Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

“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.”

He ignored that. “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.”

She looked alarmed. “Watch you what?”

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

“Dismantle her…Thomas!”

He didn’t bother to stop. He could hear her scurrying along behind him, almost able to keep up.

“Thomas, you can’t,” she huffed, out of breath from taking the stairs two at a time.

He stopped and turned. Grinned, even, because really, this was almost fun. “I own the house,” he said. “I can do anything I want.”

His feet ate up the carpet with long strides, barely pausing when he reached his grandmother’s door, which was conveniently ajar for easy entry.

“What,” he snapped, when he’d made his way to the side of her bed, “do you think you’re doing?”

But his grandmother looked…

Wrong.

Her eyes lacked their usual hardness, and truth be told, she didn’t look quite enough like a witch to resemble the Augusta Cavendish he knew and didn’t quite love.

“Good heavens,” he said despite himself, “are you all right?”

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

“I’m right here,” Grace said, skidding across the room to the other side of her bed.

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

“Ma’am, it’s late,” Grace tried to explain. She edged forward, then looked at the dowager intently as she said it again: “Ma’am.”

“You may instruct a footman to procure it for you in the morning,” Thomas said, wondering why he thought that something unspoken had just passed between the two women. He was fairly certain his grandmother did not take Grace into her confidence, and he knew that Grace did not return the gesture. He cleared his throat. “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, but it was not her usual brittle snap. There was a catch in her voice, a weakness that was unnerving. And then she said, “Please.”

He closed his eyes. His grandmother never said please.

“Tomorrow,” he said, recomposing himself. “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?”

Her lips pursed, and he saw a flash of her usual, haughty self in her eyes. For some reason, he found this reassuring. It wasn’t that he viewed her usual, haughty self with much fondness, but the world was a more balanced place when everyone behaved as expected.

She stared at him angrily.

He stared back. “Grace,” he said sharply, without turning around, “go to bed.”

There was a long beat of silence, and then he heard Grace depart.

“You have no right to order her about that way,” his grandmother hissed.

“No, you have no right.”

“She is my companion.”

“Not your slave.”

His grandmother’s hands shook. “You don’t understand. You could never understand.”

“For which I am eternally grateful,” he retorted. Good Lord, the day he understood her was the day he ceased to like himself altogether. He’d spent a lifetime trying to please this woman, or if not that, then half a life trying to please her and the next half trying to avoid her. She had never liked him. Thomas could recall his childhood well enough to know that much. It did not bother him now; he’d long since realized she did not like anyone.

But apparently she once had. If his father’s resentful ramblings were any indication, Augusta Cavendish had adored her middle son, John. She had always bemoaned the fact that he had not been born the heir, and when Thomas’s father had unexpectedly inherited, she had made it abundantly clear that he was a weak substitute. John would have been a better duke, and if not him, then Charles, who, as the eldest, had been groomed for the spot. When he had perished, Reginald, born third, had been left alone with a bitter mother and a wife he did not like or respect. He had always felt that he had been forced to marry beneath him because no one thought he’d inherit, and he saw no reason not to make this opinion clear and loud.

For all that Reginald Cavendish and his mother appeared to detest one another, they were in truth remarkably alike. Neither one of them liked anyone, and certainly not Thomas, ducal heir or not.

“It’s a pity we can’t choose our families,” Thomas murmured.

His grandmother looked at him sharply. He had not spoken loudly enough for her to make out his words, but his tone would have been clear enough to interpret.