Julia Quinn: Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

He yawned. His bed was extremely comfortable, and he planned to make good use of it. Possibly until noon.

Belgrave was quiet when he let himself in. The servants had long since gone to bed, and so, apparently, had his grandmother.

Thank God.

He supposed he loved her. It was a theoretical thing, really, because he certainly did not like her. But then again, no one did. He supposed he owed her some fealty. She had borne a son who had then married a woman who had borne him. One had to appreciate one’s own existence, if nothing else.

But beyond that, he couldn’t think of any reason to hold her in any affection whatsoever. Augusta Elizabeth Candida Debenham Cavendish was, to put it politely, not a very nice person.

He’d heard stories from people who’d known her long ago, that even if she’d never been friendly, at least she had once been perhaps not so un friendly. But this was well before he’d been born, before two of her three sons died, the eldest of the same fever that took her husband, and the next in a shipwreck off the coast of Ireland.

Thomas’s father had never expected to become the duke, not with two perfectly healthy older brothers. Fate was a fickle thing, really.

Thomas yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth, and moved quietly across the hall toward the stairs. And then, to his great surprise, he saw-

“Grace?”

She let out a little squeak of surprise and stumbled off the last step. Reflexively, he sprang forward to steady her, his hands grasping her upper arms until she found her footing.

“Your grace,” she said, sounding impossibly tired.

He stepped back, eyeing her curiously. They had long since dispensed with the formalities of titles while at home. She was, in fact, one of the few people who used his given name. “What the devil are you doing awake?” he asked. “It’s got to be after two.”

“After three, actually,” she sighed.

Thomas watched her for a moment, trying to imagine what his grandmother could possibly have done that might require her companion to be up and about at this time of night. He was almost afraid even to ponder it; the devil only knew what she might have come up with. “Grace?” he asked gently, because the poor girl looked truly exhausted.

She blinked, giving her head a little shake. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“Why are you wandering the halls?”

“Your grandmother is not feeling well,” she said with a rueful smile. And then she abruptly added, “You’re home late.”

“I had business in Stamford,” he said brusquely. He considered Grace one of his only true friends, but she was still every inch a lady, and he would never insult her by mentioning Celeste in her presence.

Besides, he was still rather annoyed with himself for his indecisiveness. Why the devil had he driven all the way to Stamford just to turn around?

Grace cleared her throat. “We had an…exciting evening,” she said, adding almost reluctantly, “We were accosted by highwaymen.”

“Good God,” he exclaimed, looking at her more closely. “Are you all right? Is my grandmother well?”

“We are both unharmed,” she assured him, “although our driver has a nasty bump on his head. I took the liberty of giving him three days to convalesce.”

“Of course,” he said, but inside he was berating himself. He should not have allowed them to travel alone. He should have realized they’d be returning late. And what of the Willoughbys? It was unlikely their carriage would have been accosted; they would have traveled in the opposite direction. But still, this did not sit well with him. “I must offer my apologies,” he said. “I should have insisted that you take more than one outrider.”

“Don’t be silly,” Grace responded. “It’s not your fault. Who would have-” She shook her head. “We are unhurt. That is all that matters.”

“What did they take?” he asked, because it seemed an obvious question.

“Not very much,” Grace said lightly, sounding as if she was attempting to minimize the situation. “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 admitted.

He almost laughed. Inappropriate and unkind, he knew, but he had always adored understatement. “She was wearing her emeralds, wasn’t she?” He shook his head. “The old bat is ridiculously fond of those stones.”

“She kept the emeralds, actually,” Grace replied, and he knew that she must be exhausted, because she did not scold him for calling his grandmother an old bat. “She hid them under the seat cushions.”

He was impressed despite himself. “She did?”

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

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

She hemmed and hawed, leaving him to wonder what on earth could have her feeling so embarrassed. Finally she admitted, “Your grandmother has a strange request.”

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

“No, this one…well…” She let out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t suppose you’d like to help me remove a painting from the gallery.”

Not what he was expecting. “A painting,” he echoed.

She nodded.

“From the gallery.”

She nodded again.

He tried to imagine…then gave up. “I don’t suppose she’s asking for one of those modestly sized square ones.”

She looked as if she might smile. “With the bowls of fruit?”

He nodded.

“No.”

Good Lord, his grandmother had finally gone insane. This was a good thing, really. Perhaps he could have her committed to an asylum. He could not imagine anyone would protest.

“She wants the portrait of your uncle.”

“My uncle? Which one?”

“John.”

Thomas nodded, wondering why he’d even asked. He’d never known his uncle, of course; John Cavendish perished a year before he was born. But Belgrave Castle had long lived under his shadow. The dowager had always loved her middle son best, and everyone had known it, especially her other sons. “He was always her favorite,” he murmured.

Grace looked at him quizzically. “But you never knew him.”

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

Quite often. And never with fondness.

Still, he supposed he should help Grace wrestle the painting from the wall. The poor girl would be unable to manage it herself. He shook his head. “Isn’t that portrait life-sized?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Good Lord. The things his grandmother did…No.

No. He wasn’t going to do it.

He looked Grace squarely in the eye. “No,” he said. “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.”

“I assure you, I want nothing more than to retire this very minute, but it is easier just to accommodate her.”

“Absolutely not,” Thomas replied. Good Lord, his grandmother was enough of a terror as it was. He turned and marched up the stairs, intending to give her the tongue-lashing she so sorely deserved, but halfway up he realized he was alone.

What was it with the women of Lincolnshire this evening?

“Grace!” he barked.

And then, when she did not materialize immediately at the foot of the stairs, he ran down and said it louder.

“Grace!”

“I’m right here,” she retorted, hurrying around the corner. “Good gracious, you’ll wake the entire house.”