Except for him, of course. But who cared about that?
“What do we know of this Lady Dorcas?” The duchess, now fully engaged, went on. “She lived in Shoreditch for years. Shoreditch!” Shuddering, she closed her eyes.
Grant had no patience for such nonsense. “It’s a perfectly respectable area. Considering the preponderance of Quakers, probably more respectable than Mayfair.”
“Do not say such foolish things!” Flicking her eyes open, the duchess fixed him with a stare as cold as his ice-house in Scotland. “The countess is simply trade. She has no redeeming ancestors, no pretensions to gentility. Just because your friend Glenbreck lost his head and married Lady Dorcas’ sister, that does not mean you have to follow suit.”
“I follow nobody, Madam.”
The duchess shook her head with a sorrowful sigh. “You always paid more attention to your friends than you did to us. Even your poor brother came after your friends.”
Perhaps because those friends were actually supportive. But Grant gave his mother her head. She’d feel better for it.
She was pulling out the full gamut of her armory. All the gestures, the appeals to his better nature, the slight mention of David…Grant wasn’t sure he had a better nature. “Glenbreck’s choice of bride has nothing to do with this. He and his wife spend their time gazing at the heavens. That wouldn’t do for me. Dorcas has a more down-to-earth nature.”
He smiled when he remembered her appearance in the garden yesterday. He liked the simple clothes, even the ugly linen cap she’d used to cover her hair. If anything, the simple apron, cap and straw hat had only increased her appeal.
“Dorcas!” his mother repeated. “On first name terms already? Will she call you Grant, like any common—”
“Mother!” he said sharply. If she said that word, there would be no going back. “You will speak of my bride with respect.”
“Respect must be earned.”
“And she has earned it.”
The sharp back-and-forth ceased, and an awkward pause ensued.
“I’m sure she’s a very worthy woman,” David said soothingly, adding fuel to the fire.
“How has she earned it?” That seemed to be a rhetorical question, since she didn’t wait for an answer. “How can she possibly know the heavy burdens of high rank? Her brother has barely acceded to the title and lands, and they are not half of what you possess.”
“And how did I do that, Mother?”
He put down his silverware and leaned forward. His mother didn’t flinch. He was glad of that, as his size sometimes made him feel like a bully, when he had not the least intention of appearing so. “Father left me with a drawer full of debts and a run-down castle. I’ve spent every moment since building it up again. I couldn’t afford to be nice in who I had dealings with.”
That made her drop her gaze, although to cover her discomfort she reached for the teapot and refilled her dish with a none too steady hand. “Your father was a dreamer. A visionary.”
“And a gambler,” Grant reminded her. “So do not deny me my choice of bride. I will speak to Elizabeth, but do not expect anything else. I’m meeting the Carbrooke lawyer later, and we’re getting the contract under way. I expect to sign it by the end of the week, if not sooner.”
Abandoning her tea, his mother got to her feet. “Then you will excuse me. I will not watch you making what I consider a grave mistake. I can’t see it happen. We will leave for Greenwich today. David is already tiring of town.”
David looked at his brother and shrugged. Grant knew better than to look for active support there.
No doubt he would but perhaps not in the way she thought. Nobody could deny the duchess’ devotion to Grant’s younger brother. He wished she’d have been as devoted to him. But that was past, he reminded himself. He didn’t need that kind of soft emotion in his life any longer.
David did.
When they were in London, the Illingworths occupied a large town house in Berkeley Square. The place was filled with treasures, and society considered it a center of activity. Certainly the duchess had a great deal of influence, and her house was decorated in the finest style.
Grant had known the Illingworths all his life. At one time, when he was seven, his mother had declared that he would marry Lady Elizabeth Askew, the oldest daughter of the duke.
Grant, dazzled by her ladyship’s delicate blonde beauty and perfect manners, had been delighted by the choice. But his father had objected, and refused any kind of anticipatory agreement. “Let the boy decide when the time comes,” he’d said. “I am not convinced arranged marriages are the right course to take these days.”
For once, his father had been right. While Elizabeth had been a charming and lively friend for a boy, their ambitions did not match, and they’d grown apart. However, after his father had dissipated his inheritance, the Askews would not have considered him as a husband for their precious daughter.
Grant had no intention of following in his father’s footsteps in any way at all. His father had left him with a pile of debts and a collection of houses and land, most of which was mortgaged. He had the pomp without the circumstance, all style and no substance.
Grant was cut from a different cloth. So when Lady Elizabeth had become betrothed to the oldest son of the Earl of Carbrooke, he’d been relieved. When the earl and his sons had died in a carriage accident, he’d grieved with her. But by then, the spell was broken, and he no longer wanted to marry her.
After her period of mourning for her late betrothed, she’d come back to him, but he’d told her he didn’t want to marry anyone just yet. Then she’d tried for the new Earl of Carbrooke, and then his two friends. She’d had no success with any of them.
Now, he had to tell her all over again that he wouldn’t marry her.
She met him alone, but Grant wasn’t perturbed at a situation that would have sent other men running. Instead, he kissed her hand and led her to a sofa, but he was careful not to join her there.
“I’m so pleased to see you here again,” she said. “I’ve missed you, Grant.” She was one of the few people who used his given name.
He took the tea she offered and placed it on the table at the side of his chair. “We’ve been friends for a long time, Elizabeth. I should be sorry to lose that friendship.”
“Why should you?” she said brightly. Too brightly. “I have no intention of falling out with you.”
“Nor I with you.” Damn it, he didn’t have the knack of polite conversation. And he had to speak bluntly. Elizabeth tended to hang on to an idea right up to the last minute. She was the last of his contemporaries to stop believing in the existence of fairies. He wasn’t sure she didn’t still believe in them.
He glanced at his tea, the pink and gold Sevres dish blandly waiting for him to use it. It was destined for disappointment. As was the woman sitting opposite him.
“But friends do not always make good lovers. Or husbands and wives.”
She went very still. Elizabeth was very contained, she rarely showed her feelings in public. When she did, she did it to extremes. She was either icy cold or screaming with rage or delight.
He couldn’t live like that. He had no intention of living like that, with turmoil in the bedroom as well as out of it. But he owed it to her to tell her what he planned. “Elizabeth, I have offered for Lady Dorcas Dersingham.”
She closed her eyes. “Why?” she said in a small voice.
Maybe he should tell her that he’d fallen deeply in love with Dorcas. Actually, he had no idea if he had or not, having had no experience with love. But she was a woman he could fall in love with, he was sure of that. Unlike the lovely woman sitting opposite him. He wouldn’t lie to her.
For the sake of their past friendship he would tell her the truth. “We deal together very well. She’s intelligent, pretty, kind, and she knows what is expected of her as a duchess.”
“She should,” Elizabeth said bitterly. “Her sister snatched Glenbreck off me last year.�
��
Her hands were folded carefully in her lap, completely motionless. Her expression was frozen, completely without emotion. That didn’t bode well. “I wouldn’t put it quite like that,” he said carefully, fully aware that he was doing the same thing. Except Elizabeth had never owned him. She’d never owned Glenbreck either. But her mother had brought her up to believe she had a right to whatever she wanted.
To argue with that would be futile. Except that he wanted to try. There was a woman underneath that brittle exterior fighting to get out. He knew her, he’d seen her more than most people, and he wanted that person back. Not the spiteful, vengeful woman of recent years, but the proud, funny and courageous woman he’d known before her come-out.
“I had thought you had better taste,” she said. “The Dersingham women are parasites. The novelty of having triplets in society gave them some success, but they are parvenus, still not accepted in some circles. And quite rightly, too. For all their new titles, they are Cits, and they should have stayed where they belonged.” She paused and took a sip of tea before she spoke again. “I had thought you sought this interview to propose to me. Mama would not have allowed you to see me privately if she did not think so.”
“I’m sorry to disappoint her. Elizabeth, we don’t want the same things. I have investments I have to attend to; that means my wife must be comfortable with all kinds of people. Including Cits.”
“But you do not have to,” she said softly. Too softly. “Oh, I know your father left you with debts and mortgages, but you have paid them all off now, have you not? You live well. You could appoint people to conduct all that business for you.”
“But you see, I don’t care to.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs. “I enjoy my life as it is. I now have fingers in many pies, and I mix with people from all walks of life. I enjoy conducting my own business affairs. I need a wife who would enjoy it, too.”
“My mother says I was born to be a political hostess,” she said, chin up. “You should think of turning to politics instead.”
He gave a slight shake of his head. “I have no interest in politics. You see, we would not suit. You must know that, Elizabeth.”
While he was still thinking of another way to make her understand, she said, “I cannot see you happy with Lady Dorcas. Apart from being a Dersingham, she has not been brought up to be a duchess. She will not uphold your title. Why, I have seen her with dirt under her fingernails!” She shuddered. “Who could enjoy that?”
“Horticulture is a fashionable pursuit,” he said mildly. Were people really saying that about Dorcas, that she had dirt under her nails? How dare they? “There is a race to develop the first yellow rose.”
“And why would we want roses in such a vulgar color?” she demanded. “We have white and pink and red, is that not perfectly adequate?”
“Evidently not,” he murmured.
Giving up, he leaned back in his chair. Elizabeth would come to understand, or she would not. He had done his best to explain, to ameliorate the hurt she would feel if she heard it from someone else. He owed her that because of their past friendship. But he would not allow her to hold him back.
“I’ve been reading about the subject. The yellow rose is a mythical ideal, but it is an obsession amongst gardeners. There are other developments, too. I would support Lady Dorcas if she was developing turnips for cattle food.” He ignored Elizabeth’s snort. “But she is concerned with the yellow rose. She has sent for some rare plants from China, I believe. If she develops the rose before anyone else, that will make her name immortal.”
Elizabeth blinked. She picked up her tea, sipped, and put it down again. She was thinking. “Indeed. Perhaps I should take up horticulture. Would you like that?”
“It’s none of my concern,” he said coolly. “But you can try, if it interests you.”
“I might just do that,” she said, and picked up her tea again.
He got to his feet. He owed her something else. If she never spoke to him after today, then he would accept that, too. “I want the old Elizabeth back. The girl who did not mind getting her gown dirty, the fearless girl who went into adventures with a light heart and laughter. Not this bitter woman. You are driving potential suitors away, my dear. Your attitude and your spite doesn’t bode well for a future marriage. At least soften your approach. Don’t let your disappointments ride you. You could become the political hostess you always wanted to be. But you must learn forbearance, and to take your defeats gracefully.”
As he left the room, china shattered against the door. Twice. The Duchess of Illingworth would have to buy a new tea dish and saucer.
He left the house not at all sure he’d done the right thing. Although he’d certainly tried to.
Chapter Five
Early the following day, Grant jumped out of the cab he’d taken into the chaos of the riverside at the Pool of London. He tossed a shilling in the air, knowing the driver would catch it. He didn’t look back when he heard the rumble of wheels.
He took a deep breath of the redolent, salt-tinged, fetid air. The smell of rotting produce, inevitable when so much cargo was being loaded and unloaded, unwashed humanity and the general detritus of a place where people were crammed in together was best dealt with quickly.
The Tower of London loomed above, a guardian that everyone ignored. They were far too busy to check a landmark that they all knew. The masts of hundreds of ships thrust into the sky, a forest of dead wood. The noise was deafening. Cries of “Here!” and “Watch where you’re going!” interspersed with the colorful language of seamen vied with the raucous shouts of itinerant sellers.
A whore nudged Grant as he walked past her. “Give you a good time, sir. A penny against the wall, sixpence in my lodgin’s.”
And a bully to pick his pocket, no doubt. Grant gave the woman a hard stare. She had no teeth at the front, which she displayed proudly. A way of—well, he didn’t want to think about it. He tossed her the penny. “That’s for keeping away,” he said. Well worth it. A man had to be desperate to take advantage of that offer.
A man ran past, pulling a cart laden with goods. Grant had to jump back or lose his toes to the steel-rimmed wheels. The docks were edged with warehouses, some solid, some rickety shacks, none built with any consideration of aesthetics, or safety for that matter. Grant owned one of the more solid structures. He would call there later, ensure that everything was in order.
With the expertise of the frequent visitor, Grant dodged a man dragging a cart, who was keeping his head down ready to plow through anyone getting in his way. Grinning, he continued to the twin gangways reaching from the deck of his ship to the shore.
Above him, hoists were lowering crates and sacks to the waiting porters below. They were unloading his cargo with all due dispatch. Men ran up and down the gangways. These were steeper than the ones used for passengers. Only one line of rope stretched from ship to shore, instead of the gentler slope and double rope provided for passengers. Or even the small boats that put people onshore. These were still operating, of course, but the sailors wouldn’t be found dead on those.
Dawn had broken hours ago. The men would have been busy at first light, but there were no signs of fatigue. This was their chance to make as much money as possible, and perhaps a bonus. They scurried past Grant, ignoring him completely.
In the warehouse Grant and his partners owned, armed guards ensured that what was on the manifest was actually stowed inside. So many items “disappeared” between landing and stowing in a safe place that every owner had to take the greatest care. Or accept the “shrinkage” as a natural phenomenon. Grant refused to do that and, as a result, his reputation had risen as a safe pair of hands. And so had his profits.
He took his time walking down to the ship. Until a man stood in front of him. About six inches shorter than him, which would make him a couple of inches over five and a half feet, he still proved an effective block. Before Grant could take the necessary sideways step, he whined,
“‘Ave you got any spare change, sir?”
“No.” He shoved his hands in his coat pockets, recalling the pistol he had tucked into his breeches’ pocket. He’d be a fool to come here without one. As it was, he was glad his mother wasn’t in London, because she would have insisted he took several men with him.
Grant preferred to look after himself.
“Aw, you don’t ‘ave a penny?”
The wheedling annoyed him, particularly because the man seemed an able-bodied type. He opened his mouth to reply, but a blow to his head from behind cut the words off in his throat. And nearly his breath. If he wasn’t so tall, whoever had struck him would have knocked him cold. Or worse. As it was, his head rang. He blinked to restore his vision.
He felt a hand plunge into his coat pocket, and it wasn’t his. “Got it?” the man behind demanded, and he wasn’t talking to Grant.
“Yep,” the smaller man said, and went for the other pocket.
Grant didn’t stop to debate the philosophies of the situation.
Jabbing back with both elbows, he heard a satisfying “Oof!” as he hit soft flesh. That would hold him, but not for long.
The man standing in front of him grabbed his wrists as Grant lifted them, hands clenched into fists. The action softened the blow he’d planned to deliver long enough for the man behind to wrap his arms around his waist and pull tight, forcing the breath out of his body.
He dived for his breeches pocket, and pulled out the pistol. With not enough time to cock it, he deftly turned it around and hit out, using the weapon as a club. Besides, firing a pistol in this crowded place risked hitting the wrong person, or starting a riot.
The man in front of him stared, wide-eyed. Then he ducked under Grant’s arm and ran. Grant spun around, but the pressure on his rib cage was released with shocking speed. His attacker shot away.
A Trace of Roses Page 4