"No Grace, our best course of action is to ensure that you are a success when making your formal bow. Then, and only then should you still wish it, you may return to the wilds of Devonshire with both the Sinclair name and your own reputation intact.”
∞∞∞
Nicholas wondered whether he had been completely beef witted in leaving Grace to form her own opinion of Miss Beaumont. It clearly flew in the face everything he’d been taught. But therein lay the rub. Nicholas was determined he would not be as his father.
Truth be told, his thoughts were turning more and more to his wife. In day to day matters, he found himself wondering what Grace would think in each situation, what she would do. He’d sworn he would never allow himself to get close to another human being after losing both his brother and his son, but despite his efforts to keep his distance, Nicholas feared he was becoming entirely too comfortable with her presence. And even more disconcerting, he found himself wanting to make her happy - and not just in the bedroom.
Frowning he looked down at the accounts he was working on. His father had left the Sinclair finances in a very healthy position, but the current state of the townhouse indicated just how miserly he'd become in his latter years.
The Sinclair London abode had urgent need of improvement. Nicholas had ensured its smooth running by substantially increasing the number of servants under its roof, but the furnishings remained dark and dreary no matter how much they were cleaned and polished. Nicholas had no interest in choosing their replacement apart from removing the overpowering imprint of his father seeming to permeate everything.
Of a sudden he wondered whether Grace would consider staying in London beyond the end of the Season to oversee any renovations while he returned to Blackmore. Surely she would enjoy shopping for the latest fripperies. If he could persuade her to do so, he would be killing two birds with one stone in eradicating the uncomfortable presence of the old Duke and distancing himself from his wife’s allure.
Putting his seal on the last document with a flourish, the current Duke of Blackmore did not stop to wonder why his perfect solution didn’t make him feel happier.
∞∞∞
Reverend Shackleford couldn’t help wondering whether his current troubles had been sent by the Almighty to test him. Frowning into his ale tankard he shook his head sadly. He had always been on such good terms with God. He worked tirelessly for the good of his congregation and his family. Why the church coffers were healthier than they’d been in a decade and he had not only secured his eldest daughter an incomparable match but done his utmost to ensure she didn’t make a complete cake of herself and ruin them all in the process.
Sighing, he took a sip of his ale before finally admitting to himself that his plan to abduct Grace had not been one of his better ideas. Percy, usually his loyal companion, had spent most of the last two weeks on his knees. The Reverend had finally only put his foot down when his curate requested a hair shirt. He would never have believed that Percy would turn out to be such a chucklehead.
The problem was Percy Noon was the Reverend’s sole confident - apart from his Creator, and there were some things it did not behove a vicar to chat with the Almighty about. Kidnapping and the resulting devil’s own scrape being one of them.
It was clear that his curate was wallowing in the very depths of remorse over their escapade, which was all very well, but Percy’s regret didn’t solve the problem of potential repercussions.
In particular the fact that they had been spied upon by the little varmint who’d brought the Duke’s original letter to the door. Now the rapscallion was demanding a whole shilling to keep his mouth shut.
If the Good Lord did not frown on murder, the Reverend would be sorely tempted.
As it was, for possibly the first time ever, he was at a loss as to what to do. And without Percy he had no one with which to formulate a plan. Gloomily he stared down into the depths of his ale. There was no getting away from it, he’d made a mull of the whole thing and now the Almighty was punishing him.
“Now then sir, it’s not often I get to see a man of the cloth in such a fit of the blue-devils. Allow me to procure you another ale and if you have a mind, partake of some lively conversation to lift your spirits.”
Startled, the Reverend looked up at the large jovial sounding individual standing in front of him. The candlelight in the Red Lion was only sufficient for him to receive a vague impression, and under more usual circumstances he would have sent the presumptuous fellow on his way.
However, on this occasion, three things conspired to ensure Augustus Shackleford’s ruin. The first being the fact that he was sorely in need of a sympathetic ear; the second that Freddy, who could spot an ivory tuner from twenty yards away, had unusually remained at home; and thirdly, the Reverend didn’t have enough coin in his pocket for another pint.
Chapter Fifteen
Grace spent the days prior to the Marquis of Blanchford’s ball almost entirely with her new companion. Felicity Beaumont proved to be excellent company, possessing a dry wit that served as a perfect foil for Grace’s more impetuous personality.
They remained for the most part within the townhouse but on occasion indulged in an early morning stroll in the gardens in the centre of the square opposite. When Grace chafed at their confinement, her companion sternly informed her that a duchess of the realm should under no circumstances be seen out and about dressed as a milkmaid
