A Lord Rotheby's Holiday Bundle

by Catherine Gayle

  Chatham perked up, but still scowled from across his desk.

  “I have a sizeable fortune, as well. My brother has provided well for our entire family. Money is no object to me.”

  The marquess raised a cheroot from his desk to his mouth, chewing on the end. Minutes ticked off, and still he did not respond. Alex thought an eternity would pass him by before the marquess finally spoke. His anger toward the man grew with each passing moment of silence.

  “The answer is still no. Grace will obtain a title, and I’ll become aligned with the Earl of Barrow through her marriage. He has ample estates,” Chatham gave a pointed look at Alex, “of which I understand you have none. Likewise, you have no title. Allow me to show you the door.” Chatham stood behind his dilapidated desk and moved to escort Alex out.

  Alex shook from the violence groveling at him for release. The bastard would sell Grace. To Barrow. “How soon? When will their marriage take place?” He needed time. Perhaps he could overtake the Kensingtons along the road to London and take her to Gretna Greene like her uncle had suggested.

  Chatham’s eyes narrowed. “That, again, is none of your concern. Do yourself a favor, Hardwicke. Forget her.”

  “Forget her. Forget her? You bloody bastard, have you no concern for your daughter at all? You would sell her to Barrow—for what? What purpose does it serve?” He kept his fists clenched at his sides so he wouldn’t strike the man before he good and well earned it. He would not give the blockhead the satisfaction of striking first. “She doesn’t care about a title. And she doesn’t wish to marry Barrow. You cannot think he would be a better husband for her than I am. You cannot think he could make her happy—could be a good father for her child.”

  “Whether he will be a good father or not is irrelevant, since he is the father. I don’t care how he treats them.” Chatham reached again for the bottle and poured more into his glass until it overflowed, seemingly oblivious to the mess he created. “She will marry him and then she will be his problem. Not mine. Now leave.”

  Before the marquess could move around the desk, Alex spun on his heels and marched out the door, fuming his way to the carriage.

  He would find a way to marry Grace. He must. No way would he allow Barrow to place one more finger on her, let alone on the child. It would be his child, by Jove.

  Chapter Seventeen

  “My lord, a missive has just arrived.” Mason bowed low to Uncle Laurence and passed him the letter on a silver salver.

  Grace glanced over from her seat huddled beneath the quilt she was working on near the hearth. The wax seal belonged to her father. She fought the desire to run to his side and rip the paper from his hands. Another urge, just as strong as the first, rose in her chest—to run away. He must have heard by now about the Pump Rooms. She ought to have left before now, gone somewhere to the north, or perhaps to Ireland. She should have left the sanctuary of her aunt and uncle’s home well before now—gone somewhere he couldn’t find her.

  At least he wasn’t there in person. She still had time. She immediately began plotting her escape, how she would leave them, where she would go. Maybe she could convince Tess to help. No—that was too big a risk. She must do this without anyone knowing.

  Uncle Laurence looked at his wife for a moment before he broke the seal and read the letter’s contents. His expression soured and he walked to the fire, tossing the parchment into the flames with a faint growl.

  Grace had never seen her uncle in so foul a mood. “Uncle?” Her voice trembled, but she pressed on. “Uncle Laurence, what did Father write?” She couldn’t decide whether her curiosity about the letter’s contents outweighed her desire to pretend the letter did not exist. But she had to learn what he had said. He’d found her, after all. She needed to know his plans. Straightening her posture, she leaned forward to await her uncle’s response.

  “Gracie, you are to return immediately to London. His lordship finds your aunt and me remiss in our responsibilities to you—”

  Aunt Dorothea bristled at the insult.

  “And therefore we shall all go to London where your father can oversee our efforts to protect you from the shame you brought upon yourself.”

  Her aunt interrupted, all righteous indignation. “Why, that insolent man. We have been remiss in our responsibilities to Gracie? What of himself? The bloody—”

  “Dorothea,” Uncle Laurence chided.

  She turned her glare on her husband and scowled. “The bloody man must be well deep in his cups, if he is under the mistaken impression he’s done anything right by our Gracie, ever once in his bloody life. Why, I never!” She moved to Grace’s side and ran a hand over her hair. “And to order us to London! Laurence, he has no authority to order us about.”

  “Apparently, we’ve been accused of kidnapping her out from beneath his nose. We’re to face the authorities on these charges.”

  The authorities? Kidnapping? Oh dear, what a monstrous mess she’d made. Now she couldn’t run away. She had to do whatever she could to clear the names of her aunt and uncle—the people who had sheltered and protected her, who had shown her love for the first time in her life. She couldn’t repay them by running.

  “What? How ridiculous can the man be?” Aunt Dorothea folded her arms over her chest.

  Uncle Laurence paced before the hearth. “Despite the absurdity of his claims, we have no alternative. We must take Grace to London.”

  “But couldn’t you go and clear these lies on your own? I see no reason for Gracie and me to be subjected to such an ordeal.” Her aunt sat down again and ripped at the threads hanging from her embroidery project with a fierceness she rarely displayed. “Or even better, we could ask the local magistrate to come here to ascertain the truth. The London authorities should have no reason to doubt the magistrate’s word.”

  “Whether you and I go or not, Gracie must go. Chatham is still her father, despite our wishes. He is her guardian. He has the right to do with her as he wishes, until she reaches her majority. Would you send her to London alone, then? Should she suffer through her confinement in that prison of a house? Who would care for her, if not the two of us, Dorothea?”

  Ferocity radiated from Aunt Dorothea as her husband’s words sunk in.

  Love for her aunt and uncle surged through Grace for their loyalty and protectiveness. But she couldn’t suffer the thought of them leaving their home on her account, no matter how necessary they may deem it.

  But then her thoughts turned to another matter. “Uncle,” she said timidly, “did my father mention the Earl of Barrow?” She feared the answer.

  He reached forward to clasp her hand as he responded. “Yes, I’m afraid he did.”

  Several moments passed in silence.

  “You’re to marry as soon as the arrangements have been settled.”

  Good God. She would marry Lord Barrow. She would be his countess. Grace tried to settle her mind, with little success. It shouldn’t surprise her. She’d known before she left London that would be her fate, should she stay.

  But he ravished me.

  Grace placed a hand against the slight swell caused by his atrocious deed, the swell that proved the existence of her baby. Of Barrow’s baby.

  What kind of father will he be?

  Would he force her and her child to stay locked inside his home, much as her father had done for so many years? Would he strike the child? She couldn’t tolerate the thought of any harm coming to her babe, but what could she do to stop it? As an unmarried woman, she had no rights. She would have fewer still once she married.

  Her child would never know a father’s love.

  She needed to get outside, to clear her mind. She wrapped the quilt about her shoulders for protection against the cold outdoors. There must be a way out of this mess—she need only discover it.

  “Gracie, are you quite alright?” her aunt asked, concern obvious in her tone. Grace walked to the door without answering. “Love, where are you going? Laurence, go fetch her pelisse. She’ll sur
ely catch a chill. Oh, lud.”

  Grace kept walking, oblivious to her aunt’s distress. She needed fresh air, the wind on her cheeks, and some space to think. A footman stationed in the front hall opened the door before she walked straight through it.

  Lost in thought, she wandered down the lane and away from the cottage, unaware of her surroundings and with no destination in mind. The bitter winds tore through her makeshift shawl, but she ignored the bite.

  She didn’t want to go back to London. Grace had settled in to her new life in Somerton and had finally found contentment. For the first time since her mother’s death, she had people who cared for her, people for whom she cared. But how could she stay put? Her father was still her guardian, no matter either of their wishes on the matter. He could do with her as he wished.

  Obviously, Father had concocted some sort of scheme involving this idea of her kidnapping. If only she could determine how Father would benefit from it, then she could discover a way out. Did Barrow know of their child? And how would Father be able to use that information to his advantage? Oh, blast it, why had she ever told Father about the baby to begin with? She should have simply left. This would all be so much easier if he didn’t know.

  She dreaded this impending marriage, but there was no escape. She could try to leave her aunt and uncle, but she doubted they would make such an escape easy for her at this point. And besides, where would she go, and how would she take care of the baby? The only real option she could conceive of—a marriage to Lord Alexander—she had tossed aside.

  If only things had been different. She might have agreed to marry him and been much happier than her life now looked to be. Lord Alexander would be a good husband, she had no doubt. If she could open up to him, trust him, their life together would be more than tolerable. He might even come to love her someday.

  And he would be a good father. He would never have to know that the child in her womb was not his own—babies often arrived earlier than they were expected.

  But Grace had lost that opportunity. She had told him to find someone more suitable.

  It had been right for her to do so. She’d done exactly as she ought, even if it wasn’t the best thing for herself. How could she afford the luxury of thinking of herself, at this point? But what of her child? Would the baby not be better loved with Lord Alexander than with Lord Barrow? Alas, the opportunity was lost. She had seen nothing of Lord Alexander since she walked away from him in Bath.

  She had walked away from him. She must always remember this. The broken heart she suffered was her own doing. There was nowhere else to place the blame.

  Blast, none of this was helping anything. She forced herself to think of her future, the true future awaiting her and not the imagined future she would never experience. Lord Barrow would never make a good husband, nor likely a good father, but she had no choice. If nothing else, marrying him would mean she could keep her child, without toiling away at some job in an unknown place.

  It would have to be enough.

  She turned back toward the cottage and fought against the bitter wind. Tess would need to start packing again. Grace would help her. That would at least give her something to do, somewhere to focus her thoughts other than on her fears.

  Fear could come later.

  ~ * ~

  His breath was ragged as he slammed through the front door of Hardwicke House. Alex had walked home from his visit with Chatham instead of riding in the carriage. The rain had let up, and though it was unseasonably cold for May in London, the temperature didn’t bother him.

  He needed to walk off his anger before he returned to his family.

  And what a rage he was in. Alex had difficulty remembering a time when he had come so close to losing control so completely. If he hadn’t departed from Chatham House when he did, would have landed himself in prison.

  The front door of Hardwicke House crashed to a close behind him, causing paintings and mirrors in the near vicinity to shudder.

  Neil Hardwicke, Alex’s younger brother, poked his head around the corner from the breakfast room. His sandy-blond hair with touches of the family red stuck out at ends and his blue eyes were bloodshot. “Keep it down, would you,?” He placed a hand to his temple and rubbed. “A man cannot have any quiet around here,” Neil grumbled under his breath. He squinted against the light pouring through the windows and grimaced.

  “I see you’re up before the crack of noon.” Alex gave his brother what he intended to be a playful punch on the shoulder, but instead had a good deal of force and heft behind it. “Sorry. And I see it is after noon, nonetheless.”

  He picked up a slice of bacon and popped it in his mouth, then took a seat across from his younger brother—whose plate was filled to spilling over. “Should we have Peter order the fatted calf killed for dinner then?” He gave a pointed look to Neil’s plate in response to the look of confusion he received.

  “What in bloody hell are you so chipper about?” Neil stuffed forkfuls of eggs and sausages into his mouth, effectively putting an end to communication beyond grunts, at least for a few minutes.

  “Tsk, tsk. Sarcasm is not pretty on you, brother.”

  Before Neil could respond, Peter and Gil joined them in the breakfast room. “Good morning, Neil. So kind of you to grace us with your presence. To what do we owe this honor?” Peter then turned to Alex. “And you—will you please refrain in future from closing my front door with so much force I can hear it from the mews? Lord Rotheby and I had just returned, and I thought we must be in Vauxhall for the fireworks display.”

  He passed a none-too-subtle glare in the direction of Alex before continuing. “I don’t wish to give my servants more work fixing doors when their time could better be spent in cleaning up after him,” he said, nodding in the direction of Neil, who maintained his previous pace of devouring everything within reach.

  Alex sighed and pulled a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to take my frustrations out on your home.”

  “I know it.” Peter waited for a moment, allowing him time to consider his actions. “I take this to mean your interview with Chatham did not go as you had hoped?”

  “Chatham? Why did you visit with Chatham?” Neil’s mouth gaped open in apparent horror over the revelation, a piece of egg falling to the table.

  Peter spared a mind-your-own-matters-we-are-busy-here glance in Neil’s direction before urging Alex, who spared the youngest brother no glance at all, to continue.

  “He refused. I don’t have a title. I don’t have any property. Chatham has already promised Grace to Barrow.” He ground out the words, forcing them through his lips. “Barrow is paying for her. He’s buying her like chattel. Chatham might as well have put her up for auction at Tattersall’s, with the way he’s handling this.”

  “Did you offer Chatham reasons to reconsider, Alex?” Gil interjected, joining in the conversation for the first time.

  “You want to be married?” Neil dropped his fork upon the realization. “And your suit has been rejected by Chatham? Of all the—”

  All three of the older men shot Neil a look, and he quieted again.

  “I offered to double Barrow’s offer. I offered to pay for her. Good lord, I’m sickened again just from the thought.” He buried his head in his hands for a moment to collect himself. “But that wasn’t the worst of it. He alleges that her aunt and uncle kidnapped her from his home. He’s drawing them up on charges.”

  “Preposterous!” Gil’s vigor returned in full force.

  Peter rubbed his chin for a moment before he spoke. “That cannot be true, can it?”

  He pushed away from the table and strode to the window. “I don’t believe it. Not for a minute. I believe, if anything, she ran away. Frankly, I wouldn’t blame her, after having met the man.” Alex punched the wall, then shook the sting from his fisted hand. “He’s ordered her to return, so she can marry Barrow immediately. I may have lost my chance for her, if I cannot intercept them and rush with her to Gret
na Greene. But even still, she’s refused me. I just don’t know what to do.” Her aunt and uncle would assist him in convincing her to accept. Wouldn’t they? “Perhaps I could kidnap her and take her there.”

  Neil shook his head with force. “You can’t kidnap her. Not with Chatham already accusing the Kensingtons of having done just that. There has to be another way. Besides, Barrow would be furious. Trust me, you don’t want to anger him if you can avoid it. Keep thinking.”

  “But I have to do something. She’s with child.” Bloody hell. Why had he mentioned that? But if he couldn’t tell his family, who could he tell? “I have to protect her, to save her somehow. Damn it, everything keeps getting in the way.”

  Several minutes passed with no one speaking. Alex stewed in his anguish, trying to find a way to change the marquess’s mind. He hadn’t intended to fall in love with Grace, but somehow it had happened despite his best intentions. One day he was fine, the next he was head over ears. He needed to know that he could be with her.

  Finally, Gil cleared his throat. “There is something I ought to tell you which may be of assistance.” The three younger men faced him, Neil and Alex in confusion, Peter in understanding. “Hmm. How should I begin?” A coughing fit struck him, so they all waited for the earl to recompose himself.

  Gil looked straight at Alex. His skin had returned to the greyish pallor after their journey from Bath to London. “I’m dying.” Alex tried to interrupt but stopped upon the emergence of a staying hand from Rotheby. “You already realized that, and don’t pretend otherwise. I’ve been suffering from consumption for more than a year now. The doctors can’t do anything to slow the disease. I don’t have much longer. The business I needed to handle—it had to do with my estates.” Again, Alex started to butt in, and again, Gil raised his hand him. “Most of the estates are entailed and will pass to my grandson. But not all of them.”