by Erica Ridley
The flowers accumulating in the front parlor only exacerbated her grandmother’s mania. She was determined Grace would marry well. Not just because of Grandmother Mayer’s blatant frustration that her own upward mobility had peaked, no matter how much money she and her husband amassed. Not even because she saw in Grace the opportunity to make the sort of match she’d always dreamed of for her own child.
Worse. Grandmother Mayer truly believed that Grace and a besotted suitor joining hands at the altar would be the only enticement capable of inducing her coldhearted, money-hungry, not-remotely-sick mother into hopping onto a boat and crossing the Atlantic Ocean.
Upon which, what precisely was supposed to happen? Mama and Grandmother Mayer would fall tearfully into each other’s arms? Duel at dawn? Attack each other with parasols? Grace had no idea, and she doubted her grandmother did, either. She spoke of her daughter with disdain and contempt and bitterness, and yet wished more than anything for her return.
But all she got was Grace.
Grandmother Mayer didn’t love her unexpected granddaughter, or even particularly like her. She didn’t bother to try to get to know her. Grace wasn’t family, but rather a means to an end. She certainly wasn’t interested in Grace’s impassioned pleas of sickness and urgency. She was too busy scheming about how she might get Grace into Almack’s.
“When we’re done with the fitting, may I go to Hyde Park with Miss Downing?” she asked quietly.
Grandmother Mayer’s sharp gray eyes snapped toward Grace. “Why?”
Grace bit back a sigh. Since arriving, she hadn’t been allowed to leave the Mayers’ residence unless she was en route to a location her grandmother chose, dressed as her grandmother wished, seen by those her grandmother sought to impress. Every other moment was spent with dance instructors, etiquette tutors, fashion plates…anything that might help a gauche American become more attractive to those who mattered. Perhaps the Duke of Ravenwood or the Duke of Lambley, her grandmother suggested often. Sometimes the pressure was more than Grace could stand.
For the moment, all she wanted was a friendly face. Somewhere far from her grandmother’s watchful eye. Somewhere she wouldn’t be expected to flirt or simper.
Of course, saying something like that aloud was the quickest way to get stuffed back into her room until Candlemas. She had to try a different tack.
“The ladies promenade there every afternoon, and the gentlemen ride by on their curricles. Miss Downing says it’s the best place to see and be seen.”
Her grandmother frowned. So far, Grace had only been permitted to attend balls and soirées. Locations where music and dancing might help ensnare the heart of a Corinthian. Her grandmother’s skeptical look indicated this pattern was unlikely to change.
“Both Carlisle and Ravenwood will be there,” Grace rushed to add. “And many other dukes and earls.” She had no idea if this was true, but if they did not show, Grandmother Mayer could hardly blame their absence on Grace. “Perhaps one of the haut ton will become hopelessly enamored.”
This, at last, proved too much temptation. “Very well. Take your maid. I won’t have you damaging your reputation. I’ve worked hard to bring respectability back to the Mayer name.” Grandmother frowned. “I do want you to succeed, Grace. Your triumph is my triumph. Seeing you well-matched may not undo the mistakes of the past, but it will improve our futures. I cannot manipulate the ton for you. To do that, you must take care to stay on your very best behavior.”
Grace nodded. To most of society, one’s reputation was even more important than one’s dowry. The last thing she needed was to make it harder to snare a husband. She already had her dowry spent.
The smallest piece of the pie was the return ticket home. Two more tickets would be required to return with Mama, but first was whatever doctors and medicines she needed to get well. If it looked like it might take months for her mother to return to full health, Grace would have to fortify their home. There were a hundred repairs to be made to the little shack, not to mention clothes to darn, food to eat… A thousand-pound dowry seemed a princely sum when she had first learned of it, but she now worried it would barely get her mother back on her feet.
“C’est tout,” announced the modiste, plucking a pin from Grace’s hem. “You are finished, mademoiselle.”
Grace lowered her aching arms with a grateful smile. “Thank you.”
Her grandmother gave a brisk nod. “You may send your bill to Mr. Mayer once you’ve completed all the new gowns. We’ll need the first within a week.”
The modiste nodded quickly. “As you please. I thank you for—”
Before the modiste could finish speaking, Grandmother Mayer was out of Grace’s dressing room and gone.
The modiste dipped an awkward curtsey in Grace’s direction and hurried out into the hall after her patroness.
Grace turned to her lady’s maid, who was picking stray pins from the floor. “Will you accompany me to Hyde Park, Peggy?”
The girl glanced up from her task only long enough to cut a flat-eyed stare in Grace’s direction before returning her gaze to the carpet. “If you wish.”
Grace sighed. Normally, the upper class would inform, rather than invite, their servants. But Grace had been part of that world for less than two weeks, and she still wasn’t used to other people doing things for her. Her hesitancy showed.
Peggy, for her part, only did the bare minimum required. She ensured Grace was dressed and untangled the occasional knot from her hair, but they certainly weren’t forming any sort of bond. Perhaps it was Grandmother Mayer’s tendency to speak of Grace like an object—or not at all. Or perhaps it was simply the ignominy of being forced to wait upon someone with absolutely no claim to aristocracy. Or even money.
Unlike Grace, Peggy was used to living in a grand house and wearing pretty dresses and eating delicious meals. It wasn’t that the maid thought herself above her station. It was that she didn’t believe Grace to deserve hers.
Problem was, Peggy was right. Grace didn’t belong in high society. Or in England. She missed the simplicity of her life back in Pennsylvania, and she deeply missed her mother. But the only way to get her mother back was to continue with this charade and shackle herself to the first suitor with enough coin that he wouldn’t miss Grace’s modest dowry.
She pulled a spencer from her wardrobe and shoved her arms into the sleeves. Someone might give her a second glance. Perhaps today would be the day she managed to turn an admirer into a suitor.
Peggy followed at a respectable, if lackluster distance as Grace hurried downstairs to have one of her grandparents summon a carriage. She found them in a sitting room, enjoying an afternoon tea.
Her grandfather glanced up first, and smiled. “Off to snare a beau, are you? Well, you look pretty enough. I shan’t be surprised if you summon a passel of proposals by nightfall.”
“Better someone else’s money than ours,” her grandmother added without looking up from her biscuit. “Your new gowns are costing me twice as much as your dowry. Until you get a suitor, don’t ask me for more charity.”
Grace’s entire body tensed. “For the last time, I am not after your money!”
“I thought you said you wanted a few hundred quid,” her grandmother said around her biscuit. “For your ‘sick’ mother, of course.”
“Yes! Not for personal gain, but for my mother. She is sick. Deathly sick. She could use your help.”
“Oh, for the love of…” Grandmother Mayer stabbed a fork in Grace’s direction. “Your mother isn’t sick. She’s crafty. Clara sent you so she could get her hands on our money. I know it. You know it. When can we stop playacting?”
Grace’s throat clogged with rage. “I am not—”
“I posted a boat ticket the morning you arrived,” her grandfather said casually. Both she and her grandmother turned to stare at him.
“You what?” Grandmother Mayer demanded, slamming her fork onto the table. “Why bother? Clara swore she’d never step foot back i
n England.”
“Her daughter’s here,” Grandfather Mayer said simply. “Didn’t you say she might return if Grace gets married? She can’t swim across the Atlantic. She needs a boat ticket. Just in case she truly is too beggared to buy her own, I went ahead and sent her passage. I got the address from Grace’s letter home. I expect to see her before too long.”
Grace rubbed her temples. “You didn’t send money?”
He shook his head. “No. I sent a ticket. For the best ship I could find.”
Grandmother Mayer harrumphed. “More than she deserves. Some of us work for our money. She had her chance to make a good match and she squandered it.”
“Don’t be so hard on the girl,” Grandfather Mayer interrupted. “Clara chose love over money because of her youth. Grace isn’t silly enough to make that mistake. When Clara comes home, I don’t want you browbeating her with ancient quarrels. Not when we’re so close to being a family again.”
Grace’s legs trembled. “None of that matters. How is Mama supposed to get to the port and on a boat when she’s too sick to get out of bed?”
Grandmother Mayer rolled her eyes skyward. “Stop it. If she were half as sick as you say, you’d never have left her in the first place.”
Grace’s fingernails bit into her palms. “I had no other choice!”
“Clara is fine. She’s always fine. This is just another scheme.” Grandmother Mayer tossed a pointed look at her husband. “Don’t you see? Grace is just as much of a liar as her mother was. I don’t feel bad at all about reading those letters.”
Grace’s blood ran cold. “What letters?”
“The letters your mother wrote you. If I had any doubt about your perfidy, her words proved it.”
Grace’s mouth fell open. “My mother wrote to me? What did she say? Where are the letters?”
“In the fireplace, along with yours. What does it matter? All she said is that she’s fine and hopes you’re enjoying England.”
“You burned my correspondence?” Grace nearly choked. No wonder her mother had vowed never to return! “You’re wrong about Mama. She has to say she’s fine. That’s what mothers do. She’d tell me that with her very last breath.”
Grandmother Mayer shrugged and turned back to her tea cakes. “I wouldn’t trust either one of you with a sack of beans. Clara ran off the moment our backs were turned, and you’ve already said that no matter how many gowns and opportunities our money affords you, you fully intend to do the same. Very pretty manners. How do you expect me to react?”
Grace’s stomach twisted. “I know it makes me a horrible person for leaving my husband as soon as I have my dowry, but I’ll be back as soon as Mama’s well enough to come with me and then you’ll see—”
Grandmother Mayer gurgled with laughter. “See? That’s precisely how I know you’re lying. Your mother would never have suggested a plan that foolish. Clara was born here. She knows how matrimony works. I can’t believe she’d puff you full of empty dreams, just to chase down a penny.”
Grace turned her uncomprehending gaze toward her grandfather.
He shook his head. “Your dowry isn’t for you, child. It’s for your husband. And he’s not required to give you a penny of it—now or ever.”
Grandmother Mayer lifted her cup of tea in mock salute. “Open your eyes, child. You’re never going back to America. I won’t buy you a ticket to that godforsaken place and neither will your future husband.”
Chapter 8
By the time Grace alighted in Hyde Park, she was in no mood to engage in mindless flirtations. Unfortunately, her feelings didn’t enter into the equation. Even if there had been no reason to rush home to America, she couldn’t bear to live under the same roof as her grandparents for even a moment longer.
She opened her parasol at a jaunty angle, pasted a brittle smile on her face, and stepped in time beside Miss Jane Downing. Hooves clopped merrily by as carriages ambled down Rotten Row. Miss Downing kept up a steady commentary about everyone they passed. The Grenville siblings invited Grace to their next ball. Lady Matilda Kingsley invited her to tea.
Zero gentlemen offered for Grace’s hand.
She kept a relentlessly pleasant smile plastered on her face and tried to keep her spirits up. She was going to marry one of these blue bloods if it killed her.
Her mother’s life depended on it.
Gravel crunched as a set of carriage wheels slowed to a stop right beside her. She tilted her parasol in order to cast an enquiring glance at the driver. Golden brown eyes twinkled down at her from the narrow, open carriage. Her heart tumbled. Lord Carlisle.
He held out his hand. “Take a turn about the park with me?”
She swallowed. Of course she wanted to, despite him being all wrong for her. Earls were disinclined to send their countesses to other continents, never mind that he wouldn’t be able to spare a penny. But being seen with him was still advantageous. It made her look desirable to the masses. More importantly, being with him made her feel better. He was the only other person she’d come to think of as a friend.
Still, her grandmother’s words of warning rang in her ears. There was barely enough space for a second person inside Lord Carlisle’s carriage, much less room for Miss Downing and both of their maids. “Thank you for your offer, but I mustn’t leave my friend.”
“What? Go.” Miss Downing made a shooing motion. “The maids and I will still be on the path when you make it back around.”
Grace cast her a doubtful look. “But—”
“What have you to fear? It’s a curricle,” Miss Downing pointed out dryly. “Everyone can see both of you, from every angle. Don’t be so missish. I should think three hundred chaperones would be plenty.”
Well. That was true enough. With a smile, Grace accepted Lord Carlisle’s hand and climbed up into the carriage.
After traveling a few yards in silence, he turned to her, his face serious. “Tell me what’s troubling you.”
She let out a long, shaky breath, no longer surprised at how well he could read her. “My mother. I’m worried about her. She was ill when I left home, and I haven’t been in contact with her since.”
He frowned. “You phrased that very carefully. By the level of your concern, I assume you have attempted to make contact several times. Are you afraid your mother is too sick to answer?”
He didn’t know the half of it. Fury licked through her veins and her fingers shook. “Today I found out my grandparents have been burning our letters. They disowned my mother years ago when she first left for America. All our correspondence has gone straight into the fire. She must be as sick with worry as I am.”
“Use my address,” Lord Carlisle ordered without hesitation. “Bring your letters to me. I will frank them. Instruct your mother to direct her replies to my home. Your grandparents cannot touch either of you there.”
For a moment, her throat was too prickly to allow proper speech. She nodded, blinking fast, then touched her fingers to his arm. “Thank you.”
“Anything you need,” he said gruffly.
Her smile turned wistful. She returned her fingers to her lap and interlocked them tight. It would not do to develop an infatuation. And if it were already too late, it definitely would not do to touch his arm and cast sighing gazes at him when they couldn’t be less suited for each other.
“What brings you to Hyde Park today?” she asked.
“Scaring up money,” he admitted. “I hope to entice some young blade into buying this curricle. It’s one of the last of my possessions with any value.”
“What about the Black Prince?” she blurted. Her cheeks flushed at the impertinent question. It was one thing to be aware he hadn’t a penny to his name. It was another thing altogether to have obviously been listening to gossip. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“Someday, I may have to sell him.” Lord Carlisle’s gaze unfocused toward the horizon. “’Tis the last thing I wish to do. He’s been part of my family for generations.”
“How about you?” he asked, his eyes sharp. “Just out for a stroll with friends?”
She took a deep breath. If he could be painfully honest, so could she. “Not exactly. I’m trying to tempt a rich bachelor into offering for my hand. Perhaps I can market myself to whoever is interested in your carriage. Buy a coach, get a bride. What do you think?”
“I think you’ll get more offers than this curricle will. Any man would be foolish not to want you.”
Her heart fluttered. “Well, they’ll be foolish if they take me. I’m only getting married because I’m after my own dowry money.” She sighed. “Although my grandparents inform me that any future husband is unlikely to hand it over.”
Lord Carlisle tilted his head. “I don’t know. Technically, the dowry goes to the husband, not the bride. But if you marry someone with deep enough pockets, he wouldn’t miss it. Your pin money alone might be more than adequate. What do you need it for?”
“To fetch my mother,” she answered immediately. “Well, first to nurse her back to health, and then to bring her to England.”
His eyes crinkled sardonically. “To live with the lucky gentleman whom you married for his money?”
Her spine slumped against the carriage. “Despicable plan, isn’t it?”
He shrugged. “Seems to be my plan, too. Marrying money, I mean. Not sailing off to America. Even with an heiress, I’m unlikely to have so much as a weekend holiday from my estate for many, many years. There’s too much work to be done to ensure the solvency and future of the estate. Before it crumbles.”
She narrowed her eyes. His words were flippant, but his voice… He hated this, all of it. Of course he did. Inheriting a destitute earldom. Selling the Black Prince. Marrying an unknown heiress.