A Lord Rotheby's Holiday Bundle

by Catherine Gayle

  Neil hauled Barrow to his feet and held him while Frost secured the suspected traitor’s hands behind his back with a rope.

  Alex took his chance before the man’s hands were fully secured and landed a hard blow to the earl’s jaw. “That,” he spat out, “is for Grace.”

  Neil let go of his grasp on the man, and Frost backed away.

  Another blow, this time to his nose. Barrow moaned and spit blood in Alex’s face before he slid to the floor in pain, moving his hands to rub the injured areas. “That one is for Priscilla.”

  No one rushed to Barrow’s aid. They all just stood aside and watched.

  “You dare to strike me over two whores? And while I was bound, no less. Coward.”

  Before he could stop himself, Alex swung his heavy, booted foot at Barrow’s stomach. The earl merely crumpled over in pain, unable to even counter with another argument.

  Alex backed away and shook the sting from his hand. “That was for Harry,” he said so quietly, he almost didn’t realize it had come from his own lips.

  “Your Grace. My lords,” Frost said as he moved once again to Barrow’s side, holding him as though to restrain him further, though there was no need any longer. He was in too much pain to offer much resistance. “We’ll escort the prisoner to the Tower now. His Highness would like to thank you for your loyalty to the crown, Your Grace, but he asks that you keep a healthy eye on Lord Chatham until a determination can be made as to his involvement.”

  Through the entire ordeal, Peter hadn’t moved a muscle. He nodded his head to the two Runners. “Of course, Frost. I am at His Highness’s service, as always.”

  Frost and Dennison pushed the hunched over Barrow through the doors and away from the ball. Alex waited until the clicks of their heels against the marble floors faded into the background noise of the ballroom.

  Chatham stood in a new position near the fire, quivering in fear.

  “Well, I believe I’ve had more than enough entertainment for one evening,” Peter said. “Shall we all retire to Hardwicke House and discuss what’s to be done from there?”

  The other men mumbled their agreement. With great distaste, Alex noted that Chatham had been included in the general invitation. Peter would honor his commitment, then, to the fullest.

  Peter gave Chatham a pointed look. “I’ll only be a moment. I must give my thanks to Lord Anders for the use of his library and his hospitality for the evening. Lord Chatham, you’ll be staying at Hardwicke House for an extended visit.”

  The older man looked pained. “Am I to understand this is an order and not a request, then?”

  “Understand it as you will. It’s of no concern to me. But you will join us at Hardwicke House.” Peter turned to Derek, then. “Sinclaire, might we have use of your carriage as well, this evening? I don’t believe we have room for everyone in my carriages. We have quite the party returning this evening.”

  Derek nodded his assent.

  “Excellent. I’ll order them all prepared at once.”

  Peter left the library without delay.

  Alex could think of only one thing. Grace could never be forced to marry Barrow now.

  She was free.

  ~ * ~

  Grace pushed the wave of nausea threatening to overpower her down yet again. She refused to be sick in her uncle’s carriage.

  But with each step of the horses, she drew one step closer to London.

  One step closer to her fate. To marriage.

  To Lord Barrow.

  And every step also took her further from everything she loved. Well, not quite everything, to be fair. Aunt Dorothea and Uncle Laurence were with her, traveling to London. They would stay with her as long as possible.

  But she had left behind New Hill Cottage, the open hills of Somerton, and a piece of her heart. She had left behind Lord Alexander.

  A single tear escaped before she could squelch it, and Grace cringed as she wiped it away.

  “Gracie, sweetheart,” Aunt Dorothea said. “Are you quite unwell? Should we stop the carriage and rest for a bit?” The older woman reached across the empty area between them and grasped one of Grace’s hands.

  “No, Aunt. Please let us continue.” Why must she have noticed?

  A dubious look settled on Aunt Dorothea’s face. “All right. But don’t try to be strong, Gracie. In your condition, a woman must take care to rest. I don’t wish to overtax you, and I am certain your father would understand our late arrival. Even a monster like him has feelings.”

  “Dorothea,” Uncle Laurence warned.

  “What?” she asked. “They do. Everyone has feelings.” She paused for a beat, lifting a brow at him. “And the man is most certainly a monster, with the way he’s treated Gracie, not to mention how he’s accused us of kidnapping her.”

  He said nothing, but gripped his wife’s fingers and squeezed in admonition.

  Silence returned to the carriage. Grace stared through the windows at the countryside passing them by and wished the horses would slow their gait, or a wheel would get stuck in a rut in the road, or a highwayman would accost them and delay their arrival in Town.

  But none of those things would happen. Grace’s luck did not run that way.

  After another long stretch of travel, the driver stopped the team to allow the Kensingtons and Grace to break for a meal. They could have stopped at a posting inn and been served, but they chose instead to picnic. Uncle Laurence claimed he preferred to sit in the bright sun for a time, but Grace believed he ordered the picnic for a different reason.

  They were nearing Town—and society—and Grace was in no frame of mind to handle polite conversation with strangers, who may or may not have heard of her and her situation—or rather, any number of situations she had recently found herself in. Uncle Laurence must be sensitive to her plight.

  So they picnicked on cold meats and cheeses by the side of the road under the shade of nearby trees.

  “It’s quite a lovely day we’re having,” Aunt Dorothea said. “Isn’t it? I do love the sunshine, and we’ve had frightfully little of it in Somerton lately. Oh dear, Laurence, I believe I’ve stained my frock.”

  Aunt Dorothea rubbed at what might be a grass stain, but was possibly nothing but a damp spot on the green traveling gown. “Well, I believe we’ll be in Town before suppertime. Lud, do you think Chatham will have supper prepared for us? Oh, I am giving the man too much credit. He’s accused us of a most atrocious crime, so he won’t be so civilized as to feed us. I wish we’d sent word ahead to our staff to expect us. No doubt, they won’t have a meal prepared when we get there. I wonder where Lord Rotheby is staying while he is in London.”

  Lord Rotheby? In London? Grace’s heart palpitated and a flush burned her cheeks.

  If the earl was in London, surely Lord Alexander hadn’t allowed the older man to travel alone. However he may have behaved toward Grace, she believed him to be an honorable man. Why, he’d even tried to marry her, the foolish man, after their encounter in Bath.

  That wonderful, wonderful encounter.

  Which she must forget. Grace chided herself for letting her thoughts run away with her. She’d denied his pursuit and was as clear about it as she knew how to be. She had no right to hope he might be in London, and even less right to wish she might encounter him there. Not to mention wishing he would repeat his offer.

  Alas, she did wish it would happen. If she could only see him again, even if for the barest of moments, perhaps she could convince herself he was not the honorable, kind, warmhearted man she imagined. Perhaps he would prove to be abominable and mean spirited, like Lord Barrow. Or neglectful, like her own father. Perhaps the pain would die, and she could stop loving him.

  But perhaps she would accept him.

  “Gracie. Gracie.” Aunt Dorothea feigned impatience. “Laurence, the girl is lost in thought again. As much as she gathers wool, she should have a blanket knitted before nightfall.”

  “I’m sorry, Aunt,” Grace said. She hated to be caugh
t with her head in the clouds, but it happened more and more frequently. She could only blame her nerves. Or perhaps her pregnancy. Likely both. “What were you saying?”

  “I asked if you had finished with your luncheon so we can continue. But please, take your time. I’m in no rush to arrive at Chatham House and I doubt you are either. Why, look at that. You’ve hardly taken a bite. Eat up now. You aren’t eating only for yourself, you know.”

  Aunt Dorothea puttered about and placed leftover food in the basket to tidy the area before they departed. Grace ate her meal without gusto, simply performing the duty at hand.

  She had no desire to hurry their arrival in London. She didn’t want to see Lord Alexander.

  Oh, how she lied to herself. If only she could believe the lies.

  Chapter Twenty

  Uncle Laurence’s carriage rolled to a stop before Chatham House late that afternoon. The house was as gloomy as ever, with cracked paint on the hanging shutters and the gardens overgrown with weeds and brush. Grace had no desire to step through the door.

  She moved cautiously along the cobbled path with its broken stones, her aunt and uncle by her side. Uncle Laurence rapped against the dingy door. They waited for Father’s old butler to answer.

  How odd it was, to wait outside the house where she had grown up as though she were a guest. But Grace had come to think of New Hill Cottage as home now, and would prefer to keep things that way. Chatham House would never provide her with the warmth and love she had come to know—even to crave—in Somerton. It couldn’t, after all, give what it didn’t have.

  But she would survive.

  After several minutes passed, the butler arrived and opened the door for them. “Good evening. May I help you?” He looked down at them across a long nose, showing no recognition of Grace.

  Uncle Laurence passed him his calling card. “We’re here to see Lord Chatham. He’s requested our presence. Please inform him of our arrival.”

  The butler appeared surprised and refused to take the calling card from Uncle Laurence’s hand. “His lordship is away from home.” The man moved back a step and took the door as though he would shut it in their faces.

  Uncle Laurence stopped his motion by placing his forearm firmly against the dusty panel. “When do you expect his return?” He attempted to move inside the house.

  The elderly butler blocked his entry. “I could not say.” His tone implied he wouldn’t say even if he could.

  “Might we come inside and have a spot of tea while we wait? Our journey has been long, and the ladies would like to relax.” Uncle Laurence spoke with an authority in his voice, more giving a command than a request. Grace imagined he was unaccustomed to being treated in such a manner by a mere servant, no matter who the servant’s employer may be.

  Her father’s butler continued to stare with insolence at their small party. “You may not. I do not know when Lord Chatham will return, and I cannot allow you entry until he informs me that he wishes to see you.” The aging man took a full step backward through the doorway and returned to the sanctuary of the house. “Good day to you all.” He shut the door in their faces, and the lock bolted into place.

  “Well, I never,” Aunt Dorothea said with a huff.

  Grace should be insulted by the servant’s impudence, but a wave of elation washed over her instead. The fates had seen fit to grant her at least this tiny reprieve.

  “Come along Dorothea, Gracie.” Uncle Laurence led them back to his waiting carriage and waved off the footman. “We’ll stay on Curzon Street and enquire after Chatham’s whereabouts. And if we haven’t found him in a reasonable time, then we’ll return to Somerton.”

  “This is quite boorish of him, to order Gracie to return to London and then not even be at home. And that butler! To shut the door in our faces, without even offering us some refreshment. We ought not to bother with the trouble of finding the man. She’s better off with us. We should just return home and take care of her, like we have been.”

  “Nevertheless, my dear, Chatham is Gracie’s father and guardian. We don’t have the protection of the authorities on our side. We must do as he asks. Especially if he has already spoken to them about his accusations against us.”

  “Well, how long must we wait for him? Two days ought to be more than enough time to find him, I should think. And if he hadn’t turned up by then, we’ll take her back home where she belongs.”

  Uncle Laurence sighed. “I cannot promise you we’ll leave again in two days. There’s much we don’t know, Dorothea.” Uncle Laurence rapped against the wall to signal the driver they were settled and ready to leave. The carriage moved forward with a creak and a groan.

  Grace’s aunt turned away from him with a loud “Hmph.” She stared out the window, making a point of not looking at her husband.

  ~ * ~

  The next day could not arrive soon enough, as far as Alex was concerned.

  When they had arrived at Hardwicke House after the Yardley Court ball, Peter had insisted on allowing Chatham some privacy and time alone. He sent everyone else away, saying they could discuss everything in the morning. How he expected Alex to leave the man be for such a long period of time, when so many questions were left unanswered, he’d never determine.

  Morning seemed like an eternity away.

  Alex tossed and turned in his bed. He wanted to speak with Chatham again, to ask him again for permission to marry Grace. How could he rest without knowing Grace would finally, truly be his? He was almost there. But not quite.

  By the time the sun began its ascent, Alex hadn’t slept a wink. He tossed back the bedcovers and pounced from the bed. He didn’t bother to dress before leaving his chamber and heading to the breakfast room. Peter had better be there already, if he knew what was best for him. In his hurry to start the day, he nearly flew past the footman who stood before the door to the breakfast room. The doors clanged open and he stalked inside.

  To find nothing. A few servants worked to set the table, but no one else was present.

  Alex was tempted to hunt down the marquess himself and get things started without Peter. But he didn’t know which guest room Chatham would be in, and more likely than not, Peter would have forbidden the servants to inform him or anyone else. Damn the man and his sense of decency and propriety. He would have to hunt through Hardwicke House one room at a time to find the damned man.

  Since he couldn’t accost the marquess, Alex decided he may as well begin with his brother. The footman outside the door to the ducal chamber tried to block his progress, but Alex’s determination won. He forced his way inside and slammed the door behind him.

  “What in the name of Christ are you doing, Alex?” Peter asked. “The sun isn’t even fully in the sky and you’re pounding your way into my chamber. My private chamber, I might remind you.”

  Alex swept open the curtains and allowed the rising sun to blind Peter, who pulled a pillow from behind his head and placed it over his eyes.

  “It is morning. We need to speak with Chatham.” Why was the world moving so damnably slow today, just when he wanted life to move at its normal, entirely-too-fast pace?

  “I doubt he’s out of bed yet either.” Peter’s voice was muffled somewhat by the pillow. “Let the man get some sleep. I spoke with him briefly last night before I retired. He’s not gone anywhere, I assure you. It can wait.”

  “It can’t wait. I can’t wait. Get up.”

  Alex pulled the blankets from the bed with one hand, and grabbed hold of Peter’s ankle with the other, giving a hard yank. Peter fell from the bed and landed on his derrière with a loud thwack, the pillow still firm against his eyes.

  “You arse.” Peter reached out with one leg and knocked Alex to the floor.

  “Ow!” Alex rubbed his elbow where it had smacked hard against the Parquet. “I suppose I deserved that.”

  “You did.”

  “Apologies. But will you please get up so we can begin the day?”

  Peter glared in response. Afte
r long moments, he stood and neatly replaced the pillow and blankets on the bed. He tucked and fluffed and did any number of other tasks that were unnecessary for a man to perform himself when he had more servants at his beck and call than he ought to know what to do with. “Go and eat your breakfast. I’ll be along in due time. I have more important matters to see to than your impatience.”

  Placing his pillows on the bed just so was more important than Alex’s future? Than the fate of his future bride? Than seeing to it that Chatham answered to everything that needed an answer? Alex mumbled under his breath something similar to I’ll shove my breakfast down your throat, which earned him another ducal glare, but he stood and moved toward the door.

  “And Alex?” Peter asked, looking over his shoulder. “Don’t wake anyone else in this manner or I’ll have your hide. Everything will be handled today in an orderly manner. Chatham is now a guest in my home. You would do well to remember that.”

  Alex nodded in lieu of a response and returned to the breakfast room. After his lack of sleep, and then a raucous morning with Peter, he was ravenous. However hungry he may be, though, nothing could quell his desire to speak with Grace’s father. He needed to know. He must hear the words.

  He pushed down the urge to search the whole bloody house for the only man who could calm his nerves, then he sat at the breakfast table with a heaping plate of food. Alex could wait. He could bide his time. After all, with Barrow essentially out of the picture, Chatham must see the benefits of an alliance with the Hardwicke family.

  Alex couldn’t conceive how the marquess would refuse his suit now.

  ~ * ~

  A messenger knocked at the door to their hotel room as Grace settled down to luncheon with her aunt and uncle. Uncle Laurence answered the door. “My lord, Chatham was seen last night at the ball at Yardley Court,” the messenger said. “He’s not returned home since.”