Grace

by Deneane Clark

  What he saw made him stiffen in sudden shock. The child’s eyes had opened and locked on Sebastian, eyes the deep, dark blue of the sky at twilight, eyes enormous and frightened in the small, pale face. Eyes that definitely belonged to a girl.

  A sudden snort of laughter came from the other side of the coach. Sebastian tore his gaze from those huge blue eyes and looked in Trevor’s direction, one eyebrow quirked in accusation. “I take it you knew?”

  His smile fading, Trevor nodded. “Yes, I did. Before the accident I thought it a great joke that you had no idea. In all the excitement, however, I had completely forgotten until now.” Sebastian glared at him, quite taking Trevor by surprise. His taciturn friend rarely gave away his thoughts with so much as a flickering change of facial expression. A bit put out by the accusatory look thrown his way, Trevor glared back at him.

  At a weak, rasping whisper from the young girl on the seat, both men quelled their annoyance and focused on her. “Wh-where am I?” she asked, trying to lever herself up on her elbows. She settled back, groaning deeply when her throbbing headache abruptly made itself known.

  “You are in my coach,” said the man she had first seen when she opened her eyes. His voice was deep and resonant. He was almost unbearably handsome, with thick, dark hair and sharply perfect features. His cool amber eyes held no expression. They appeared sad to her, though she couldn’t imagine what about this powerful man would make her think he would ever allow such a weak emotion.

  “How did I get here?” she asked in a low, halting voice.

  “You had an accident on the road beyond the inn,” the second man said gently from the opposite side of the coach.

  She looked at him in momentary confusion, then closed her eyes. He was quite nearly as handsome as the first man. “Yes, I remember,” she said weakly. “The duke with the team of magnificent bays.” She tried sitting up again, succeeding this time with a slight, taut grimace. Leaning back against the soft velvet seat, she opened her eyes once more and regarded the man seated across from her, recognizing him for the first time as the man with whom she had spoken outside the stables.

  Trevor’s eyes twinkled as he encouragingly smiled back at her. “I knew you liked Blackthorne’s horses,” he teased, “but I didn’t think you would make an attempt at highway robbery to obtain them.”

  She managed a small smile, then winced as yet another wave of pain shot through her forehead. Sebastian drew her up against his side without thought, cradling her head gingerly on his shoulder. “That’s about enough activity, urchin. We’re taking you home, and the innkeeper has promised to send the doctor to meet us there.” A bit surprised at his own actions, the duke regarded the curly top of her head in silence, trying to assess the strange, protective feelings she elicited, feelings almost foreign to him. She smelled elusively of youth, a nearly forgotten combination of sunshine-kissed hair tousled by fresh breezes, and the clean-earth scent that followed a summer shower.“How old are you?” he asked, suddenly curious about this intriguing girl who roamed the English countryside dressed as a lad.

  “I’ll be thirteen in two months,” she answered faintly, her strength obviously diminishing as she became tired. “My name is Mercy. I’m happy to make your acquaintance, Your Grace.” She lifted a small hand briefly, then let it fall against his chest. Sleep claimed her.

  Mercy.

  Sebastian quirked a humorless smile. He had thought the innkeeper uttered the word in shocked prayer when he had seen the injured child, but it was really the urchin’s name. He shook his head wryly and covered the small hand that rested on his chest with his own large, warm one, still unable to believe the oddly paternal feelings this strange girl evoked. Perhaps, he thought, he should take it as a sign that the time had come for him to begin thinking of getting married and starting a family. After all, he now had the damned title and all its accompanying responsibilities to consider.

  “Here’s a picture I won’t soon forget,” his friend drawled, jarring him from his unusually domestic and wholly unwelcome thoughts.

  “Let’s just get her home,” Sebastian replied, with a careful shrug so he would not disturb the sleeping girl nestled against him. “I find myself most anxious to conclude this unpleasant business and get on with our journey.”

  Trevor grinned broadly, but for once held his tongue.

  The coach turned into a short cobbled drive leading to a large, picturesque country home. As they pulled to a stop, Sebastian carefully gathered Mercy’s small, limp form into his arms so he could carry her into the house.

  Trevor gained the entranceway, taking the flagstone steps two at a time, and rapped sharply on the large oak door. After a short pause it jerked open, revealing a slightly older and very annoyed-looking replica of Mercy. The girl gaped in surprise when the tall intimidating stranger on her doorstep smiled disarmingly and abruptly thrust the door open wider. A moment later she emitted an alarmed gasp as she saw her little sister carried in by an equally tall, imposing, and darkly handsome man.

  Her momentary alarm gave way to a fierce, protective anger, which she directed at the man holding Mercy, automatically assigning the blame for her sister’s unknown condition to him. “What have you done to her?” she demanded, glaring up at him, her hands firmly planted on her hips, gloriously unaware that she had just snapped at a man feared or respected by nearly everyone he knew.

  Sebastian looked coldly down at the small girl whose bright blue eyes spit angry sparks at him, and wondered if any of the members of this odd family had an ounce of common sense. He drew his brows together and gave her a quelling look. “Do you have somewhere I can put her?”

  In no way chastened, the girl dropped her gaze to Mercy’s face. Her eyes widened when they settled on the large purple bruise above her sister’s right eyebrow. She spun on her heel and said, “Follow me,” in a considerably softer voice.

  As Sebastian followed Mercy’s unnamed sister up the curving staircase, the Earl of Huntwick glanced around the high-ceilinged entranceway for any sign of a butler, maid, or other servant. Seeing no one, he walked slowly to the end of the room, where double doors opened to a large, bright chamber that looked comfortable in a rumpled, large-family sort of way. A shining grand piano occupied the corner to his left, a Bach piece left open on the music stand as though the pianist had only just stopped playing. Two large chairs in a buttery soft maroon leather faced each other at right angles to the fireplace, where a cheery fire crackled away, inviting one to have a seat and read a book in cozy comfort. A couch upholstered in a beautiful rose-and-gold stripe graced the wall to his right, small pillows perfect for tossing at a sibling scattered haphazardly across its cushions. Next to a wooden rocking chair sat a small basket crammed with balls of yarn. Two wooden knitting needles stuck out at dangerous angles, presenting a distinct hazard to someone’s unsuspecting ankles.

  Directly above the couch hung a portrait of a child he assumed was Mercy. As he looked at the picture, Trevor found himself chuckling. From what little he knew of her, he imagined she must have hated the frilly confines of the ridiculously ruffled white organdy dress. A blue satin sash wrapped around the high waistline and tied in an enormous bow that peeked jauntily out from behind her back and exactly matched the wide ribbon running through her short auburn curls. The perky ribbon looked entirely out of place tied in a fat bow above the gamine face dominated by those huge pansy-blue eyes.

  A smile of pure enjoyment lurking around his mouth, Trevor continued his leisurely perusal of the rest of the portraits that lined the cozy room. He glanced over a startlingly beautiful blond girl, a rather impatient-looking and obviously scholarly older man who held the place of honor over the fireplace, and next to it, a handsome though somber-looking young woman. Then Trevor stopped. He took a fascinated step closer to the next likeness, inexplicably drawn to the smiling young woman in the painting.

  Without question this portrait depicted Mercy’s older sister, for she possessed the same elfin face, the same large, h
eavily lashed dark blue eyes, and the same curly red hair, although this sister’s hair was longer, shot through with amazing highlights of shimmering gold, where Mercy’s untamed mop was nearly auburn. She had the glorious mass of shining curls pulled back from her forehead, held in place with a delicate sapphire clip at the top of her head, then left to tumble in luxurious, flaming waves across her shoulders and down her back. It was hair that begged to be released so that he could bury his face and his hands in the fiery tresses.

  Her eyes, when he finally managed to wrench his gaze from her lovely hair, enthralled him. Warm and compelling, they reached out to him from the canvas, catching and holding his own with an irresistible lure. They were the deep blue of the sea on a clear and cloudless day, and contained a great deal of passionate emotion in their shining depths, passion that tempted one with far more warmth and glowing promise than the cold, deep ocean. They pledged light and love, laughter and sharing, and, as he lost himself in that promise, Trevor decided that, from the way she looked out at him, whoever had painted this portrait had obviously meant a great deal to the girl depicted on the canvas.

  Just as he reached up, unable to resist the urge to touch the girl’s painted face, he heard the sound of soft footsteps approaching from behind. Feeling suddenly foolish at being carried away by a mere portrait, Trevor quickly dropped his hand and turned to face the newcomer.

  The same girl who had greeted them at the door entered the room. Something had changed about her, an intangible something he could not quite identify. It was not her demeanor, he thought, as she walked toward him with a gracious smile, though that had certainly improved since she had first opened the door. She held out a delicate hand in polite greeting. “I’m Amity, my lord, Mercy’s older sister.” She curtsied as he took her hand. Trevor started to reply, but Amity continued in her soft voice, “And you are the Earl of Huntwick, as His Grace has just told me.”

  “Please call me Trevor,” he said smoothly, bringing her hand to his lips as he bowed over it in his most charming manner. She blushed prettily, and he again noted the incredible family resemblance between Amity, Mercy, and the fascinating but still unnamed girl in the portrait.

  Amity nodded in agreement to his invitation for her to use his given name, then gently pulled her hand away. Moving with a natural, fluid grace, she walked across the room to a sideboard of polished mahogany laden with beautifully cut crystal decanters and glasses. “May I offer you a drink, my lord?” She glanced over her shoulder at him as she turned over a glass from those upended on the tray.

  He nodded. “Brandy, please. How is your sister?”

  Amity poured the drink, replaced the stopper in the decanter, and walked over to hand him the glass. “Mercy is resting comfortably. I wanted to thank you for bringing her home, my lord. The doctor is with her now, and she appears to be doing quite well.” Amity’s clear blue eyes gently shone with deep gratitude.

  Trevor smiled warmly, but waved off her thanks with a dismissive gesture. “It was really Sebastian who cared for her. I was hoping to speak with your parents.” He fell silent when he noted her expression change, her face clouding slightly for a brief moment. Her polite smile reappeared so quickly that Trevor thought he must have imagined the fleeting look of sorrow momentarily darkening her bright blue eyes.

  “My father escorted my older sisters to a dance in the village tonight. My mother died almost thirteen years ago,” she said quietly.

  Mercy’s weak voice came back to him. I’ll be thirteen in two months. His eyes softened to warm jade with sudden understanding, and his voice deepened gently. “How many sisters and brothers do you have, Miss Amity?” he asked. It was difficult to believe the girls he had seen in the portraits that lined the room had no mother.

  Amity’s voice immediately brightened. “There are six of us, all girls,” she began, gesturing toward the portraits. Beginning with the only male picture and moving on to the sober-looking woman on its right, Amity began to tell him of her family, the obvious love in her voice making Trevor feel he had somehow missed out on something precious. He had no brothers or sisters, none of the sense of family that this room, this very house was steeped in. “That’s Papa there over the fireplace, trying to look as stern as he possibly can, though he doesn’t manage nearly so well for real. Next to him there’s Patience, my eldest sister, and Grace on the next wall,” she continued, pointing toward the picture of the girl that had captivated him. Amity’s voice faded to the back of his mind as Trevor looked again at her likeness, mentally assigning her name to her face. Grace, he repeated to himself as his eyes lingered on the soft, inviting lips curved in a winsome smile. Although they had never met, the girl’s name settled comfortably in his mind along with her face, somehow feeling just right.

  Amity’s voice abruptly brought him out of his reverie.“And, of course, you’ve met Mercy, the baby of the family, perpetually petted and spoiled by all.” She smiled up at him, pointing at the picture above the couch. “She hated posing in that frock. We teased her the entire time she sat for the portrait, and it took weeks to finish because she fidgeted so much.” Amity fell silent for a moment, then laughed out loud at a sudden memory. At Trevor’s questioning look, she explained: “Once, Grace actually rode her horse right up to the window of the room Mercy posed in and made faces at her behind the artist’s back. Mercy laughed so hard that the painter threatened to quit before he’d half finished the painting.”

  “She’d much rather have been painted in breeches and shirtsleeves, I gather,” Trevor put in with a smile.

  “Oh, yes, but you see, Patience knew that Mercy had spoiled Papa’s dissertation on the possible medicinal uses of fungi native to this area by spilling an entire bottle of ink while she was playing at his desk. Patience threw it away, and Papa thought he’d simply misplaced the dissertation, but Patience confronted Mercy with the truth, so she had to agree to wear that horrid dress.”

  “Mercy seems the sort who would rather come clean than be subjected to that sort of blackmail,” put in Trevor. His curiosity was piqued by the quaint stories that surrounded the members of this family.

  “Oh, no!” exclaimed Amity. “It’s not that Mercy doesn’t prefer honesty. It’s just that Papa sort of lives in a world of his own sometimes, and none of us cares to spoil it for him—especially Grace. She seems to think that if we intrude on Papa’s world with too much of this reality of ours, we’ll lose him as we did Mama. It isn’t true, of course, but then, nobody’s ever been able to change any notion of Grace’s.”

  The mention of Grace’s name a second time in conjunction with that of Mr. Ackerly brought Trevor’s mind back to the problem at hand. “Where might I find your father?” he asked, his expression turning serious once more.

  “He took Patience, Grace, and Faith to a dance at the Assembly Rooms in the village. I don’t expect them to return until late.”

  “I really feel as though I should let him know what has happened to Mercy,” Trevor mused, not adding that he also wanted very much to meet Grace. “Will you give me directions so that I can go find him?”

  “Of course.” Amity smiled. “You just go back the way you came, toward the inn. When you reach the fork in the road, take the right fork rather than the left, which would lead you back to the inn. That will take you into the village, about a half mile beyond.”

  Trevor took Amity’s hand in both of his and smiled down at her, his green eyes warm. “Thank you, Miss Amity,” he said. “I’ve enjoyed meeting you.”

  She blushed again and shyly pulled her hand away, then walked with him to the front door. As he opened it, she bade him good night with a graceful curtsy, then turned and went back up the stairs.

  Again struck by the acute differences in this Amity from the one who had opened the door, Trevor stood for a few moments, watching her sedate progress up the staircase. In that moment, Trevor finally figured out what had changed about her; she wore a different dress. He frowned, for it struck him as rather a strange thin
g for her to do, given the circumstances. When, he wondered, had she found the time to do it? Shrugging it off as just another oddity in this strange evening, he pulled the door closed behind him and went down the wide steps to Blackthorne’s coach, which, Sebastian having failed to issue his coachman any new instructions in his haste to get Mercy inside, still stood in the drive where they had left it. Pausing to give directions to the driver, Trevor climbed in and sat down. As the coach pulled out and turned down the driveway, the portrait of Grace again appeared in his mind, and he leaned back with his eyes closed, his arms stretched out along the back of the seat, a smile of anticipation slowly sweeping across his face. He looked forward with pleasure to meeting this Ackerly sister in particular.

  Chapter Three

  Taking great pains to avoid detection, Grace peeked through the decorative gold fringe that adorned the tied-back red velvet curtains separating the small alcove in which she hid from the glittering assembly room beyond. Six such alcoves marched along two sides of the large room, but this was the first she had found unoccupied of the five she had already checked. Her eyes quickly skipped over the familiar faces of her friends and neighbors until she spotted the person from whom she was attempting to hide.

  Sir Harry Thomas stood on the other side of the room, his narrowed eyes impatiently scanning the crowd of couples that moved gaily around the dance floor. He looked for Grace, an irritated scowl marring his usually handsome face. As his eyes swept toward her hiding place, she quickly pressed herself farther back into the alcove. She breathed a momentary sigh of relief, then looked around and frowned. Observing the small space in which she stood, she realized that when Sir Harry got around to checking the alcoves—and he would check the alcoves, she knew—she would be immediately discovered. Worse, she would have no avenue of escape.