Escaping His Grace

by Kristin Vayden

  “Yes, Lord Kilpatrick keeps that old decrepit thing in the foyer. We’ve all done our best to encourage him to move it elsewhere, but it belonged to his grandfather, then his father, both of whom kept it in that very spot. A tragedy, if you ask me. So many other things would be far more welcomin’ for guests. Not tha’ we get them so often.” She shrugged and moved on.

  Miranda bit her cheek to keep from grinning. Scotland was quite different from England; either that or servants spoke to other servants vastly differently from their betters. She had a suspicion it was the latter.

  Even though it was acutely awkward to bypass the private quarters and follow Mrs. Keyes into the section of the house dedicated to the nursery, she reminded herself that this place was safe.

  It was strange how such a small word would mean so much.

  As Mrs. Keyes opened the door, sunshine beamed through wide windows. Several tables were strategically positioned on the wooden floor, with several shelves of books lining the walls in between the windows. Miranda stepped into the room, her gaze taking in the vast view of the gardens that appeared to be behind Kilmarin. Green hills rolled in the distance, creating a picturesque scene before her. Hedgerows lined the gardens and stone archways led away from the middle courtyard into smaller ones, a fountain in the middle of it all.

  “It’s majestic, is it not? Of course, I’m partial to the manor because I’ve been here since the master was in leading strings. But if I do say so myself, it’s stately enough.” Mrs. Keyes chimed in as she stood beside Miranda.

  “It’s lovely,” Miranda agreed. “And the sky.” She blinked at the azure blue that seemed to be so much brighter than in London.

  “Ach, that’s right. You’re from London. It’s a bit brighter here. Not always; we get our share of the rain, bein’ so close to the sea. But at least you’re not downtown Edinburgh. It’s more of the smoke you’re accustomed to. Though we’re only a mile out, it’s a bit fresher—yet you can still taste the sea.” She gave a carefree shrug of her shoulders.

  Miranda inhaled through her parted lips, smiling as the tang of the sea teased her tongue, reminding her of the times when the wind blew from the sea into the City. “I do love the sea.”

  “I’m sure Miss Iris will love an excursion or two.” Mrs. Keyes remarked, then stepped back away from the window. “Speaking of Miss Iris, you’ll be meeting her at dinner, and because none of the family are in residence, I’ve taken the liberty of setting the family table for just the two of you. I’m not certain how you’d prefer to take your supper, but being just the two of you, I figured you’d not want to eat alone.”

  “Thank you, I’m sure that is preferable,” Miranda added, glancing to a nearby bookshelf.

  “And do look over the volumes we have, then let me know if there’s anything you’re missing. Lord Kilpatrick wishes Miss Iris to have the best education possible, I’m sure you understand.”

  Miranda agreed. “I’m sure what you have here will suffice for a while, till I can . . .” Miranda paused, thinking over how to actually teach what needed to be taught... “Ascertain where the pupil stands in several subjects,” she finished, feeling quite relieved at how she had handled the question. Tonight she would need to look over all the books, and make notes on what she remembered from her own governess. It couldn’t be that difficult, could it?

  “Then I’ll leave you to find a few moments of rest.” Mrs. Keyes nodded and turned, but Miranda could have sworn she whispered, “You’ll certainly need it.”

  Before Miranda could question her, she gestured to an open door. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to your room.”

  Miranda paused, but didn’t remark on the housekeeper’s words. She followed the woman’s mobcap into the next room.

  “Again, if there’s anything you’re needing, please notify me at once.” Mrs. Keyes gestured to the room.

  A small writing desk was beside a tall, stately window that overlooked another aspect of the gardens. A pitcher with water rested upon the large dresser, and a dressing table boasted a small mirror. By governess standards, it was quite impressive.

  By a lady’s standards, it was underwhelming.

  A small bed rested in the middle of the room, and immediately, Miranda missed her feather bed, and the warming pan that would heat the sheets before she snuggled in deep, listening to the crackling fire.

  She glanced to the opposite end of the room, and relaxed slightly at the sight of the larger hearth. At least she wouldn’t be cold—even if it was still summer.

  She had heard about Scottish winters, and she hadn’t a clue how long she’d be in residence.

  A delicate shiver ran up her spine.

  Belatedly, she realized Mrs. Keyes was awaiting some sort of response to the room.

  “Thank you, I’m sure it’s more than adequate,” Miranda replied, keeping close to the truth so she wouldn’t have to remember a lie.

  “Lovely.” Mrs. Keyes beamed. “I’ll send Maye up to fetch you when dinner’s ready. We keep country hours, even if we are close to town.” And with a warm nod, Mrs. Keyes quit the room, leaving Miranda to her thoughts.

  At the housekeeper’s departure, Miranda sighed in the most unladylike fashion, quite reminding her of her sister’s antics on multiple occasions. And once again, a pang of homesickness waved through her.

  But she wouldn’t dwell on what she had left behind.

  She glanced to the door, seeing the footman had deposited her belongings on the floor.

  As she studied the parcels and bags, she noted she had never once unpacked her own things.

  A maid always assisted—with everything.

  But now, she was the help. She glanced at her two hands, which had only seen delicate needlepoint and piano study, and wondered if they were capable of more.

  If perhaps she were capable of more.

  She wanted to be.

  Which was a good thing, because she was going to have plenty of opportunity to test her strength, inside and out.

  And maybe, just maybe—she’d discover she was stronger than she thought.

  That maybe, just maybe—she was more like her sister than not.

  She certainly hoped so.

  Chapter Two

  “For the last time, I’ve never met this Samantha before, nor am I associated with the Duke of Chatterworth!” Heathcliff Marston, Viscount Kilpatrick, was about to lose the last of his patience as he studied the men before him, drinking his brandy and lounging about in his study.

  “We have reason to believe—“

  “And I have appointments and other responsibilities!” he all but shouted. He took a small sip of brandy, using it as a buffer between his anger and the men provoking it.

  They exchanged a glance, the kind that said we’re going in circles here, and then the older one rose from his chair.

  Heathcliff almost wept in relief but kept his gaze hardened and trained on the interlopers.

  “You’ll be in contact if you hear anything.” The man set his calling card on Heathcliff’s desk. He noted the question wasn’t exactly that; it was a demand.

  Heathcliff wanted to take the card and toss it into the fire, then pour brandy over the flames just to make the point more spectacular, but working with Lucas and Ramsey had taught him to temper his, well . . . temper, and he suppressed his somewhat barbaric reactions.

  Most of the time.

  And this was, regrettably, one of the times he suppressed his baser reactions.

  “Of course,” he lied smoothly, watching as the younger gentleman, probably in training, followed the older man to the study door.

  “We can see ourselves out.”

  Heathcliff withheld a grin at the sudden appearance of Wilkes, his longtime butler, at the door. “If I may, gentleman?” he offered.

  Damn butler was worth his weight in brandy. French brandy.

  Heathcliff gave an approving nod to Wilkes as he led the men from the study to the front door.

  Good ridda
nce. Bloody blooming hell. That was the third time in the past fortnight the investigators had come knocking at his door. The first time had caused him to miss the introduction to the governess for his newly acquired ward.

  Though that particular instance wasn’t exactly a hardship. He wasn’t looking forward to meeting a sour woman who educated other high-maintenance women for a living. Regardless of how highly recommended she came, he had no desire to meet her. He simply wanted her to do her job well.

  Lord willing, if she was as good as Lucas, the eighth Earl of Heightfield, his best friend and business partner had suggested, soon he’d be marrying off his bloody ward to the first man who showed the slightest bit of interest in her. Then he could be finished with the whole bloody lot of them, and go back to his bachelor ways.

  Not that he had any intention of quitting his bachelor ways in the interim, but he did have to be moderately careful—wouldn’t want his reputation to sully his ward’s. Then he’d never be rid of her!

  The fire crackled and sparked, bringing his attention back to the moment. He bloody had to stay in residence for at least another week to allay suspicion. Damn, Lucas owed him.

  Not only was he covering for his friend’s hasty marriage, but he was also dodging the duke’s private investigators. Heathcliff couldn’t suppress a grin at the memory of the last few weeks’ events. In fact, he felt a smug satisfaction in knowing his friend’s future before his friend did. It didn’t take a scholar to know that Lucas was utterly undone by Lady Liliah Durary. Of course, his friend wasn’t willing to admit the truth till it had been almost too late. But all was right in the world now, minus the fact that the duke had never approved of Lucas’s secretive marriage to his daughter. This was truly a case of knowing the right people and having the right leverage.

  There weren’t many who would risk the ire of a duke, but when you had the right dirt on the right people, the reward far outweighed the risk. And in their line of business, secrets were their currency.

  And they were wealthy in that specific currency, wealthy indeed.

  Heathcliff’s thoughts drifted to their business, and he set down his glass and shifted the papers across his desk till he found the one he needed. He, Ramsey Scott, the Marquess of Sterling, and Lucas Mayfield, the eighth Earl of Heightfield, operated the most secretive, selective, and seductive club in all of London. Temptations was the brilliant idea of Lucas, but as Lucas was currently on his honeymoon, the operation of the club fell to him and Ramsey. It was almost the end of the Season, and the final masquerade loomed on the horizon. It was a large, heavily attended event by most, if not all, of the exclusive members and their . . . invitees. Heathcliff smirked. Courtesans, mistresses, strumpets would be better terminology, but he wasn’t one to judge. Rather, he was only concerned with their ability to pay for membership and gamble at the tables. With whom they spent their time was none of his concern. The masquerades seemed to bring out more of the demimonde than the regular events, which seemed to spawn a heightened flair to the parties. He was certain this last event would be no different.

  He made a note to check whether the Duke of Chatterworth—Lucas’s unwilling father-in-law—planned to attend. That could be problematic, but Heathcliff didn’t suspect he’d show his face in his new son-in-law’s den of iniquity, even if his son-in-law was astoundingly monklike before his marriage.

  The irony was thick amongst them all.

  “My lord?” Wilkes bowed as he entered the study.

  Heathcliff nodded once.

  “Lord Sterling is here to see you.” Wilkes waited expectantly.

  Heathcliff waved his hand. “Show him in, of course.”

  “About bloody time.” Ramsey strode in, giving an annoyed glance to Wilkes, who ignored the slight, bowed, and left the gentlemen alone.

  As the door closed, Ramsey turned to Heathcliff. “I suppose you’ve been interrogated as well? What was he thinking? Does he know the depths of the scandal involved here? A duke’s daughter!” Ramsey tugged on his cravat, then took a seat opposite Heathcliff.

  “It will all blow over soon enough,” Heathcliff remarked calmly, quite accustomed to Ramsey’s aversion to scandal of any sort.

  “Twice! Bloody investigators have been in to see me twice.”

  “I only just excused them, yet again. I’ve lost track. This was either three or four times,” Heathcliff remarked, then stood from his desk, lifted his glass, and raised an eyebrow of inquiry to Ramsey.

  “Thank you.” Ramsey accepted the invitation.

  Heathcliff poured a generous portion into a clean glass for his friend and refreshed his own brandy. As he handed the amber liquid to Ramsey, he took a seat on the edge of his desk. “It could be worse.” He took a sip.

  “Enlighten me,” Ramsey remarked dryly and sipped as well.

  Heathcliff shrugged. “They only have suspicions. And I’d wager they already know Lady Liliah Durary is now the Countess of Heightfield and are only looking for more information. What’s done is done.”

  “True, but what of the other daughter?” Ramsey asked stiffly. “She is still in question.”

  “I know nothing of her. So I’m not helpful in the least.”

  Ramsey nodded. “I heard something about America, but who’s to say? Still, it makes me nervous. A little too close for comfort. I always knew Lucas would create a scandal.”

  Heathcliff chuckled. “Ramsey, we are scandal. The three of us! Think upon our reputations! Not even the current ones, but the rumors that surrounded our descent into hell,” he remarked, standing up. “What redemption is left for us? None.”

  Ramsey twisted his lips, then adjusted his spectacles. “Indeed. Regardless of what truly occurred, our reputations do precede us.”

  “And we’ve used it to the best advantage possible.”

  “Very well, you’ve made your point.”

  “Thank you.” Heathcliff lifted his glass to salute his friend.

  Ramsey stood. “Are you still planning on staying till this dies down? Heightfield said you might return to Scotland for the off-Season.”

  Heathcliff shrugged. “I was intending to leave earlier, but I’ll wait till the situation rights itself.”

  “Thank you.” Ramsey nodded, then headed to the door. “And for heaven’s sake, talk to that butler of yours. He’s worse than a watchdog. You’d think I’ve never come in without announcement.” Ramsey shook his head, then quit the room.

  Heathcliff chuckled. He could easily have asked Wilkes to admit Ramsey without hesitation, but it was utterly entertaining to watch his friend become irritated.

  Yet, as he turned toward the fire, his thoughts wandered.

  It was a truth that never left his mind but was also not always at the forefront.

  Reputation.

  It was a heartless bitch.

  Unfair, unkind, and many times a liar of the worst sort.

  Yet, he, Ramsey, and Lucas had turned their misfortunes into another sort of fortune, and the secrecy it created into a sort of armor.

  But watching Lucas’s heart open to another had reminded Heathcliff of the betrayal of his past.

  And while he was thankful for his friend’s second chance at love, he didn’t think he’d ever be willing to risk the same.

  Because how could you ever trust love when all it had handed you was betrayal?

  And nothing was so deceptive as betrayal at the hands of a beautiful woman.

  Nothing.

  Chapter Three

  Miranda took the stairs carefully as she made her way to the dining hall. The air was crisp, and a shiver trailed down her back. Again, she was reminded of the coming Scottish winter, and she wondered how she’d purchase appropriate clothing. She’d never had to think about money before, and now it seemed so important and quite evasive.

  So many questions.

  Not enough answers.

  After a fortifying breath, she followed the footman down another hall and inhaled deeply of the rich scent of pheasant and so
me sort of broth. Her stomach rumbled quietly in appreciation. The hall opened into a grand dining room with gold and red accents. A majestic table was the focal point of the room, lined with velvet-covered chairs. Her gaze shifted to the two place settings at the very end of the table, one beside the other. Apparently, she was first to arrive for dinner.

  “Good evening!” Mrs. Keyes bustled into the room. “I wanted to make sure this was to your liking before we summoned your pupil.”

  Miranda blinked, then turned to the table, then back to the housekeeper. “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” she replied, hoping she wasn’t giving away her inexperience.

  “Oh, forgive me. You see, we’ve not had any experience in training up a young lady. We’ll be relyin’ on you for the proper way of doing things, Miss Miranda.”

  Miranda swallowed.

  But after a quick moment, she was quite thankful that clearly there were no expectations for her. She could set them herself, which was an acute relief.

  “Of course,” Miranda answered, then turned back to the table with a fresh perspective. “The table is splendid, and I agree with the way you’ve placed the settings together. Later on, we may practice what it would be like to have a larger party, but for now, everything is as it should be.”

  “Good.” Mrs. Keyes beamed. “I’ll go and have Miss Iris fetched for dinner, then.” With a soft smile, the woman disappeared into the hall.

  Miranda exhaled in relief and walked to the table. It was odd, to be looking at things from such a different perspective. Yet, at the same time, she could see the way her upbringing and training had given her more than adequate experience for the job at hand.

  Perhaps she would not only know enough but also excel at something. It was a revelatory thought, one that boosted her spirits in a way she hadn’t felt for some time.

  The sound of footsteps alerted her to the approach of her pupil, and she turned, straightened her shoulders, and waited.

  At first glance, Miss Iris Grace was pretty enough, though her red hair was almost vulgar in its bright color. Miranda watched her walk, noting the confident stride that was almost masculine in its approach. Shoulders back, her posture was perfect, but her air was casual. Miranda made mental notes as she watched her enter the room.