Julia Quinn: The Lost Duke of Wyndham

And now…well, she’d found a new place in this world. It wasn’t the one she’d anticipated, and it wasn’t the one her parents had planned for her, but it came with food and clothing, and the opportunity to see her friends from time to time.

But sometimes, late at night as she lay in her bed, it was just so hard. She knew she should not be ungrateful-she was living in a castle , for heaven’s sake. But she had not been brought up for this. Not the servitude, and not the sour dispositions. Her father had been a country gentleman, her mother a well-liked member of the local community. They had raised her with love and laughter, and sometimes, as they sat before the fire in the evening, her father would sigh and say that she was going to have to remain a spinster, because surely there was no man in the county good enough for his daughter.

And Grace would laugh and say, “What about the rest of England?”

“Not there, either!”

“France?”

“Good heavens, not.”

“The Americas?”

“Are you trying to kill your mother, gel? You know she gets seasick if she so much as sees the beach.”

And they all somehow knew that Grace would marry someone right there in Lincolnshire, and she’d live down the road, or at least just a short ride away, and she would be happy. She would find what her parents had found, because no one expected her to marry for any reason other than love. She’d have babies, and her house would be full of laughter, and she would be happy.

She’d thought herself the luckiest girl in the world.

But the fever that had struck the Eversleigh house was cruel, and when it broke, Grace was an orphan. At seventeen, she could hardly remain on her own, and indeed, no one had been sure what to do with her until her father’s affairs were settled and the will was read.

Grace let out a bitter laugh as she pulled off her wrinkled clothing and readied herself for bed. Her father’s directives had only made matters worse. They were in debt; not deeply so, but enough to render her a burden. Her parents, it seemed, had always lived slightly above their means, presumably hoping that love and happiness would carry them through.

And indeed they had. Love and happiness had stood up nicely to every obstacle the Eversleighs had faced.

Except death.

Sillsby-the only home Grace had ever known-was entailed. She’d known that, but not how eager her cousin Miles would be to assume residence. Or that he was still unmarried. Or that when he pushed her against a wall and jammed his lips against hers, she was supposed to let him, indeed thank the toad for his gracious and benevolent interest in her.

Instead she had shoved her elbow into his ribs and her knee up against his-

Well, he hadn’t been too fond of her after that. It was the only part of the whole debacle that still made her smile.

Furious at the rebuff, Miles had tossed her out on her ear. Grace had been left with nothing. No home, no money, and no relations (she refused to count him among the last).

Enter the dowager.

News of Grace’s predicament must have traveled fast through the district. The dowager had swooped in like an icy goddess and whisked her away. Not that there had been any illusion that she was to be a pampered guest. The dowager had arrived with full retinue, stared down Miles until he squirmed (literally; it had been a most enjoyable moment for Grace), and then declared to her, “You shall be my companion.”

Before Grace had a chance to accept or decline, the dowager had turned and left the room. Which just confirmed what they all knew-that Grace had never had a choice in the matter to begin with.

That had been five years ago. Grace now lived in a castle, ate fine food, and her clothing was, if not the latest stare of fashion, well-made and really quite pretty. (The dowager was, if nothing else, at least not cheap.)

She lived mere miles from where she had grown up, and as most of her friends still resided in the district, she saw them with some regularity-in the village, at church, on afternoon calls. And if she didn’t have a family of her own, at least she had not been forced to have one with Miles.

But much as she appreciated all the dowager had done for her, she wanted something more.

Or maybe not even more. Maybe just something else.

Unlikely, she thought, falling into bed. The only options for a woman of her birth were employment and marriage. Which, for her, meant employment. The men of Lincolnshire were far too cowed by the dowager to ever make an overture in Grace’s direction. It was well-known that Augusta Cavendish had no desire to train a new companion.

It was even more well-known that Grace hadn’t a farthing.

She closed her eyes, trying to remind herself that the sheets she’d slid between were of the highest quality, and the candle she’d just snuffed was pure beeswax. She had every physical comfort, truly.

But what she wanted was…

It didn’t really matter what she wanted. That was her last thought before she finally fell asleep.

And dreamed of a highwayman.

Five miles away, in a small posting inn, a man sat in his room, alone, with a bottle of expensive French brandy, an empty glass, a very small case of clothing, and a woman’s ring.

His name was Jack Audley; formerly Captain John Audley of His Majesty’s army; formerly Jack Audley of Butlersbridge, County Cavan, Ireland; formerly Jack Cavendish-Audley of the same place; and formerly-as formerly as one could get, as it was at the time of his christening-John Augustus Cavendish.

The miniature had meant nothing to him. He could barely see it in the night, and he’d yet to find a portraitist who could capture a man’s essence on a miniature painting, anyway.

But the ring…

With an unsteady hand, he poured himself another drink.

He hadn’t looked closely at the ring when he took it from the old lady’s hands. But now, in the privacy of his rented room, he’d looked. And what he’d seen had shaken him to his bones.

He’d seen that ring before. On his own finger.

His was a masculine version, but the design was identical. A twisted flower, a tiny swirled D. He’d never known what it meant, as he’d been told that his father’s name was John Augustus Cavendish, no capital D’s to be found anywhere.

He still didn’t know what the D stood for, but he knew that the old lady did. And no matter how many times he tried to convince himself that this was just a coincidence, he knew that this evening, on a deserted Lincolnshire road, he’d met his grandmother.

Good Lord.

He looked down at the ring again. He’d propped it up on the table, its face winking up at him in the candlelight. Abruptly, he twisted his own ring and yanked it off. He couldn’t remember the last time his finger had been bare. His aunt had always insisted that he keep it close; it was the only keepsake they had of his father.

His mother, they told him, had been clutching it in her shivering fingers when she was pulled from the frigid waters of the Irish Sea.

Slowly, Jack held the ring out, carefully setting it down next to its sister. His lips flattened slightly as he regarded the pair. What had he been thinking? That when he got the two side by side he’d see that they were actually quite different?

He’d known little of his father. His name, of course, and that he was the younger son of a well-to-do English family. His aunt had met him but twice; her impression had been that he was somewhat estranged from his relations. He spoke of them only laughingly, in that manner people used when they did not wish to say anything of substance.

He hadn’t much money, or so his aunt assumed. His clothes were fine, but well-worn, and as far as anyone could tell, he’d been wandering the Irish countryside for months. He’d said he had come to witness the wedding of a school friend and liked it so much that he stayed. His aunt saw no reason to doubt this.