by Sophia Nash
He hadn’t seen it in almost two decades. Hadn’t thought he would ever have the chance to see it again.
Wallace Abbey—or rather, the charred remains of one of England’s oldest and most beautiful estates—rose up from the faded tangle of winter grasses. Christendom had clearly forsaken the jagged fragments and consecrated this man-made creation to the devil. With the upheavals due to the transference of power from mad King George to the Prince Regent, and the country at war for so long, Prinny and the House of Lords had probably shoved the dilemma of the burned Wallace estate to the bottom of its docket many years ago.
He realized now that some part of him had tried to forget he had ever been born or lived here. The knowledge of what he could have been if he hadn’t made so many terrible mistakes was excruciating. But with Wallace Abbey before him, in all its ruined majesty, the magnified horrors of his youth melted away. And he couldn’t stop the spark of an impossible dream. In a rush, he wanted to know if the property had reverted to the crown, or if stewards assigned by some unknown authority oversaw the land. And he could vividly envision how the abbey could be rebuilt to its former splendor.
There were a few signs of usage in the distance. Someone either leased the land, or nearby inhabitants had encroached. White dots suggested a flock of sheep and tilled rows gave evidence of past crops. Michael was glad. At least someone was benefiting from the estate.
Lost in thought, he straightened when his mare snorted and pawed the rocky heath, signaling her distrust of the prominence. Michael turned Sioux’s head and urged her toward a lone hawthorn tree behind them. Dismounting, he let his horse nibble the sparse tufts of wild grass while he turned to his other purpose for coming here.
He withdrew a letter as he returned to the edge of the crag, unable to stay away from the poignant view of his first home. The note was from London, of that he was certain.
If only it were from her. He had brought it here, far, far away from Brynlow and the curious glances of the kindhearted Lattimers, who appeared determined to hover about him in the barns, and in the house. He was unused to living daily, no hourly, with others.
In his heart he knew the letter was not from Grace. The common gray paper was sealed with a lump of rye dough, and the directions were in a vaguely familiar hand unlike Grace’s elegant, sloping script.
She had been gone for only one week, and he had quite effectively sliced to ribbons any chance of continuing the acquaintance. Why, he was the last person in the world she would ever approach again in her lifetime.
But he had learned long ago that hope was an essential ingredient to leading a purposeful life. And so he never pushed it away. Even when there was no foundation whatsoever for fulfillment of wishes, hope was necessary. For without it, without dreams, souls withered and died.
And so, he had hoped the letter was from Grace when Mrs. Lattimer placed it in his hands after her return from the village late yesterday. He had taken the decision to visit a ghost of his past, Wallace Abbey, before he would open the note. And so he had risen at dawn and ridden several hours south to come here.
He cracked the hardened gray dough and unfolded the letter. The wind caught at the edges of the paper, making it difficult to read.
Dear Mr. Ranier,
I pray you have arrived safely. Mr. Samuel Bryn gave me your name as his heir in strictest confidence last spring when he fell ill. Please know all of us at the foundling hospital share in your sadness at the great loss of our devoted benefactor. He was always so very kind to the orphans here, having once lived among us himself. He mentioned you live in a very retired fashion but that you might look favorably on us.
As the mistress of the foundling home here in Lamb’s Conduit Fields, I am in the discomforting position of burdening you with a request. In the past, Mr. Bryn was in the habit of organizing and contributing greatly to a Christmas feast for the children.
Please know that we are truly not expecting anything at all. Surely there are many expenses attached to Brynlow. But if, by some small chance, you are able to consider this plea with goodwill, we would be most grateful.
Yours respectfully,
Anne Kane
Michael closed his eyes against the harsh memories of the foundling home. Wind buffeted his body as he imagined the gray lives of the children there now. The nights would be dark and long, the days arduous and often overcast, the sackcloth garments itchy and dull, the bread and gruel coarse and ash colored, and their skin would be almost gray from lack of nourishment. The only thing of color would be their dreams.
And Christmas.
It had been the only day the boys in the west wing and the girls from the east wing were allowed to mingle with one another. The only day their bellies were almost filled. And the only day Michael and the rest of the boys sang the Messiah in the overcrowded chapel filled with the fashionable Quality. Grand lords and ladies eased open their consciences and their purses while they listened to the hospital’s master play the beautiful organ Mr. Handel had donated sixty years before.
It was the only damned day Michael had looked forward to each year.
He would go back. Go back to provide something of color for the boys and girls at Christmas. He could push back his schedule of progress for Brynlow. There was no hurry, really. For what purpose did he push so hard?
He wondered how Mrs. Kane would react when she realized Mr. Ranier was someone she had known by another name.
Michael folded the letter and stuffed it in his coat, the deeply slashed sides flapping in the wind. He took one long last look at his heritage lost, and turned away.
There was little time. If he was truly to do this, he would have to ride hell for leather to London within the week. And he would have to assemble a plan to secret himself. Well, it wasn’t as if he would ever be able to forget the rabbit warren of London’s infamous rookeries or the docks or any of the many darker places he could go.
All the while he rode Sioux back to Brynlow, he refused to admit for one single blasted moment, that perhaps, just perhaps, this was actually the excuse he had sought. The chance to see her once again.
Clearly it was damned hope, secretly and inexorably, at work. It was all he had left now that her scent had evaporated from the rose-colored shawl he cradled, like a deranged cove, each night.
Chapter 10
It was surprising how quickly Grace found her former daily rhythm in London. Oh, she knew now it had been a mistake to try and return without Ata and the others guarding her flanks. They had been the missing armament a few weeks ago when last she had attempted to reenter society.
It had taken a mere day or two to get settled. She had insisted the dowager duchess, Elizabeth, and Sarah stay with her instead of residing at Helston House or Quinn’s Ellesmere House, both on the other side of Portman Square. On the first day, she and Ata had mapped out a calendar with military precision, including invitations to a mysterious masquerade no one would be able to resist.
The dowager duchess had agreed it would trump any doubt of the continued good relations between the three great Portman Square families who had rubbed shoulders for generations. Even Quinn’s nine-year-old daughter, Fairleigh, was called to service by taking tea at Sheffield House every day, usually with her new stepmother, Georgiana.
“Georgiana…” Grace signaled as the other ladies in their secret club filed out of the sumptuous front salon, filled with all of the artifacts John Sheffey had collected during his well-traveled lifetime. The other ladies’ soft-soled slippers barely made a sound on the beautiful patterned marble hall and entryway beyond.
Georgiana looked down at Grace’s hand on her sleeve and then met her gaze. “Yes, Grace?”
“I would ask a favor of you.”
“Anything.”
“Would you come to my apartments instead of going with the others to the park?”
“Of course.” Georgiana’s face was grave, so unlike the open countenance Grace had known in Cornwall before her friend had married th
e man Grace was supposed to have met at the altar.
Grace nodded and they joined the others in the hall. The ladies gathered around as they waited for the carriage to arrive from the mews.
“Grace, dearest,” Ata murmured, “it shall be a grand success. And it will be all your doing. Don’t think for a moment that you’ve fooled us. Organizing this lovely event for Georgiana and Quinn is a monumental undertaking. I do wish you’d allow us to help you more.”
“Well, you may depend on me begging your aid the morning of the masquerade, when every disaster will strike as they always are wont to do.” Grace smoothed her gown and smiled. “Oh, and have you all chosen costumes?”
Fairleigh jumped up and down excitedly. “Oh, I do wish Papa would let me go too.”
“My dearest one, I shall promise to organize a ball just for you the season you have your official presentation at court.” Grace stroked the blonde curls of the little girl who would have been her stepdaughter.
There were stars in the girl’s eyes as she envisioned the future. At the sound of a carriage halting in front of the townhouse, Fairleigh hugged Grace and flew down the steps. After a flurry of well-wishing, everyone took their leave save Elizabeth, who pleaded a headache and retreated to her chamber, leaving Georgiana and Grace alone.
Side by side, they watched the party handed into the formal Berline coach, and waved as the conveyance departed at a spanking pace toward Hyde Park at the height of the fashionable hour. Then silently, they mounted the vast expanse of cold, marble stairs leading to the bedchambers above. Grace had nearly forgotten how convenient it had been to live in a small manor where it took less than half a minute to go from one end of the house to the other.
Once inside her elegant suite of rooms, Grace retrieved a tiny pair of scissors from her embroidery basket. “Georgiana, I’m sorry to ask this of you, but truly, you’re the only one I can trust not to lecture me.”
“I would never dare to lecture you on any subject,” Georgiana said, her eyes downcast.
“I shall hold you to that.” Grace presented her back to her friend. “I need your help disrobing.”
After a beat, Grace felt Georgiana’s fingers working the buttons. She was amused by Georgiana’s silence. Under other circumstances, Georgiana would have been full of questions.
The gown and corset loosened, Grace removed them save for her shift, then offered the other lady the scissors.
Georgiana’s eyes filled with ill ease and she cleared her throat. “What—”
Grace interrupted. “Take them.”
“Of course,” Georgiana forced out.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that.” Grace smiled. “Would you like a bit of brandy? Might make you feel more at ease.”
Georgiana’s face had lost its color. “No, no. I’m perfectly fine.”
“Sounds like something I would say,” Grace murmured. Without any of her former reserve, she lowered the front of her shift to reveal the wound under her breast. “I need you to remove the stitches. They are at an awkward angle, and I can’t do it myself.” The tension in the room simmered, as thick and as awful as Grace’s disastrous stew in Yorkshire.
Georgiana’s expression brewed with a host of subdued concern. “Grace, what hap—” She stopped. “What I mean to say is, perhaps this would be easiest if you were to lie down.”
Grace reclined on the pink toile chaise while Georgiana knelt on the soft Aubusson carpet. The scent of hothouse roses drifted heavy in the air.
Grace covered her exposed breast with a palm and glanced down at Georgiana’s pretty head, her brown hair glossy like the dark water of a beck.
Georgiana alternately clipped and removed the threads. It was odd how little it hurt for them to be removed.
Her friend finally straightened and Grace rearranged her shift.
“I doubt there will be much of a scar,” Georgiana said. “Whoever ministered to you knew precisely what they were doing and matched the edges perfectly. I wish someone as skilled as this had stitched my injuries all those years ago.”
Grace had not forgotten the childhood accident that had damaged and scarred her friend’s lower limbs.
“Grace?”
“Yes?”
“I want to thank you.”
“Shouldn’t I be thanking you?”
“No. Thank you for trusting me with this. I would have thought I’d be the last person you would ever ask to do something as private as this.”
“And that is why I asked you, Georgiana.”
“Grace, I’m so sorry. So very, very sorry.” Georgiana’s words came out in a rush. “I should have told you I had been in love with Quinn almost my entire life. It’s just that I never thought he would feel similarly. You and he were so beautiful together, and I was—”
“No. You are not to say another word,” Grace interrupted. “It is as I said in the letter when I left. My heart was not fully engaged and I think I always knew he loved you. Georgiana, please look at me.”
A flush had traveled up her friend’s neck, and Georgiana finally raised her eyes. “Yes?”
“I was too distraught to sit through anyone’s apologies a month ago—not yours or Quinn’s. And a week or so ago, I was in another world, too lost to drown in thoughts of what happened this last autumn. But a week from this moment, if we don’t act right now, we will have set a new pattern of living…one that is full of ill ease and discomfort. Georgiana, you were my friend once, can you not be again?”
Georgiana’s eyes filled with tears and she fell into Grace’s arms, her body shuddering in wracking sobs.
Grace stroked the other woman’s unruly locks. “You know this is vastly unfair of you. Aren’t you supposed to be comforting me?”
“But you were always the only one of us who could be depended on for a handkerchief,” Georgiana said when she could speak. “I don’t know what has become of me, really. I’ve lately become the worst sort of watering pot. Oh Grace, I’ve missed you so much. We all have. It’s just not the same without you. Luc and Quinn keep threatening to rename our club.”
“Really?” She looked at her friend with bemusement.
“Yes.” Georgiana accepted Grace’s perfectly pressed handkerchief and dabbed her eyes. “In fact, we decided that since you were the true beauty in the circle, it would be deception to call ourselves the Barely Bereaving Beauties without you.”
Grace bit her lower lip to keep from laughing. “Deception?”
“Well, you know how Ata is. She’s determined to see Elizabeth or Sarah wed this season. And she has this new idea that we should not keep our club a secret any longer.”
“But I thought she insisted on secrecy because she was certain no one would want to invite a group of morose widows to any amusement.” Grace shook her head. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I do believe Luc once called us a gaggle of weeping crows, did he not?”
Georgiana giggled.
Oh, it felt so right to laugh with Georgiana again.
“Yes, well, lately His Grace has been in the most foulish kind of mood. Quinn says it’s because Luc’s finished writing his last book and he’s at odds with the world. Ata suggested he start something new. She’s even suggested a title.” Georgiana’s expression spoke volumes.
“And that would be?”
“The Wicked Ways of Willful Widows.”
Grace choked and began to cough.
“She had the audacity to suggest in a very mysterious-like manner that some in our club are playing it very fast and loose lately, or some other vulgar term. Honestly, I don’t know where she gets these ideas.”
Grace drew in an uneven breath. “I can’t imagine.”
“Well, she thinks it’s a book that would be devoured by the ton.”
“Lord help us all.”
Georgiana’s face lit up with happiness. “Oh, Grace. I’m so happy we’re all together again.”
“As am I.” Grace watched her friend’s hands drift low to cradle her stomach. Suddenly Grace
noticed that Georgiana’s physique was slightly lusher than ever before. “But isn’t there something else you want to tell me? A secret, perhaps?”
Georgiana’s mouth opened slightly and she hesitated.
Grace grasped her hands. “Tell me.”
Michael stood in Mrs. Kane’s comfortable, small chamber at the foundling home, nearly overcome with memories of his youth. The scent of her precious lavender mixed with musty books wafted through the small room as he gazed at the familiar assortment of trinkets on the lace-covered bureau.
“I beg you to reconsider, Michael. You’ve the most skill,” Mrs. Kane cajoled.
“No.”
“But I promise no one will recognize you. It is, after all, a private masquerade,” Mrs. Kane continued. “And it’s the least you could do.”
“I thought the least I could do was provide enough food to feed an army of children,” he said dryly.
“Please.”
“Absolutely not.” He stared at Mrs. Kane. “You of all people know I cannot. Victoria Givan will show the eldest boy how to conduct. She’s an excellent organist.”
The mistress of the foundling home had learned the art of begging a little too well. But then, she had no doubt acquired the skill nearly sixty years ago, soon after she had been placed in the infamous basket in front of the newly hatched Hospital for Exposed and Deserted Children.
“Listen to me, Michael. I shall secure a cape and domino which will cover almost all of your face.”
“I don’t know why I dared think you might have changed, Mrs. Kane.”
“Well, I like that. And here I prayed for your departed soul for over a decade, and you have the temerity to deny me this tiny favor?”
“I’d hoped addressing your request would buy your forgiveness.” He walked a small circle, glancing at all her trinkets and hoping her lecture would end sooner versus later.
“I still can’t believe you allowed me to think you dead. How could you not have trusted me? You trusted Samuel Bryn, I see.” She snorted. “And what is this name you’ve adopted? Ranier, indeed.”