The Lost Duke of Wyndham

Mr. Audley.

“Miss Eversleigh!”

At that Grace stood. This was getting ridiculous. “Yes, ma’am?”

“You sighed.”

“I sighed?”

“Do you deny it?”

“No,” Grace replied. “That is to say, I did not notice that I sighed, but I certainly allow that I could have done so.”

The dowager waved an irritated hand in her direction. “You are most distracting this morning.”

Grace felt her eyes light up. Did this mean she’d escape early?

“Sit down, Miss Eversleigh.”

She sat. Apparently not.

The dowager set down her newspaper and pressed her lips together. “Tell me about my grandson.”

And the blush returned. “I beg your pardon?”

The dowager’s right eyebrow did a rather good imitation of a parasol top. “You did show him to his room last night, didn’t you?”

“Of course, ma’am. At your directive.”

“Well? What did he say? I am eager to learn what sort of man he is. The future of the family may very well rest in his hands.”

Grace thought guiltily of Thomas, whom she’d somehow forgotten in the past twelve hours. He was everything a duke ought to be, and no one knew the castle as he did. Not even the dowager. “Er, don’t you think that might be a bit premature, your grace?”

“Defending my other grandson, are we?”

Grace’s eyes widened. Something about the dowager’s tone sounded positively malevolent. “I consider his grace a friend,” she said carefully. “I would never wish him ill.”

“Pfft. If Mr. Cavendish-and don’t you dare call him Mr. Audley-really is the legitimate issue of my John, then you are hardly wishing Wyndham ill. The man ought to be grateful.”

“For having his title pulled from beneath his feet?”

“For having had the good fortune to have had it for as long as he did,” the dowager retorted. “If Mr.-oh, bloody hell, I’m going to call him John-”

Jack, Grace thought.

“If John really is my John’s legitimate son, then Wyndham never really had the title to begin with. So one could hardly call it stripping.”

“Except that he has been told since birth that it is his.”

“That’s not my fault, is it?” scoffed the dowager. “And it has hardly been since birth.”

“No,” Grace allowed. Thomas had ascended to the title at the age of twenty, when his father perished of a lung ailment. “But he has known since birth that it would one day be his, which is much the same thing.”

The dowager grumbled a bit about that, using the same peevish undertone she always used when presented with an argument to which she had no ready contradiction. She gave Grace one final glare and then picked up her newspaper again, snapping it upright in front of her face.

Grace took advantage of the moment to let her posture slip. She did not dare close her eyes.

And sure enough, only ten seconds passed before the dowager brought the paper back down and asked sharply, “Do you think he will make a good duke?”

“Mr. Au-” Grace caught herself just in time. “Er, our new guest?”

The dowager rolled her eyes at her verbal acrobatics. “Call him Mr. Cavendish. It is his name.”

“But it is not what he wishes to be called.”

“I don’t give a damn what he wishes to be called. He is who he is.” The dowager took a long gulp of her chocolate. “We all are. And it’s a good thing, too.”

Grace said nothing. She’d been forced to endure the dowager’s lectures on the natural order of man far too many times to risk provoking a repeat performance.

“You did not answer my question, Miss Eversleigh.”

Grace took a moment to decide upon her reply. “I really could not say, ma’am. Not on such a short acquaintance.”

It was mostly true. It was difficult to think of anyone besides Thomas holding the title, but Mr. Audley-for all his lovely friendliness and humor-seemed to lack a certain gravitas. He was intelligent, certainly, but did he possess the acumen and judgment necessary to run an estate the size of Wyndham? Belgrave might have been the family’s primary domicile, but there were countless other holdings, both in England and abroad. Thomas employed at least a dozen secretaries and managers to aid him in his stewardship, but he was no absentee landlord. If he had not walked every inch of the Belgrave lands, she would wager that he’d come close. And Grace had substituted for the dowager on enough of her duties around the estate to know that Thomas knew nearly all of his tenants by name.

Grace had always thought that a remarkable achievement for one brought up as he had been, with a constant emphasis on the Wyndham place in the hierarchy of man. (Just below the king, and well above you, thank you very much.)

Thomas liked to present to the world the image of a slightly bored, sophisticated man of the ton, but there was quite a bit more to him. It was why he was so very good at what he did, she supposed.

And why it was so callous of the dowager to treat him with such a lack of regard. Grace supposed that one had to possess feelings in order to have a care for those of others, but really, the dowager had quite gone beyond her usual selfishness.

Grace had no idea whether Thomas had returned the night before, but if he hadn’t…well, she wouldn’t blame him.

“More chocolate, Miss Eversleigh.”

Grace stood and refilled the dowager’s cup from the pot she’d left on the bedside table.

“What did you talk about last night?”

Grace decided to feign obtuseness. “I retired early.” She tilted the pot back, careful not to drip. “With your very kind permission.”

The dowager scowled. Grace avoided the expression by returning the chocolate pot to its spot on the table. It took her an impressively long time to get it just so.

“Did he speak of me?” the dowager asked.

“Er, not so very much,” Grace hedged.

“Not very much or not at all?”

Grace turned. There was only so much interrogation she could avoid before the dowager lost her temper. “I’m certain he mentioned you.”

“What did he say?”

Good heavens. How was she meant to say that he’d called her an old bat? And if he hadn’t called her that, then he’d probably called her something worse. “I don’t recall precisely, ma’am,” Grace said. “I’m terribly sorry. I was not aware you wished for me to take note of his words.”

“Well, next time, do so,” the dowager muttered. She turned to her newspaper, then looked up toward the window, her mouth in a straight, recalcitrant line. Grace stood still, her hands clasped in front of her, and waited patiently while the dowager fussed and turned and sipped and ground her teeth, and then-it was hard to believe, but Grace thought she might actually feel sorry for the older woman.

“He reminds me of you,” she said, before she could think the better of it.

The dowager turned to her with delighted eyes. “He does? How?”

Grace felt her stomach drop, although she was not certain if this was due to the uncharacteristic happiness on the dowager’s face or the fact that she had no idea what to say. “Well, not completely, of course,” she stalled, “but there is something in the expression.”

But after about ten seconds of smiling blandly, it became apparent to Grace that the dowager was waiting for more. “His eyebrow,” she said, in what she thought was a stroke of genius. “He lifts it like you do.”