The Lost Duke of Wyndham

Of Thomas, the current Duke of Wyndham. Whom she considered a friend.

Of the dowager’s long-dead middle son, and the man who apparently bore his likeness. And his name.

His name. Grace took a long, uneasy breath. His name.

Good God.

She had not told the dowager this. She had stood motionless in the middle of the road, watching the highwayman ride off in the light of the partial moon. And then, finally, when she thought her legs might actually function, she set about getting them home. There was the footman to untie, and the coachman to tend to, and as for the dowager-she was so clearly upset that she did not even whisper a complaint when Grace put the injured coachman inside the carriage with her.

And then she joined the footman atop the driver’s seat and drove them home. She wasn’t a particularly experienced hand with the reins, but she could manage.

And she’d had to manage. There was no one else to do it. But that was something she was good at.

Managing. Making do.

She’d got them home, found someone to tend to the coachman, and then tended to the dowager, and all the while she’d thought-

Who was he?

The highwayman. He’d said his name had once been Cavendish. Could he be the dowager’s grandson? She had been told that John Cavendish died without issue, but he wouldn’t have been the first young nobleman to litter the countryside with illegitimate children.

Except he’d said his name was Cavendish. Or rather, had been Cavendish. Which meant-

Grace shook her head blearily. She was so tired she could barely think, and yet it seemed all she could do was think. What did it mean that the highwayman’s name was Cavendish? Could an illegitimate son bear his father’s name?

She had no idea. She’d never met a bastard before, at least not one of noble origins. But she’d known others who had changed their names. The vicar’s son had gone to live with relatives when he was small, and the last time he’d been back to visit, he’d introduced himself with a different surname. So surely an illegitimate son could call himself whatever he wanted. And even if it was not legal to do so, a highwayman would not trouble himself with such technicalities, would he?

Grace touched her mouth, trying to pretend she did not love the shivers of excitement that rushed through her at the memory. He had kissed her. It had been her first kiss, and she did not know who he was.

She knew his scent, she knew the warmth of his skin, and the velvet softness of his lips, but she did not know his name.

Not all of it, at least.

“Grace! Grace!”

Grace stumbled to her feet. She’d left the door ajar so she could better hear the dowager, and sure enough, her name was once again being called. The dowager must still be overset-she rarely used Grace’s Christian name. It was harder to snap out in a demanding manner than Miss Eversleigh.

Grace rushed back into the room, trying not to sound weary and resentful as she asked, “May I be of assistance?”

The dowager was sitting up in bed-well, not quite sitting up. She was mostly lying down, with just her head propped up on the pillows. Grace thought she looked terribly uncomfortable, but the last time she had tried to adjust her position she’d nearly got her head bit off.

“Where have you been?”

Grace did not think the question required an answer, but she said, nonetheless, “Just outside your door, ma’am.”

“I need you to get me something,” the dowager said, and she didn’t sound as imperious as she did agitated.

“What is it you would like, your grace?”

“I want the portrait of John.”

Grace stared at her, uncomprehending.

“Don’t just stand there!” the dowager practically screamed.

“But ma’am,” Grace protested, jumping back, “I’ve brought you all three of the miniatures, and-”

“No, no, no,” the dowager cried, her head swinging back and forth on the pillows. “I want the portrait. From the gallery.”

“The portrait,” Grace echoed, because it was half three in the morning, and perhaps she was addled by exhaustion, but she thought she’d just been asked to remove a life-sized portrait from a wall and carry it up two flights of stairs to the dowager’s bedchamber.

“You know the one,” the dowager said. “He’s standing next to the tree, and he has a sparkle in his eye.”

Grace blinked, trying to absorb this. “There is only the one, I think.”

“Yes,” the dowager said, her voice almost unbalanced in its urgency. “There is a sparkle in his eye.”

“You want me to bring it here.”

“I have no other bedchamber,” the dowager snapped.

“Very well.” Grace swallowed. Good Lord, how was she going to accomplish this? “It will take a bit of time.”

“Just drag a chair over and yank the bloody thing down. You don’t need-”

Grace rushed forward as the dowager’s body convulsed in a spasm of coughing. “Ma’am! Ma’am!” she said, bringing her arm around her to set her upright. “Please, ma’am. You must try to be more settled. You are going to hurt yourself.”

The dowager coughed a few last times, took a long swallow of her warm milk, then cursed and took her brandy instead. That, she finished entirely. “I’m going to hurt you,” she gasped, thunking the glass back down on her bedside table, “if you don’t get me that portrait.”

Grace swallowed and nodded. “As you wish, ma’am.” She hurried out, sagging against the corridor wall once she was out of the dowager’s sight.

It had begun as such a lovely evening. And now look at her. She’d had a gun pointed at her heart, been kissed by a man whose next appointment was surely with the gallows, and now the dowager wanted her to wrestle a life- sized portrait off the gallery wall.

At half three in the morning.

“She can’t possibly be paying me enough,” Grace mumbled under her breath as she made her way down the stairs. “There couldn’t possibly exist enough money-”

“Grace?”

She stopped short, stumbling off the bottom step. Large hands immediately found her upper arms to steady her. She looked up, even though she knew who it had to be. Thomas Cavendish was the grandson of the dowager. He was also the Duke of Wyndham and thus without question the most powerful man in the district. He was in London nearly as often as he was here, but Grace had got to know him quite well during the five years she’d acted as companion to the dowager.

They were friends. It was an odd and completely unexpected situation, given the difference in their rank, but they were friends.

“Your grace,” she said, even though he had long since instructed her to use his given name when they were at Belgrave. She gave him a tired nod as he stepped back and returned his hands to his sides. It was far too late for her to ponder matters of titles and address.

“What the devil are you doing awake?” he asked. “It’s got to be after two.”

“After three, actually,” she corrected absently, and then-good heavens, Thomas.

She snapped fully awake. What should she tell him? Should she say anything at all? There would be no hiding the fact that she and the dowager had been accosted by highwaymen, but she wasn’t quite certain if she should reveal that he might have a first cousin racing about the countryside, relieving the local