Julia Quinn: Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

Amelia supposed she still was, only now she was the daughter of a dead squire, which did not offer much in the way of livelihood or protection. But back when Grace’s family had been living, they were all part of the same general country set, and if perhaps the parents had not been close, the children certainly were. She had probably seen Grace once every week; twice, she supposed, if one counted church.

But in truth, she hadn’t ever really thought about Grace’s appearance. It wasn’t that she didn’t care, or that she considered her beneath notice. It was just that…well… why? Grace had always been simply there. A regular and dependable part of her world. Elizabeth’s closest friend, tragically orphaned and then taken in by the dowager duchess.

Amelia reconsidered. Taken in was perhaps a euphemism. Truly, Grace worked hard for her keep. She might not be performing menial labor, but time spent with the dowager was exhausting.

As Amelia knew firsthand.

“I am quite recovered,” Grace said. “Just a bit tired, I’m afraid. I did not sleep well.”

“What happened?” Amelia asked, deciding there was no point in pretending she’d been listening.

Elizabeth actually shoved her. “Grace and the dowager were accosted by highwaymen!”

“Really?”

Grace nodded. “Last night. On the way home from the assembly.”

Now this was interesting. “Did they take anything?” Amelia asked, because really, it seemed a pertinent question.

“How can you be so dispassionate?” Elizabeth demanded. “They pointed a gun at her!” She turned to Grace. “Did they?”

“They did, actually.”

Amelia pondered this. Not the gun, but rather, her lack of horror at the retelling. Perhaps she was a cold person.

“Were you terrified?” Elizabeth asked breathlessly. “I would have been. I would have swooned.”

“I wouldn’t have swooned,” Amelia remarked.

“Well, of course you wouldn’t,” Elizabeth said irritably. “You didn’t even gasp when Grace told you about it.”

“It sounds rather exciting, actually.” Amelia looked at Grace with great interest. “Was it?”

And Grace-good heavens, she blushed.

Amelia leaned forward, lips twitching. A blush could mean all sorts of things-all of them quite splendid. She felt a rush of excitement in her chest, a heady, almost weightless sort of feeling-the sort one got when told a particularly juicy piece of gossip. “Was he handsome, then?”

Elizabeth looked at her as if she were mad. “Who?”

“The highwayman, of course.”

Grace stammered something and pretended to drink her tea.

“He was ,” Amelia said, feeling much better now. If Wyndham was in love with Grace…well, at least she did not return the emotion.

“He was wearing a mask ,” Grace retorted.

“But you could still tell that he was handsome,” Amelia urged.

“No!”

“Then his accent was terribly romantic. French? Italian?” Amelia actually shuddered with delight, thinking of all the Byron she’d read recently. “Spanish.”

“You’ve gone mad,” Elizabeth said.

“He didn’t have an accent,” Grace said. “Well, not much of one. Scottish, perhaps? Irish? I couldn’t tell, precisely.”

Amelia sat back with a happy sigh. “A highwayman. How romantic.”

“Amelia Willoughby!” her sister scolded. “Grace was just attacked at gunpoint, and you are calling it romantic?”

She would have responded with something very cutting and clever-because really, if one couldn’t be cutting and clever with one’s sister, who could one be cutting and clever with?-but at that moment she heard a noise in the hall.

“The dowager?” Elizabeth whispered to Grace with a grimace. It was so lovely when the dowager did not join them for tea.

“I don’t think so,” Grace replied. “She was still abed when I came down. She was rather…ehrm…distraught.”

“I should think so,” Elizabeth remarked. Then she gasped. “Did they make away with her emeralds?”

Grace shook her head. “We hid them. Under the seat cushions.”

“Oh, how clever!” Elizabeth said approvingly. “Amelia, wouldn’t you agree…”

But Amelia wasn’t listening. It had become apparent that the movements in the hall belonged to a more sure-footed individual than the dowager, and sure enough, Wyndham walked past the open doorway.

Conversation stopped. Elizabeth looked at Grace, and Grace looked at Amelia, and Amelia just kept looking at the now empty doorway. After a moment of held breath, Elizabeth turned to her sister and said, “I think he does not realize we are here.”

“I don’t care,” Amelia declared, which wasn’t quite the truth.

“I wonder where he went,” Grace murmured.

And then, like a trio of idiots (in Amelia’s opinion), they sat motionless, heads turned dumbly toward the doorway. A moment later they heard a grunt and a crash, and as one they rose (but still did not otherwise move) and watched.

“Bloody hell,” they heard the duke snap.

Elizabeth’s eyes widened. Amelia was rather warmed by the outburst. She approved of anything that indicated he was not in complete control of a situation.

“Careful with that,” they heard him say.

A rather large painting moved past the doorway, two footmen struggling to keep it perpendicular to the ground. It was a singularly odd sight. The painting was a portrait-life-sized, which explained the difficulty in balancing it-and it was of a man, quite a handsome one, actually, standing with his foot on a large rock, looking very noble and proud.

Except for the fact that he was now tilted at a forty-five-degree angle, and-from Amelia’s vantage point-appeared to be bobbing up and down as he floated past. Which cut away significantly at noble and proud.

“Who was that?” she asked, once the painting had disappeared from sight.

“The dowager’s middle son,” Grace replied distractedly. “He died twenty-nine years ago.”

Amelia thought it odd that Grace knew so precisely the date of his death. “Why are they moving the portrait?”

“The dowager wants it upstairs,” Grace murmured.

Amelia thought to ask why, but who knew why the dowager did anything? And besides, Wyndham chose that moment to walk past the doorway once again.

The three ladies watched in silence, and then, as if time were playing in reverse, he backed up a step and looked in. He was, as always, impeccably dressed, his shirt a crisp, snowy white, his waistcoat a marvelous brocade of deep blue. “Ladies,” he said.

They all three bobbed immediate curtsies.

He nodded curtly. “Pardon.” And was gone.

“Well,” Elizabeth said, which was a good thing, because no one else seemed to have anything to fill the silence.

Amelia blinked, trying to figure out just what, precisely, she thought of this. She did not consider herself knowledgeable in the etiquette of kisses, or of the appropriate behavior after the event, but surely after what had happened the previous evening, she warranted more than a “pardon.”

“Perhaps we should leave,” Elizabeth said.

“No, you can’t,” Grace replied. “Not yet. The dowager wants to see Amelia.”

Amelia groaned.

“I’m sorry,” Grace said, and it was quite clear that she meant it. The dowager positively reveled in picking Amelia to pieces. If it wasn’t her posture, then it was her expression, and if it wasn’t her expression, then it was the new freckle on her nose.

And if it wasn’t the new freckle, then it was the freckle she was going to get, because even if Amelia happened to be standing inside, entirely in the shadows, the dowager knew that her bonnet would not be affixed with the proper vigor when the time came to step into the sun.