Julia Quinn: The Lost Duke of Wyndham

Grace’s eyes widened. The dowager’s voice had descended into a low, venomous hiss, and without even meaning to, Grace moved closer to the window. It felt toxic to be so close to her right now.

“And then…” the dowager continued. “And then! All I received was a three-sentence note, written in someone else’s hand, reporting that he was having such a fine time that he believed he was going to remain.”

Grace blinked. “He didn’t write it himself?” she asked, unsure why she found this detail so curious.

“He signed it,” the dowager said brusquely. “And sealed it with his ring. He knew I couldn’t decipher his scrawl.” She sat back, her face contorting with decades old anger and resentment. “Eight months,” she muttered. “Eight stupid, useless months. Who is to say he did not marry some harlot over there? He had ample time.”

Grace watched her for several moments. Her nose was in the air, and she gave every indication of haughty anger, but something was not quite right. Her lips were pinching and twisting, and her eyes were suspiciously bright.

“Ma’am-” Grace said gently.

“Don’t,” the dowager said, her voice sounding as if it might crack.

Grace considered the wisdom of speaking, then decided there was too much at stake to remain silent. “Your grace, it simply cannot be,” she began, somehow maintaining her courage despite the withering expression on the dowager’s face. “This is not a humble country entail. This is not Sillsby,” she added, swallowing the lump that formed in her throat at the mention of her childhood home. “We are speaking of Belgrave. Of a dukedom. Heirs apparent do not simply vanish into the mist. If your son had had a son, we would have known.”

The dowager stared at her for an uncomfortably sharp moment, then said, “We will try the Happy Hare first. It is the least uncouth of all the local posting inns.” She settled back against the cushion, staring straight ahead as she said, “If he is anything like his father, he will be too fond of his comforts for anything less.”

Jack was already feeling like an idiot when a sack was thrown over his head.

So this was it, then. He knew he’d stayed too long. The whole ride back he’d berated himself for the fool he was. He should have left after breakfast. He should have left at dawn. But no, he had to get drunk the night before, and then he had to ride out to that bloody castle. And then he’d seen her .

If he hadn’t seen her , he would never have remained at the end of the drive for so long. And then he wouldn’t have ridden off with such speed. And had to rest and water his mount.

And he certainly wouldn’t have been standing by the trough like a bloody bull’s-eye when someone attacked him from behind.

“Bind him,” a gruff voice said.

It was enough to set every pore in his body into fighting mode. A man did not spend his life so close to the noose without preparing for those two words.

It didn’t matter that he couldn’t see. It didn’t matter that he had no idea who they were or why they’d come for him. He fought. And he knew how to fight, clean and dirty. But there were three of them at least, possibly more, and he managed only two good punches before he was facedown in the dirt, his hands yanked behind his back and bound with…

Well, it wasn’t rope. Almost felt like silk, truth be told.

“Sorry,” one of his captors mumbled, which was odd. Men in the business of tying up other men rarely thought to offer apologies.

“Think nothing of it,” Jack returned, then cursed himself for his insolence. All his little quip earned him was a mouth full of burlap dust.

“This way,” someone said, helping him to his feet.

And Jack could do nothing but obey.

“Er, if you please,” the first voice said-the one who’d ordered him bound.

“Care to tell me where I’m going?” Jack inquired.

There was quite a bit of hemming and hawing. Minions. These were minions. He sighed. Minions never knew the important things.

“Er, can you step up?”

And then, before Jack could oblige, or even say, “Beg pardon,” he was roughly hoisted into the air and tumbled into what had to be a carriage.

“Put him on a seat,” a voice barked. He knew that voice. It was the old lady. His grandmother.

Well, at least he wasn’t off to be hanged.

“Don’t suppose someone will see to my horse,” Jack said.

“See to his horse,” the old lady snapped.

Jack allowed himself to be moved onto a seat, not a particularly easy maneuver, bound and blindfolded as he was.

“Don’t suppose you’ll untie my hands,” he said.

“I’m not stupid,” was the old lady’s reply.

“No,” he said with a false sigh. “I didn’t think you were. Beauty and stupidity never go as hand in hand as one might wish.”

“I am sorry I had to take you this way,” the old lady said. “But you left me no choice.”

“No choice,” Jack mused. “Yes, of course. Because I’ve done so much to escape your clutches up to now.”

“If you had intended to call upon me,” the old lady said sharply, “you would not have ridden off earlier this afternoon.”

Jack felt himself smile mockingly. “She told you, then,” he said, wondering why he’d thought she might not.

“Miss Eversleigh?”

So that was her name.

“She had no choice,” the old lady said dismissively, as if the wishes of Miss Eversleigh were something she rarely considered.

And then Jack felt it. A slight brush of air beside him. A faint rustle of movement.

She was there. The elusive Miss Eversleigh. The silent Miss Eversleigh.

The delicious Miss Eversleigh.

“Remove his hood,” he heard his grandmother order. “You’re going to suffocate him.”

Jack waited patiently, affixing a lazy smile onto his face-it was not, after all, the expression they would expect, and thus the one he most wished to display. He heard her make a noise-Miss Eversleigh, that was. It wasn’t a sigh exactly, and not a groan, either. It was something he couldn’t quite place. Weary resignation, perhaps. Or maybe-

The hood came off, and he took a moment to savor the cool air on his face.

Then he looked at her.

It was mortification. That’s what it had been. Poor Miss Eversleigh looked miserable. A more gracious gentleman would have turned away, but he wasn’t feeling overly charitable at the moment, and so he treated himself to a lengthy perusal of her face. She was lovely, although not in any predictable manner. No English rose was she, not with that glorious dark hair and shining blue eyes that tilted up ever-so-slightly at the edges. Her lashes were dark and sooty, in stark contrast to the pale perfection of her skin.

Of course, that paleness might have been a result of her extreme discomfort. The poor girl looked as if she might cast up her accounts at any moment.

“Was it that bad, kissing me?” he murmured.

She turned scarlet.

“Apparently so.” He turned to his grandmother and said in his most conversational tone, “I hope you realize this is a hanging offense.”

“I am the Duchess of Wyndham,” she replied with a haughty lift of her brow. “Nothing is a hanging offense.”

“Ah, the unfairness of life,” he said with a sigh. “Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Eversleigh?”

She looked as if she wanted to speak. Indeed, the poor girl was most definitely biting her tongue.

“Now if you were the perpetrator in this little crime,” he continued, allowing his eyes to slide insolently from her face to her bosom and back, “this would all be so very different.”

Her jaw tightened.

“It would be,” he murmured, allowing his gaze to fall to her lips, “rather lovely, I think. Just think-you, me, alone in this exceedingly luxurious carriage.” He sighed contentedly and sat back. “The imagination runs wild.”