Julia Quinn: The Lost Duke of Wyndham

“Don’t be silly. It’s not your fault. Who would have thought-” She cut herself off, because really, there was no sense in assigning blame. “We are unhurt,” she repeated. “That is all that matters.”

He sighed. “What did they take?”

Grace swallowed. She couldn’t very well tell him they’d stolen nothing but a ring. Thomas was no idiot; he’d wonder why. She smiled tightly, deciding that vagueness was the order of the day. “Not very much,” she said. “Nothing at all from me. I imagine it was obvious I am not a woman of means.”

“Grandmother must be spitting mad.”

“She is a bit overset,” Grace hedged.

“She was wearing her emeralds, wasn’t she?” He shook his head. “The old bat is ridiculously fond of those stones.”

Grace declined to scold him for his characterization of his grandmother. “She kept the emeralds, actually. She hid them under the seat cushion.”

He looked impressed. “She did?”

“ I did,” Grace corrected, unwilling to share the glory. “She thrust them at me before they breached the vehicle.”

He smiled slightly, and then, after a moment of somewhat awkward silence, said, “You did not mention why you’re up and about so late. Surely you deserve a rest as well.”

“I…er…” There seemed to be no way to avoid telling him. If nothing else, he’d notice the massive empty spot on the gallery wall the next day. “Your grandmother has a strange request.”

“All of her requests are strange,” he replied immediately.

“No, this one…well…” Grace’s eyes flicked up in exasperation. How was it her life had come to this? “I don’t suppose you’d like to help me remove a painting from the gallery.”

“A painting.”

She nodded.

“From the gallery.”

She nodded again.

“I don’t suppose she’s asking for one of those modestly sized square ones.”

“With the bowls of fruit?”

He nodded.

“No.” When he did not comment, she added, “She wants the portrait of your uncle.”

“Which one?”

“John.”

He nodded, smiling slightly, but without any humor. “He was always her favorite.”

“But you never knew him,” Grace said, because the way he’d said it-it almost sounded as if he’d witnessed her favoritism.

“No, of course not. He died before I was born. But my father spoke of him.”

It was clear from his expression that he did not wish to discuss the matter further. Grace could not think of anything more to say, however, so she just stood there, waiting for him to collect his thoughts.

Which apparently he did, because he turned to her and asked, “Isn’t that portrait life-sized?”

Grace pictured herself wrestling it from the wall. “I’m afraid so.”

For a moment it looked as if he might turn toward the gallery, but then his jaw squared and he was once again every inch the forbidding duke. “No,” he said firmly. “You will not get that for her this evening. If she wants the bloody painting in her room, she can ask a footman for it in the morning.”

Grace wanted to smile at his protectiveness, but by this point she was far too weary. And besides that, when it came to the dowager, she had long since learned to follow the road of least resistance. “I assure you, I want nothing more than to retire this very minute, but it is easier just to accommodate her.”

“Absolutely not,” he said imperiously, and without waiting, he turned and marched up the stairs. Grace watched him for a moment, and then, with a shrug, headed off to the gallery. It couldn’t be that difficult to take a painting off a wall, could it?

But she made it only ten paces before she heard Thomas bark her name.

She sighed, stopping in her tracks. She should have known better. The man was as stubborn as his grandmother, not that he would appreciate the comparison.

She turned and retraced her steps, hurrying along when she heard him call out for her again. “I’m right here,” she said irritably. “Good gracious, you’ll wake the entire house.”

He rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell me you were going to get the painting by yourself.”

“If I don’t, she will ring for me all night, and then I will never get any sleep.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Watch me.”

“Watch you what?” she asked, baffled.

“Dismantle her bell cord,” he said, heading upstairs with renewed determination.

“Dismantle her…Thomas!” She ran up behind him, but of course could not keep up. “Thomas, you can’t!”

He turned. Grinned even, which she found somewhat alarming. “It’s my house,” he said. “I can do anything I want.”

And while Grace digested that on an exhausted brain, he strode down the hall and into his grandmother’s room. “What,” she heard him bite off, “do you think you’re doing?”

Grace let out a breath and hurried after him, entering the room just as he was saying, “Good heavens, are you all right?”

“Where is Miss Eversleigh?” the dowager asked, her eyes darting frantically about the room.

“I’m right here,” Grace assured her, rushing forward.

“Did you get it? Where is the painting? I want to see my son.”

“Ma’am, it’s late,” Grace tried to explain. She inched forward, although she wasn’t sure why. If the dowager started spouting off about the highwayman and his resemblance to her favorite son, it wasn’t as if she would be able to stop her.

But still, the proximity at least gave the illusion that she might be able to prevent disaster.

“Ma’am,” Grace said again, gently, softly. She gave the dowager a careful look.

“You may instruct a footman to procure it for you in the morning,” Thomas said, sounding slightly less imperious than before, “but I will not have Miss Eversleigh undertaking such manual labor, and certainly not in the middle of the night.”

“I need the painting, Thomas,” the dowager said, and Grace almost reached out to take her hand. She sounded pained. She sounded old. And she certainly did not sound like herself when she said, “Please.”

Grace glanced at Thomas. He looked uneasy. “Tomorrow,” he said. “First thing, if you wish it.”

“But-”

“No,” he interrupted. “I am sorry you were accosted this evening, and I shall certainly do whatever is necessary- within reason -to facilitate your comfort and health, but this does not include whimsical and ill-timed demands. Do you understand me?”

They stared at each other for so long that Grace wanted to flinch. Then Thomas said sharply, “Grace, go to bed.” He didn’t turn around.

Grace held still for a moment, waiting for what, she didn’t know-disagreement from the dowager? A thunderbolt outside the window? When neither was forthcoming, she decided she could do nothing more that evening and left the room. As she walked slowly down the hall, she could hear them arguing-nothing violent, nothing impassioned. But then, she’d not have expected that. Cavendish tempers ran cold, and they were far more likely to attack with a frozen barb than a heated cry.

Grace let out a long, uneven breath. She would never get used to this. Five years she had been at Belgrave, and still the resentment that ran back and forth between Thomas and his grandmother shocked her.

And the worst part was-there wasn’t even a reason! Once, she had dared to ask Thomas why they held each other in such contempt. He just shrugged, saying that it had always been that way. She’d disliked his father, Thomas said, his father had hated him, and he himself could have done quite well without either of them.

Grace had been stunned. She’d thought families were meant to love each other. Hers had. Her mother, her father…She closed her eyes, fighting back tears. She was being maudlin. Or maybe it was because she was tired. She didn’t cry about them any longer. She missed them-she would always miss them. But the great big gaping hole their deaths had rent in her had healed.