afternoon, if that will be satisfactory?”

  Grace eyed the floor just below the stool she stood upon, wondering whether, if she stepped without assistance, would that pull out a pin? She wanted to get down and dart to the dressing room, but . . . it wasn’t worth the risk, she decided.

  “That will be more than satisfactory. Thank you.” Samantha stood and walked toward Grace

  “Miss Grace?” Mrs. Bourne offered her hand and Grace stepped carefully from the stool and onto solid ground.

  “Thank you.”

  In short work Grace was redressed in her walking dress and she and Samantha quit the modiste and stepped into the not entirely fresh London air.

  Several clouds loomed threateningly overhead and Grace gave them an irritated glare. “Does the sun ever appear?”

  Samantha chuckled. “When it wishes to, but I’m afraid it doesn’t bow to our will as often as I’d like.”

  Grace arched a brow and continued on their stroll down Bond Street. The carriages and hacks rolled by, the horse’s hooves clicking on the cobblestones while the harness jingled like little bells. There was an odd music to the bustle of the city, one that was familiar to Grace. In all of her travels she had come to the conclusion that large cities had a life of their own. The sounds, smells, and culture were just different enough from the surrounding area to give the places their own flavor. It was quite fascinating. In India, the scent of curry was the first memory that hit her. In Egypt, the dry heat and the scent of the Nile when you came close, fishy yet tainted by the desert air. And London, as she breathed in deeply, wondering what identity it would claim. Smoke, humanity, and rain. Not exactly exotic, but relevant most certainly. It could be worse, she supposed.