Grace

by Deneane Clark

  Trevor leaned over and waved a hand underneath Gareth’s nose. “I thought I could make her care, but all I did was drive her into lies.” He looked at Gareth with sudden intensity. “Never lose your heart and your head at the same time, my friend,” he warned in a thick voice. He blinked rapidly in an effort to clear his alcohol-fogged brain.

  Gareth had a sudden recollection of Trevor, in this very room, winking at a disguised Grace Ackerly over a hand of cards. At the time he had thought that Trevor and Miss Ackerly, who had a reputation for her odd sense of humor, had merely decided to share a lark, harmlessly breaking the rules of society together. Now, however, as he watched his friend down another full glass of brandy without flinching, he read an entirely different meaning into that affectionate wink, as well as into her very presence at the table that night. It appeared that, after years of ambitious mamas with lovelorn daughters, and worldly, sophisticated matrons chasing him across half of England, Trevor Christian Caldwell, fifth Earl of Huntwick, Viscount Cavendale, second Baron Huntley, and Lord Allyn of Graveson, had fallen hard for a virtual nobody. A girl who, apparently, did not want him. Gareth chuckled to himself, not because he found his friend’s predicament funny, but because of the amusing irony of the entire situation.

  Trevor had slumped back in his chair again, his chin lolling against his chest. He lifted it at the sound of his friend’s low laugh. He did his best to focus his bleary eyes on Gareth, but found he could not. He gave up and let his head fall back, murmuring, “I pushed her too hard.” His eyes closed again.

  Only through a lot of patient coaxing did Gareth finally manage to extract the whole story from the inebriated earl. When he eventually lost Trevor to a deep, alcohol-induced sleep, Gareth left. He instructed Wilson to tell the earl that he would meet with him later to discuss the business decisions he had originally come that morning to talk over.

  As he stood on the front steps of the Upper Brook Street mansion, he thought about all he had learned in Trevor’s library that morning. Gareth had met Grace only briefly before he had again made her acquaintance in the Grant Radnor disguise. In that one short meeting she had impressed him with her unaffected candor, and by how genuine she appeared in comparison with the usual crop of vain, vapid daughters the aristocracy trotted out for the Season. He could easily have included himself in the circle of Grace’s admirers if he had any interest at all in the debutante set. Certainly, though, she had not seemed capable of the level of malicious deceit Hunt thought she had engineered.

  Pulling on his gloves, Gareth walked down the steps to his phaeton, shaking his head again at the irony. Although Hunt had set out to punish Grace, he had so upset himself about hurting her that he had nearly drowned himself in alcohol trying to forget about it. Gareth vaulted lightly up onto the high seat of the vehicle, took the reins, and set the team in motion. Perhaps, he thought, something interesting would happen this Season after all. Unless he missed his guess, things had hardly ended between Miss Grace Ackerly and the Earl of Huntwick.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  With a breezy smile, Grace slid quietly into a chair across the luncheon table from her sister. She had spent most of the previous day in her room, grappling with her newly realized feelings for Trevor, then had fallen into an exhausted sleep. When she awoke she felt slightly stronger, physically. She also knew that she could not just let Trevor walk away.

  Faith looked across the table and smiled back at Grace in satisfaction. Aunt Cleo, seated between them at the head of the table, also looked up and nearly dropped the knife with which she was buttering a roll. She recovered quickly and gave Grace a severe look. “Dr. Wyatt advised at least two more days of undisturbed bed rest for you, young lady,” she said in her firmest tone, but her eyes glowed with happiness at her niece’s greatly improved condition.

  Grace waved an unconcerned hand. “Dr. Wyatt,” she said lightly, “is quite overly cautious.” Her eyes twinkled merrily in a face still too thin and pale from the ravages of the fever.

  “You may be quite overly optimistic, Grace Olivia Ackerly.” Aunt Cleo turned to Faith, counting on her younger niece’s unfailing logic for support. “Talk some sense into your sister, miss,” she commanded.

  Calmly, Faith eyed Grace. “Well, she certainly looks healthier,” she commented. She took a delicate bite of her superbly seasoned roast duck and turned innocent gray eyes on her aunt.

  Cleo looked sharply at Faith, who looked back, as cool and composed as ever. When the older lady transferred her assessing gaze to Grace, however, she found her niece squirming awkwardly in her chair. She wondered at the girl’s guilty air. Turning her attention back to the table, she feigned deep interest in selecting a muffin, glancing covertly at both young women while she did. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Grace sigh in relief, then dart a questioning look at Faith. Certain she would learn nothing from the girls if she tried to press the issue, Cleo reluctantly changed the subject, drawing both girls into a gossipy conversation about the latest on-dits among the members of the ton.

  Grace smiled her thanks at the footman who set a filled plate before her. She sat quietly, listening to the fast-paced dialogue between her aunt and her sister. She did not feel the least bit hungry, ate only, in fact, to further convince her aunt of her recovered health. As she pushed the food about on her plate, she realized just how much gossip she had missed during her short confinement. Things happened quickly during the Season. Reputations were built and torn asunder with lightning speed.

  She managed to choke down most of her food, ever mindful of the watchful eyes of her aunt, although she could not remember the last time she had felt so full. She bided her time carefully. As soon as she heard an appropriate lull in the conversation, she interrupted with a delicate cough. “It’s a pretty and unseasonably warm day, I believe, Aunt. It feels as though I’ve not been outside in ages. I think I’d like to take a short turn about the garden, if someone wouldn’t mind going along with me?”

  Although the question was phrased to include both herself and Faith, Cleo could tell by the charged atmosphere that the girls really hoped for some time alone. “Not me,” she declared cheerfully, then almost laughed aloud when she saw Grace relax in relief. Feeling wicked, Cleo widened her eyes in mock concern and reached over to clasp one of Grace’s hands in her own. “Although I really think, Grace, that you ought not spend too much time outside just yet. You still look a bit peaked to me, dear.”

  Grace lightly chewed on her lower lip. She cast wildly about in her mind for an excuse, any excuse, to give her aunt, but before she could come up with anything, Faith resolved the problem with her usual aplomb. “Nonsense, Aunt Cleo, she’ll be with me. We won’t stay out long. If she begins to look tired, we’ll come right back inside.”

  Taking pity on Grace, who was making a huge effort to keep from wriggling in her chair and further revealing her agitation, Cleo finally nodded her acquiescence. The girls quickly excused themselves and left the room before she could change her mind, Grace looking as though she might burst, Faith as serene as ever. Cleo watched them go with an indulgent smile, then sighed in disappointment. She could have eavesdropped much more easily if the girls had stayed inside. Standing, she crossed the room and leaned on her cane by the window, watching fondly as her nieces slowly strolled, arms linked, toward the hedge maze at the back of the garden.

  Grace stood looking at the entrance to the well-manicured maze in pensive silence, wishing she found her own maze of emotions as easy to navigate. After a moment she sat down upon one of the stone benches flanking the maze entrance and drew her knees up under her skirt in her usual casual fashion, wrapping her arms about them.

  Faith smiled and settled primly on the bench next to her.

  “You shouldn’t sit that way, you know,” she advised gravely, looking down her nose with regal hauteur. “It isn’t a bit ladylike.”

  “Trevor liked me just as I was,” replied Grace softly, but with a trace of her usual spunk.

&nb
sp; Faith’s look changed to one of smug satisfaction. “You’ve decided to win him back, haven’t you?” she asked, certain she already knew the answer. The determined look on her sister’s face gave it away.

  “If I can,” Grace affirmed with a nod.

  Faith paused. “Have you given any thought to how you’re going to do it?” she asked.

  “Send him a note?” Grace queried.

  Faith lifted delicate brows in disdain. “Saying what, precisely?”

  Grace shrugged. “Asking him to meet me here to discuss a matter of great importance,” she offered.

  “He’ll ignore it,” said Faith.

  Grace’s face fell, then quickly brightened. “Perhaps not. It may pique his curiosity. Besides, I could hardly go to him myself,” she pointed out.

  Faith gave her a direct look. “I think that’s exactly what you’ll have to do.” Grace sucked in a breath and looked so alarmed at the possibility that Faith laughed and took pity on her older sister. “All right, Grace, assuming that Huntwick decides to obey your summons—” She broke off again when she saw Grace frown. “Well, that’s precisely how he’ll perceive it—as a summons.”

  Grace clenched her teeth in exasperation. “Go on,” she said, her voice level.

  “So, assuming that he actually responds, what do you plan to say to him once he arrives?”

  “I’ll simply tell him that I’m sorry, that I was wrong, and that I love him,” replied Grace promptly.

  “And then you’ll stand there with your mouth hanging open like a complete dolt when he either laughs in your face or walks out on you altogether.”

  Tired of Faith contradicting her at every turn, Grace set her small chin. “I’m sure he’ll be resistant at first—,” she began.

  Faith cut her off, pointedly ignoring the venomous look Grace sent her. “Before you begin to plan this, try putting yourself in his lordship’s place.” When Grace clenched her teeth but did not respond, she continued:“Remember, he’s been nothing but kind to you, from the first moment you met him up until the other night. You, on the other hand, have done your level best to thwart each attempted kindness in any possible way. Despite your lack of willing cooperation—or perhaps because of it—he persisted in trying to win you, and, in the process, managed to fall like a rock for a woman who didn’t seem to notice or care for him.”

  “I did care,” Grace mumbled, so low that Faith nearly had to lean over to catch it.

  “Perhaps you did, Grace, but you didn’t make it apparent to him. When you finally did begin to show some affection, he discovered you apparently didn’t mean it at all, that it was still only a game to you, and that you had every intention of avoiding him when the allotted two weeks ended.”

  “He knew when he made the wager that there was a possibility he would lose,” Grace protested weakly.

  “But in his eyes, you did not play fair. You admitted as much to him yourself the night before you became ill.”

  Grace knew that her sister spoke the truth. Her shoulders slumped in defeat, but for only a moment. She did not consider losing an option, had never allowed defeat in anything she had ever set out to accomplish. Now, when the stakes were higher than ever, she was stubbornly determined not to falter.

  Faith sat quietly, watching the expressions change on her sister’s face as she reasoned her way through the problem. When Grace looked at her again, it was with squared shoulders and a lifted chin. The decisive look in her eyes reminded Faith of stories she had read about knights of yore, bravely charging into battle when they obviously did not have a prayer of defeating their enemy.

  “So,” Grace said brightly, “you think sending him a note is a bad idea?”

  “No, actually, I don’t.” Faith smiled. “I think sending him a note is a good idea. I just wanted you to be able to understand what may motivate his actions when he receives the note.”

  Grace looked at her younger sister with new respect. “How did you become so wise?” she asked softly.

  Faith looked away and shrugged, betraying her discomfort. “I like to watch people,” she said simply.

  Knowing that Faith disliked compliments, Grace gave her sister a quick, impulsive hug; then they got to work, plotting their campaign to recaptivate the Earl of Huntwick. They planned the effort with a tactical brilliance Napoleon himself would have appreciated.

  “All right,” said Grace. “I’ll send him a note. How shall I word it?”

  Faith thought for a moment. “Simple and very straightforward. No sense wasting time on something that will merely be tossed away and ignored.”

  Grace glared at her sister in renewed exasperation. “If you’re so certain he’ll ignore it, why should I bother at all? Why don’t we simply proceed to something he can’t ignore?”

  Faith shook her head. “No,” she mused. “We have to make sure that he can’t put you out of his mind. Small reminders are important while we plan something more elaborate.”

  Grace smiled suddenly, a widening grin of delighted hope. “He can’t win, you know,” she stated with a confident toss of her shining, red-gold head. “Nobody is as persistent as an Ackerly.”

  Faith looked grave. “You’re absolutely right, Grace; he can’t win. If Huntwick allows himself lose you, he’s lost more than he’ll ever know, so he couldn’t really count that a victory. But you can lose, big sister.” They looked at each other soberly for a long moment.

  Grace stood and shook out her skirts with a determined air. “Well,” she said brightly, “shall we go write that note? We’ll send it, and if I don’t receive a reply in two hours, we’ll move on to step two.” She paused. “What is step two?” she asked.

  Faith had already begun walking back to the house, having no need to straighten her own unrumpled skirts. “That,” she said calmly over her shoulder, “depends entirely upon his reaction to step one.”

  Trevor took the envelope from the silver tray his footman held out to him. He opened it in distraction as he mulled over a legal document that required his signature. When he reached a stopping point, he paused a moment in his work and glanced at the two lines the note contained.

  Trevor,

  I have a matter of great importance to discuss with you. Please call upon me this afternoon.

  Grace

  His expression utterly blank, Trevor handed the note back to the waiting footman and returned to his work. “No reply is necessary,” he said. The footman bowed and left the room, closing the study door silently. Lately, his lordship preferred everyone around him to be quiet.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  While waiting for Trevor’s reply, Grace retired to her chamber and took a much-needed rest. When she awoke, she found that several hours had passed, for the sun had angled much lower in the sky. She stared out the window in sleepy confusion, trying to fathom the strange sense of anticipation that tugged at the edges of her consciousness. A wayward image of Trevor as she had last seen him, silhouetted against the moonlight from that very window, flitted through her mind. With a sudden rush of clarity she remembered the note and the plan, and realized the answer she awaited from the earl was causing her nervous expectation. Quickly she leaped out of bed and ran across the room, yanking so hard on the bellpull that Becky and two footmen appeared at a run, certain that something grave had once more befallen their mistress.

  After convincing the footmen she had suffered no untoward incident, she impatiently shooed them out of the room and turned to her glowering maid. “Have I received any messages?” she asked breathlessly, ignoring the censorious look in Becky’s narrowed eyes.

  “Lord above, Miss Grace, I don’t know! What’s gotten into you, to go about scaring us all half to death like that? I was sure I’d find you in a heap on the floor again.”

  Grace managed to look contrite. “Nobody has called either, I suppose?” she persisted in a hopeful tone, although she knew that if Trevor had called, Faith would have made certain someone awakened her.

  “I don’t know th
at, either. I’ve been above stairs the whole time you were sleeping, miss.”

  “Well, then, I’ll just have to go and see for myself.” Grace hurried to the door, then stopped at the sound of Becky’s hesitant voice.

  “If you don’t mind my saying so, Miss Grace, your dress is looking like it was slept in. And your hair could use some attention too.”

  Grace opened her mouth to tell Becky that she could care less about her appearance, when a sudden thought struck her. She stopped in her tracks, one hand on the doorknob. If, by some miracle, Trevor decided to answer the missive in person, looking her very best was probably a good idea. Reluctantly she turned back. “All right,” she agreed. “But please hurry.” She slid into the chair before the vanity mirror and allowed Becky to brush the riotous tumble of burnished curls into some semblance of order.

  Fifteen minutes later Grace walked into the blue salon her aunt favored because she could watch the setting sun through the windows overlooking the garden. Grace appeared calm, freshly dressed in a becoming russet day dress, her hair smoothed into shining waves held off her forehead with an amber clip. Inside, her stomach was doing flips. She looked at Faith in inquiry, who shook her head, indicating that she had heard nothing. Although Grace had hoped for better news, she had not really expected it. She shrugged cheerfully and crossed the room to the chair near the windows in which her aunt sat.

  “You certainly look refreshed after your nap, dear,” said Cleo.

  Grace perched on the arm of the chair and leaned down to give the older lady an affectionate kiss on the cheek. “I feel better with each passing moment,” she assured Cleo. “Have you any plans for the evening, Aunt?”

  “I thought perhaps the opera,” Cleo mused. She leaned forward so she could see past Grace to the settee where Faith sat with her needlework. “What do you think, Faith? Shall it be the opera?”