“Yes, Your Grace.” Lucinda was a tall girl, as slender as a reed with a mop of wild red curls. Or rather, she’d had wild red curls as a child; today her hair was scraped back from her face into a braided knot, now hidden beneath her bonnet.
“Very good.” They walked in silence for a moment. “I asked you to walk with me because I have something of a delicate nature to discuss with you,” Jack said.
“No,” she blurted out.
Jack stopped in surprise. “I beg your pardon.”
Lucinda flushed deep pink. “My mother told me what you are going to ask, and as honored as I am, I must decline.”
“Must you?” he murmured, his mind racing.
She released his arm and took a step away, wringing her hands. “I must. I know you made a promise, and you have been so very generous and good to me and my mother since Papa drowned, but I am afraid I absolutely cannot marry you.”
“Ah.” He was so relieved he felt dazed. “Cannot?”
Her mouth opened in dismay. “Oh—I meant I don’t want to!”
Jack began to smile. She looked so horrified and then embarrassed as awareness of what she’d said sank in. Yet it was beyond anything he’d hoped to hear from her, and in spite of himself he began to laugh.
“Oh please.” Lady Lucinda was the color of milk, clutching her hands to her stomach as if she would be sick. “Please forgive me—I ought not to have been so rude. Please, Your Grace, let me explain—”
He recovered enough to speak. “Set your mind at ease. I am not offended. Quite the contrary, as it happens. That was the matter I wished to discuss with you”—she made a low moan of anxiety—“but your answer does not surprise me.”
Her eyes darted from side to side. “It doesn’t?”
He shook his head. “I gather our mothers have been plotting a match between us, entirely without my knowledge. I presume your mother spoke to you about it.”
“Well.” She bit her lip hard. “Yes . . .”
By which Jack guessed Lady Stowe had talked of little else this Season. “Did she never ask your opinion of the matter?”
Lucinda blushed bright pink. “No,” she whispered.
“Then there is really nothing more to explain.” He offered his arm again. “Shall we enjoy the rest of our walk? It really is a fine day out.”
She goggled at him for a moment, then slowly put her hand back on his arm. “You’re not angry?”
“I suppose it’s somewhat lowering to be told a woman absolutely doesn’t want to marry me, but I am not angry.” Vastly relieved, in fact.
Lucinda’s brow knit, and for a moment she looked to be thinking very hard. “I don’t suppose you actually wanted to marry me. Mama said you had given your word to do so, but that was years ago, and I can’t imagine you knew what you were promising.”
“I gave my very solemn vow to look after you and your mother,” he replied. “I shall not break that promise. As for marriage . . . It would be unconscionable for any man to swear to marry a girl who was too young to have any say in the matter. You were scarcely eleven years old.”
Her fingers twitched on his arm. “When my papa died.”
“Yes.”
She was quiet for a moment. “You never promised to marry me, then.”
“No,” he admitted.
Lucinda exhaled loudly. “Thank goodness! Oh, Your Grace, that is such a relief to hear. My mother told me it was my duty to accept you, so that you could keep your vow—vows being vitally important to gentlemen—and I’ve been dreading your call for so long! When you left town a few weeks ago, I even began to hope you wouldn’t return this Season at all, and I wouldn’t have to do anything about it.”
A few weeks ago he’d left town with Sophie. A small smile crossed his face. “I considered not returning at all.”
“I wouldn’t have minded,” said Lucinda frankly. “Every day my mother has reminded me that it’s my destiny to be a duchess, and all I could think was how terrible that sounded.”
“Why?” This was far more entertaining than expected.
She wrinkled her nose. “First, a duchess is so proper! I should dread everyone watching me to see what I wear and how I behave. It’s bad enough when my mother does it. And then you’re so old—” She froze, her eyes widening. “Oh dear—oh no—”
Jack was losing his battle with laughter. To her he must appear ancient, even though little more than a dozen years separated them. “No, no, I quite understand. Go on.”
“I meant so much older than I,” she said, her face cherry red. “Very kind, of course, and so good to Mama and me, but . . .” She bit her lip before rushing on. “But the most important reason is that if I become a duchess, I shan’t be able to go to Egypt, and that is my fondest wish in the world.”
He wondered why she thought a duchess couldn’t travel, but let it go. “Lady Lucinda, you have astonished and delighted me. Shall we get some ices, and you can tell me why Egypt is your heart’s desire?” Still blushing, she agreed, and he escorted her to a bench near Gunter’s and hailed a waiter who had just served several ladies in a carriage nearby. He ordered some lavender ices, at Lucinda’s eager request, and said a prayer of thanks that Gunter’s was one of the few places he could be seen with a lady and not be presumed to be courting her.
It turned out Lucinda had got her hands on some volumes of Description de L’Egypte, the observations and pictures created by Napoleon’s army in Egypt. She convinced her mother it was to improve her mastery of French and pored over every inch of them. Lucinda was entranced, especially by the Egyptian writing, which she described as artful little drawings.
“What do they mean?” Jack asked as they ate.
“No one knows! I wish I had been able to study Greek or Latin and have some chance at deciphering them.” Lucinda could hardly sit still, she was so animated. “But the country sounds so exotic, so foreign and so beautiful. It’s my dream to travel there, to see the monuments and the wide expanse of sand, barren of trees or other greenery. Can you imagine anything so magnificent here in England, where it rains so often?”
Since his week at Alwyn House with Sophie, Jack had been feeling much more fond of rain. “I cannot.”
She spooned the last of her ice and set down the dish. “I don’t think I shall be able to go until I am twenty-one. My mother will never let me leave before I’m of age. Her only thoughts are of hairstyles and fashion and how well I can embroider, and no one cares about any of that. But Egypt is like a new world, only very old, and so full of mystery and treasure. There is nothing in England like it.”
“Undoubtedly that is true.” Jack nodded to a hovering waiter, who rushed forward to take their empty dishes. “What shall you tell your mother?”
Lucinda scuffed her toe in the grass. “She would never approve of my traveling to Egypt.”
“Are you certain? It’s quite the thing, now that the war is over. Travel is much safer, as well. I daresay you could go, eventually, if you put your mind to it.”
“Do you really think so?”
He smiled. “I would never underestimate a woman with a plan.”
Lucinda brightened. “That’s so! She’s told me I don’t need to know much beyond keeping household accounts and planning menus, but I want to know so much more. It is so frustrating to feel ignorant. Perhaps I could travel with a scholar and help fund his explorations in exchange for lessons. Do you think anyone would agree to that?”
“The scholars I have known are always eager to find someone to fund their expeditions.” Jack knew Lucinda was heiress to a sizable fortune. She would certainly have the funds when she came of age.
“That’s it, then!” She beamed at him as they strolled back toward her home. “Thank you, Your Grace,” she added shyly. “I cannot tell you how vastly relieved I am. It’s been weighing on me for weeks what I should do, but now I feel so much more hopeful.”
Jack felt bloody pleased himself. Lucinda didn’t want to marry him, and she’d saved him fro
m having to tell her that he didn’t want marry her, either. “I quite agree. Your mother won’t scold you, will she?”
Lucinda made a face. Her anxious air had vanished completely. “Of course she will. She scolds about everything. But I am determined, and since I’ve already given you my firm answer, there’s nothing she can say. I plan to study everything I can find on Egypt and leave her to fretting about fashion and gossip. I want to do something with my life.”
“I hope you do,” he told her honestly. “Will you write to me when you are a famous explorer in Egypt?”
She laughed. “Of course! I shall send you an artifact, too, if I discover any.”
“Very kind of you.” He winked and raised her hand for a kiss. She really was a charming girl, now that she’d got over her dread of having to marry him. “Until later, Lady Lucinda.”
She curtsied politely, but her smile was infectious. “Until later, Your Grace.”
He waited until she ran up the steps and back into the house, touching the brim of his hat when she waved once in farewell. Her mother would be unhappy—as would his—but Lucinda’s happiness was more important. He made a note to send her some lithographs and travel diaries from Egypt, and mounted his horse.
His happiness was also more important than his mother’s disappointment. It was time to choose a ring for Sophie.
Chapter 25
Sophie slept late and woke with a smile on her face.
Jack had stayed far later than usual. Dawn was breaking over the rooftops when she bid him farewell on her front step, this time careless of who saw him or her or the silly smile on her face as he walked down her quiet little street. It was almost too good to be true, she thought as she went back upstairs and crawled into her bed, still warm from his body. She’d taken an enormous risk, and could hardly believe that it had paid off beyond her wildest dreams. He wanted to marry her and could overlook her shabby past. For the first time in a dozen years, someone cared for her above all others.
She lingered over breakfast, and was writing to her friends with the happy news, prone to staring out the window with a smile on her face every now and then, when Colleen came in.
“There’s someone to see you, ma’am.” The maid handed her the calling card.
Sophie inhaled sharply at the name on it: Viscount Makepeace. She thrust it back at Colleen. “Throw him out.”
The girl blinked. “Ma’am?”
“Throw that hateful old man out of my house,” she repeated in a low voice. She never wanted to see Makepeace again. What could he want? She’d changed her name to sever any remaining connection to him.
“But he’s not that old,” protested Colleen. “He was quite civil to me, as well. Are you certain?”
She paused. “Not old?” Her grandfather must be nearly eighty. Colleen shook her head, wide-eyed in amazement. “And civil?” Her maid nodded. Sophie didn’t think her grandfather had it in him to be civil, and certainly not to servants.
She laid one hand on her throat. It could only be her father’s older brother George—her uncle. Papa hadn’t spoken fondly of him, saying he was just as cold as their father. Sophie had never met him, as he’d been away during the horrible spring when her father’s solicitor had brought her to Makepeace Manor after her parents died. If her uncle were styling himself Lord Makepeace, that must mean the heartless ogre of Sophie’s memory had died.
But . . . what could he want?
Warily she walked to the parlor. He might be just as cruel and spiteful as his father, come to call her an abomination and worse. He’d never showed any interest in her before. When Papa was banished from Makepeace Manor, he had left nearly everything about it in the past. He rarely spoke of his family, who hadn’t been a warm or loving lot. The main thing she remembered Papa telling her, in fact, was that he’d named his father her guardian in his will. He’d been so desperately ill, coughing up blood until she feared he had none left in his veins, but he’d wanted to explain to her why he did it. Makepeace had money; Makepeace knew his duty to his family, and he could see that she was provided for when Papa was dead.
Her mother had already died, a week earlier, and Sophie had sobbed that if Papa died, she wanted to die, too, to be with him and Mama. She would never forget how he squeezed her hand and told her never to say that again. “You must live for her now,” he’d whispered, his rich tenor voice destroyed by the consumption. “And for me. Makepeace is not a gentle man, but you’re stronger than he. Don’t let him cow you. You’re a Graham, and Makepeace will see that you’re treated as one.”
Well. Her mouth flattened to a thin line at the thought of her grandfather, glowering and growling that he had no desire to raise a granddaughter. The only indisputably good turn he’d done her was to abandon her at Mrs. Upton’s Academy. If her uncle was anything like him, she would throw him out, no matter how civil he’d been to Colleen. Girding herself for confrontation, she turned the knob on the parlor door and went in.
The man waiting inside looked up at her entrance. He rose to his feet, tall like Papa but portly, although he looked far too young to be her uncle. His hair was sandy brown, not fair like her father’s had been, but his eyes were Papa’s—and they were kind. She stopped cold, suddenly unsure.
“Mrs. Campbell.” He bowed and gave her a small, tentative smile. “I am Lord Makepeace. I—I rather think I’m your uncle.”
She wet her lips. “What makes you think so, sir?”
“Were your parents Thomas Graham, of Lincolnshire, and his wife, Cecile?” he asked, adding apologetically, “Cecile was French, but I’ve forgotten her surname entirely.”
The air seemed to grow thin for a moment. He knew her parents. “Yes,” she managed to say.
A smile creased his face. “Then I most certainly am your uncle. Well, I knew it as soon as I saw you! You’ve got Tom’s look. I met Cecile only once, but you’ve got her coloring.”
“Why are you here?” she asked unsteadily. “I’ve had no contact with your family since the viscount stopped paying my tuition at school several years ago.”
Embarrassment flicked in his eyes. “Yes, that. My father was a stubborn man. When he died, I discovered a thick stack of letters from Tom in his papers. All neatly boxed, and I don’t think he replied to one of them.”
Her heart was about to pound out of her chest. What had Papa written to his father? When had he written? He’d always sworn never to speak to Makepeace again unless the viscount welcomed and accepted his wife and daughter. Sophie had presumed that never happened. “Not that I ever knew,” she murmured.
The new Lord Makepeace nodded. “He and Tom went at it hammer and tongs more than once. I’m not so keen on that m’self, and, why, Tom was a good brother to me. I knew he had a child, but my father never would say anything about you. The last time I asked, he said you’d been at school but had run away.” He squinted at her uncertainly. “I came to see that you’re well, ma’am. You’re the only family I have left now.”
Slowly she came into the room. Her knees were about to give way; he was nothing like she had expected. She gestured at the sofa and sank into a chair as her uncle resumed his seat. “Forgive me, sir—I know almost nothing of my father’s family. Lord Makepeace was the only person I ever met, and it was not a warm and tender reunion. My father hardly spoke of his family at all.”
He chuckled. “I don’t doubt why! An old tartar he was, my father. George was the same, but Tom and I . . .” He shook his head. “I hope I can do better.”
She stared at him, jolted. George? George was Papa’s older brother, who taunted and teased her father over his musical studies, who mocked him for refusing to go see the bearbaiting in the village. Frantically she searched her memory. It had been so long, and Papa had never said much, but hints of it were coming back to her . . . “You’re Henry,” she blurted.
He grinned proudly. “I am! Tom must have said something of me.”
“He did.” She frowned, rubbing her forehead. Henry was Papa’s ha
lf brother, younger by several years. Papa had spoken of him as a child. “It was so many years ago . . . You kept a pet hedgehog.”
“Humbert,” he said with affection.
“You fell off your pony when you were eight,” she added with growing enthusiasm as bits of stories surfaced in her memory. “And broke your leg! Papa had to help you with your lessons for a month while you were abed.”
“He tried,” said Lord Makepeace with a laugh.
Sophie laughed, too, then clapped her hand to her mouth to stop it. “What happened to . . . ?”
“My father? George?” Her uncle nodded, unperturbed. “George died a few years ago. A cancer, the doctor said. My father breathed his last right after Christmastide. It’s taken me a while to get things in order, and then I wasted time searching for Miss Graham. I’d no idea you married,” he added apologetically.
“You were looking for me?” she repeated in wonder.
“Of course.” He looked at the floor. “I found the bills for your school and wrote to the headmistress. Mrs. Upton, her name was. She’s quite fond of you and gave me a direction in Bath. Well, you weren’t there anymore. Lord Fox told me his aunt left you some funds, and it made sense you’d go to London. I had to hire someone to ask about in town.”
Sophie could hardly breathe. “Why?”
He pursed his lips. “I thought I’d like to know how you are,” was his reply after a moment. “I haven’t got children—never did find a wife, either, a younger son with no expectations. I know my father didn’t take well to Tom marrying Cecile, but I didn’t do much better. I only wrote to him a few times, being a young idiot, and never managed to come see him after he came back to England. So I thought I owed something to Tom’s daughter, if she needed anything.”
Numbly she shook her head. If she had known she had an uncle—a kind uncle who might take an interest in her, she could have had somewhere to go when she left Mrs. Upton’s Academy.
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