Calum stared at her a moment in disbelief and then his face broke into a broad, beaming smile. He quickly repeated what Grace had said to Mary and Elspeth in Gaelic. Mary covered her mouth with both hands in surprise while the boys, Calum and Ian, raced forward and threw their arms around Grace’s skirts. Grace glanced at Calum, who had drawn his wife and her sister into his arms. His eyes were closed and he looked as if he were fighting tears himself. She looked to Alastair, standing to the side, spectator to the scene. He was smiling, his own tears glistening in the low light, and when his gaze caught hers, he nodded, mouthing the words “Thank you, my lady, thank you.”
Chapter Twenty-three
London
Some people will have a bad day; still others a bad week. Christian Wycliffe, Marquess Knighton was having a bad two months—moving as he was into the third, things weren’t looking any more promising.
He had lost his wife—he preferred the term “lost” because the words “been abandoned by” sound so final, so irretrievable, and he had every intention of retrieving Grace, Lady Knighton, if only so he could read her the riot act for having so successfully vanished without leaving the slightest trace.
He would never forget the day he had found her gone. His first thought had been that she had been taken by whoever it was who had left the anonymous and menacing message at his doorstep. The thought that it would be Grace who would pay for his sins had brought Christian lower than he’d ever thought possible. He’d spent the first two days of her disappearance condemning himself for it, until one of the maids pointed out to him that she’d found a number of Grace’s gowns missing. As it turned out, only the gowns she had brought with her to their marriage were gone, along with the shoes, the stockings, even the hair ribbons she’d had before becoming his wife. Still, it wasn’t until Eleanor discovered her sketching supplies missing too that they knew for certain Grace had left on her own.
While staring at the empty space in her wardrobe, Christian remarked that he had never known of Grace’s fondness for sketching. It was a fact Eleanor was all too ready to comment upon.
“You would have noticed,” she’d said to him crossly, “had you given Grace even the slightest bit of your attention while she was here.”
Christian had been humbled in the face of his sister’s indignation, quite simply because he could do nothing to refute her accusation. It had been he and no other who had driven Grace away, and it was a thought he wasn’t alone in, either. The servants blamed him, too. In fact, he was beginning to think the cook was purposely oversaving his suppers to punish him. He could see it in their eyes and hear it in their voices even as they tried to pretend she would soon be returning. The maids still brought fresh flowers to her bedchamber, replacing them anew when the blooms withered. Once he’d even found Forbes adding a bit of water to the vases as if by doing so, Grace might somehow turn the corner to notice his efforts as she always had, thanking him for tasks Christian had only taken for granted.
Each morning, when Christian woke to confront the empty bedchamber through the door adjoining his, he would stand on the threshold and stare at her bed, neatly made in pale blue brocade and lace, untouched for weeks now. He wanted to know how she was, where she was sleeping, if she was safe. The thought that she might still come to danger because of his having caused her to flee kept him up and pacing through most every night, pausing every so often to stare out the window to the street as if somehow, some way, she’d magically walk by.
But she never did.
It had gotten so he had begun to wonder if her appearance in his life had been naught but a dream, a brief stretch of his imagination. Flashes of her would come to him from out of nowhere. He could see her brilliant smile the night of the Devonbrook ball when she had walked on his arm for the first time as his wife. He thought of her utter acceptance of him, even when he had treated her badly. He might well have been persuaded to believe she had been naught but an illusion, if not for the melancholy faces of the servants reminding him each day that Grace had been no dream, no illusion, but a gift he had stupidly tossed away.
Not an hour after he had found her gone, Christian had hired four of Bow Street’s best to search for her, each going off in a separate direction. He had expected to have Grace back within days, but thus far the runners hadn’t been able to turn up so much as a footprint. Christian couldn’t help but begin to fear the worst. The longer Grace remained missing, the worse he felt about her leaving, and the more he knew that when he found her—if he found her—of the many things he wanted to do, most important among them was to tell her how very wrong he’d been.
It had taken Eleanor’s barbed scorn when they had discovered her gone to finally open Christian’s eyes to the fact that Grace was as much a victim in their marriage as was he. He’d been so consumed with his own bitterness toward his grandfather, so angry at his powerlessness, that he’d taken his anger out on her, as if she had been to blame somehow. But he had treated her abominably. Whenever he thought of that last night when she had come to him, practically begging him to care about her, he winced. It was a plea to which he had only responded with cold selfish indifference. He’d been so frustrated with himself because no matter how he had vowed not to allow her to affect him, he had found himself utterly unable to resist her. Grace had been an easy target that night, standing before him in her nightdress, so vulnerable, begging him to give her some small indication of regard. And when she’d finally laid open her heart to him, he had simply stared at her, arrogant and proud like every other Westover before him.
You could have been anyone …
He would never be able to forget her expression, utterly cast down, when he’d spoken those words to her. He’d been a bastard and he couldn’t fault her for leaving because of it. What he could fault her for was being so damnably good at hiding from him. He wanted to go after her himself instead of sitting idly by, powerless and waiting, but even that was denied him. There was still the current situation with Eleanor to deal with.
With nearly every marriageable nobleman in England in town for the season, Eleanor, it seemed, was hell bent on falling in love with the one man she could not possibly wed, Richard Hartley, the Earl of Herrick. Over the past weeks, Christian had spent his days trying to figure out where his wife might have gone, and his nights doing everything in his power to keep Eleanor and Herrick from forming any sort of lasting attachment. It was not an easy task, for he had to do so without drawing any suspicion from Eleanor. Unfortunately, since the time when they had been children, his sister had always had the uncanny ability of being able to see right through to the heart of a matter, despite any attempts at subterfuge.
She had noticed Christian’s reserve immediately and had even asked him directly why he was so opposed to Lord Herrick. Christian had simply responded that he would prefer that she take the season slowly and allow herself to meet any number of young men rather than committing herself to the first one who had noticed her.
In other words, he’d lied.
Blessedly, just that morning Christian had learned that Herrick had been called away from London to his estate in York. His absence would give Christian several weeks respite. Perhaps fortune might even smile upon him long enough to have Eleanor fall in love with another.
Christian stared thoughtfully at a miniature portrait of his sister that stood on the fireplace mantel. If he could only tell Eleanor the truth for his objections to Herrick, she would understand the reasons why she could never marry him. But Christian knew he could never tell her the truth, for if he did, then the even deeper truth would come to light, something Christian had spent his life trying to hide.
A knocking on the study door pulled him from his troubled thoughts. Christian set Eleanor’s portrait back on the mantelpiece just as Forbes came in.
“My lord, Lord Cholmeley is here to see you.”
Good grief, Christian thought, peering at the timepiece. It was only nine o’clock and he’d barely finished his first cup o
f coffee. He was certainly not in any frame of mind to face Grace’s uncle.
“Tell him I’m not in.”
“He is most insistent, my lord. He has, uh, begun making certain threats.”
Christian raised a brow. “Threats?”
“Yes, my lord, of the sort that would only serve to further breed scandal.”
Christian frowned. He had been afraid of this. His time to repair matters in his marriage without all and sundry knowing about it had apparently passed and the time he had dreaded most was now upon him. He could hide the truth of Grace’s absence no more behind excuses of headaches and upset stomachs. With Cholmeley spouting off, soon all of London would know that he had been abandoned by his wife before the ink was barely dry on the marriage documents.
Christian drew a deep breath. “Then I guess you’ll have to show him in.”
While Forbes returned to the marquess, Christian poured himself a second cup of coffee, adding a splash of brandy to it, knowing somehow he would need it.
Tedric, Lord Cholmeley, came bursting through the door with all the polish and refinement of a violent hurricane. He didn’t wait to be acknowledged, but sputtered without preamble, “What the devil have you done with my niece, Knighton?”
Christian stared at the marquess, attempting to maintain a measure of calm. “Sit down, Cholmeley.”
But Cholmeley ignored him. “Everyone knows how secretive you Westovers are. What did you do? Kill her? Is she buried outside in the garden, pushing up your pansies even now as we speak?”
Christian looked to the door where Forbes was standing, mouth agape. “You may leave us, Forbes. And please close the door behind you.” All he needed was for one of the other servants to overhear Cholmeley’s blithering; soon half of London would think he was a wife-murderer.
Christian waited, counting to ten even after the butler had gone. He took two sips from his coffee and looked at Cholmeley again, saying quite distinctly, “Sit down, Cholmeley—now.”
The elder marquess shut his mouth and took the chair in front of Christian’s desk. His expression, however, remained just as agitated, his fingers gripping the carved arm of his chair.
Christian looked at him. “First, you can quit the theatrics. You know very well I did not kill Grace.”
“Then where is she? I know she’s not here. I’ve questioned your servants. No one has seen sight of her for some time.”
“No, not since she apparently went on a visit to you. You should have been the last to see her.” He looked at the marquess. “Perhaps I should be questioning you about her whereabouts.”
Tedric shook his head in disgust. “It is a poor example of a man, Knighton, who can’t keep track of his own wife.”
Christian couldn’t argue against the insinuation, but that didn’t mean he liked hearing it, especially from someone like the marquess. “Be that as it may, let me assure you I am making every effort to find her.”
Tedric came to lean forward at the very edge of his chair. “Every effort? If you want so badly to find her, Knighton, why the devil are you here?” he pointed to the desk, “instead of out there”—he waved a hand toward the window—“finding her yourself?”
“Yes, Christian,” came a familiar and unwelcome voice from the doorway, “do tell us, why are you here instead of out tracking down your wayward wife?”
Chapter Twenty-four
Christian glanced with unfeigned reluctance to the door, already knowing who was there and wishing to the very heavens he were wrong. Surely the saints must be punishing him to demand that he face both Cholmeley and his grandfather together on the same day.
The Duke of Westover stood, cane in hand, listening to the exchange between Christian and Cholmeley. His mouth was turned decidedly downward, his eyes glinting with their usual dark and disapproving light. Christian could almost hear the old man’s thoughts as loudly as if they were echoing throughout the room:
What’s this, boy? I get you a perfectly acceptable wife and you lose her? What kind of duke do you expect to make if you can’t even keep a simple woman happy?
But even as he thought this, Christian knew he could no more hold his grandfather responsible for his predicament than he could blame Grace for having left after the way he had treated her. He and he alone had brought this on.
Christian waited in giving his response until the duke had come into his study, taking the chair beside Cholmeley. They exchanged a short greeting nod before both men turned to stare at Christian with twin looks of censure.
Christian took a deep breath. “Yes, it is true. Grace has left. And yes, whether you wish to believe it or not, I have tried to find her. I have hired four runners to track her, but thus far they have turned up no trace of her.”
“She can’t have gone far,” Cholmeley sputtered. “She is, after all, only a woman.”
Only a woman. Somehow it wasn’t a designation Christian would ever think again of attributing to Grace.
“I learned quite some time ago, my lord, never to underestimate the fairer sex.” Christian exchanged a private glance with his grandfather before continuing. “However, given that Grace had very little if any ready resources to provide for her, I find it difficult to believe that she could have gotten far from London, if she did leave the city at all, which is part of the reason for my remaining in town. I am hoping she is yet somewhere within the city. If she is, I will eventually find her. She must have had some monies available to her to have stayed hidden away as many weeks as she has. Were you aware of her having any ready funds, Cholmeley?”
The marquess shook his head. “No. She couldn’t have. I’d have known it.”
And spent it, Christian thought to himself.
“Unless…”
“Unless what?”
“Unless my mother happened to give her some pin money before she died. It would be just like the old bird to have done something like that. She favored independence in women, confused a notion as that is.”
The duke cleared his throat and leaned forward on his cane. “I suppose it is a possibility, but is it feasible to believe that ‘pin money’ could support a girl and her maid—since I assume she took one with her—for this length of time? Sooner or later she will ran out of money. The question is, what will she do then?”
A knocking came to the door before anyone could reflect further on the thought. Forbes came in, bowing his head. “My lord, a Mr. Jenner is here asking to see you.”
“Jenner?” spouted Tedric. “Wasn’t he my mother’s man of business? The one who drew up the marriage contracts?”
“His card does indicate that he is a solicitor, my lord,” said Forbes, answering Cholmeley’s question.
“He’s probably come about something to do with a provision in the marriage contract that says if the bride disappears, all is null and void,” chuckled Cholmeley.
Christian wasn’t amused. He said, “In that case you would then forfeit your share of the settlement.”
The duke smiled. Cholmeley blanched as Christian turned to Forbes. “Will you tell this Jenner I am presently occupied and ask him if he can leave whatever paperwork he has.”
“He says it is an urgent matter, my lord, concerning Lady Knighton and a missive he has received from her.”
“Good God, man, why didn’t you say so? Show him in.”
Christian looked first to his grandfather and then to Cholmeley as the butler left to fetch the solicitor. “Not a word out of either of you until I get to the bottom of this. I will speak to Mr. Jenner.”
The duke merely nodded, rooted to his chair. Cholmeley shrugged and stood to help himself to Christian’s brandy bottle instead.
Within a few moments, Forbes showed in a small man in plain clothes with ink-stained fingertips. The solicitor glanced nervously at the other two gentlemen before taking the seat previously put to use by Cholmeley.
Christian had no notion of how much, if anything, Jenner knew about Grace’s disappearance. He chose his words carefully.
“Mr. Jenner, it is good to see you again. I understand you have received some sort of communication from Lady Knighton?”
Jenner looked at the duke and then at Cholmeley, who had come to stand beside him. Both men were staring at the solicitor most intently, unsettling him. They did, however, keep to their word and remain silent.
“Yes, uh, Lord Knighton, I have received a communication from Lady Knighton, but I believe it is a matter that might best be discussed in private, my lord. With you.”
Christian waved a hand. “Speak freely, Mr. Jenner. As you already know, these two gentlemen are members of the family. They are aware of Grace’s…” He paused and said for wont of a better term, “Relocation.”
Jenner looked at the old duke and then again at Cholmeley. He cleared his throat nervously. “Lady Knighton has sent this letter to my offices.” He held out a folded bit of parchment. “It is actually the third such correspondence I have received from her.”
Christian took the letter and began reading as Jenner went on. “I cannot forward her any of the funds she seeks without your signature as her husband, even though the account is hers, so I—”
“Account?” Cholmeley broke in. “What’s this about an account?”
Christian glanced at the marquess over the top of the parchment. “Calm yourself, Cholmeley, until we know what this is about.”
When he had finished reading the letter, he looked to Jenner. “Would you care to apprise me of the particulars of the situation?”
“It would appear I must, my lord.”
Jenner shuffled through his papers, handing several sheets to Christian. “The estate was held in trust until such time as Lady Knighton married, although, by its government, it was not to be any part of a marriage settlement. It is hers until her death, when it shall pass to a direct issue of her choosing, since it is not entailed in any way. I had been charged with the duty of informing Lady Knighton of the existence of the trust and her part in it but only after her marriage, as stipulated by the trust. I came here to Knighton House many weeks ago and did so.”
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