He had assumed that their negotiation in the inn was typical for the woman. He thought of their encounter as the first steps in a dance he now labeled: The Seduction of Lady Irene. She had been reserved then, almost shy in her persona of a grieving widow. In truth, it was exactly the best way to play upon his sympathies, and he’d wondered if that had been calculated decision or merely luck.
He now saw exactly how calculated her actions had been. Far from playing the grieving widow here, Irene acted as a critical customer, a woman who bargained with confidence, even as she inspected every purchase for flaws. She always acted the lady—her body and her language portraying elegance—but she was no shrinking violet with Captain Haverson. If anything, they had the feel of a pair of friendly adversaries.
That shouldn’t have surprised him, but it did. Never had he seen a woman act so much like… well, like a businessman. She was neither shrewish nor manipulative beyond the usual bargaining tools employed by any tradesman. It was a sight to see, and he was quietly awed by her prowess. So much so that he nearly forgot his task in protecting her.
Fortunately, nothing untoward occurred. In due time, Irene’s purchases were transferred to the dock and loaded onto Irene’s cart. They were just about to leave for the dress shop when one of the sailors approached him, hat in hand.
“Yes?” Grant asked.
The man—a fresh-faced boy barely into his first beard—wrung his cap between his fingers. Grant recognized him as one who had been on the deck when they’d first arrived. The boy must have overheard the conversation and was now awkwardly shuffling his feet.
“I ’eard wot you were saying. About men who don’t like Mr. Knopp.”
Grant schooled his expression into one of open interest without being fearful. “Yes, of course. Do you know of someone?”
He shook his head. “Not exactly. But the angry ones—the ones who hate ever’body—they go to The Dog’s Bone. It’s a tavern near—”
“I know it,” said Mr. Tanner in a low voice. “I’ll go round there this evening.” Grant hadn’t realized the runner was listening closely, but now, he gave the man a nod.
Meanwhile, the boy was dipping his chin. “I don’t know of anybody in particular,” he repeated. “But I’d hate myself fer sure if something awful was to happen to Lady Irene.” He glanced a little too adoringly at the woman in question, and Grant felt his hackles rise.
It was ridiculous. Irene had no interest in this particular boy. She probably wasn’t even aware of the man’s devotion. But Grant’s possessive instincts surged forward. He didn’t want anyone looking at his woman that way. Fortunately, he had enough presence to stifle the urge and give the boy a brief—if somewhat cold—nod.
“Thank you for your help,” he said. “You can contact Mr. Tanner at Bow Street if you learn of anything else.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” the puppy said before slowly returning back to his ship. And to Grant’s true annoyance, the boy kept his gaze trained on Irene nearly the entire time.
“Insolent puppy,” Grant muttered under his breath.
Beside him, Mr. Tanner chuckled. “Can’t damn the boy because he’s got eyes to see and a heart to feel.”
“I can,” Grant grumbled back. “Isn’t fair or rational, but I certainly can.”
Mr. Tanner wisely didn’t respond. And soon they moved to their respective positions as they headed toward the dress shop to deposit Irene’s purchases. On the trip, Grant filled his mind with possible dangerous scenarios as he mentally rifled through the list of potential villains. The list was extremely vague, and therefore, huge. A nameless, disgruntled sailor was at the top of the list, but it could just as easily be an angry footman or a jealous competitor. That didn’t add in the possible problems stemming from Miss Drew’s activities with Demon Damon. It was enough to put him in a foul mood when they finally arrived at the dress shop.
He was in the midst of unloading bolts of silk when another problem arose in the person of one Miss Penny Shoemaker, fiancée to the runner Samuel Morrison.
“But you must come!” the girl was saying regarding her wedding in three weeks. “Bring them all, if you must.” She waved a dismissive hand at Irene’s retinue of protective footmen, “But it wouldn’t be the same if you weren’t there. Irene, you’re family. Every one of you are my family—the only ones I have left, except Tommy—and I want you there!”
Grant set down his armful and turned to see Mr. Tanner frowning furiously. When Grant raised an eyebrow in question, the man stepped closer and grumbled. “Awful hard to protect a woman at a wedding. Inside the church is safe enough, but once at the party afterwards? Especially with what she’s got planned?” He shook his head, more words unnecessary.
Grant was thinking, trying to sort through polite refusals, when Irene spoke up, her face alight with laughter. “But of course I’m coming, Penny! I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
***
Irene rolled her eyes, feeling the pinch of her fashionable clothing, even as she glared at Grant. They had been arguing ever since the dress shop two hours before. Even when they separated long enough to change into their attire for the walk in Hyde Park, their argument lingered. It must have been the same for him because seconds after they met again, the heated discussion resumed, as if there had been no pause.
“I will not have my life restricted on all sides. I will not miss Penny’s wedding. And I will not allow you to create a sense of fear in me. I lived too long in that place, and I refuse to go back, no matter what the cost.”
“And if it costs you your life?” he asked, his voice a low growl.
She released a slow breath. “Then so be it. It is better than living without being alive.”
“That makes no sense at all!” he fumed.
“It makes perfect sense, and if you’d known me a year ago, you would not wish me to return to that pale nothing of a creature ever again.”
He grimaced. “I don’t want you to retreat, I want you to remain safe!”
“Until you catch our mysterious attacker.”
“Yes!”
“And do you have any news on who that man might be?”
“We have some new leads,” he said slowly.
“But no proof that any such attack will come again.”
He looked away, and she knew she’d caught him.
“Exactly,” she said. “You’d have me wrapped in cotton and secreted away for months, if not years, on the fear that something might happen again.”
“Your father is worried. He’s an eminently reasonable man, and he—”
“He has taken precautions. And I believe you are the one who worried him, what with sending around a Bow Street Runner.”
“He has enemies.”
“Then protect him! Goodness, he will not be at the wedding. Leave me in peace, and go surround him with all your bristling footmen.”
Grant released a huff of frustration, only moderately covered as he bowed his head in greeting to a mama and her two new charges—girls in their first come out. The woman was probably some countess. Irene didn’t know. She’d never been in the fashionable whirl, and she was rather irritated, suddenly feeling at outs with people who would have been her peers, if her life had gone differently.
Yes, she was the daughter of an earl, but she’d grown up impoverished, clinging to the trappings of a bankrupt title. It was only her marriage to Nate that had brought her any type of wealth, and that at the cost of her social standing. And now, she was a wealthy widow with a job that she loved. She couldn’t help but look askance at the need to dress pretty in order to traipse around Hyde Park, so that she could be seen by ladies who thought her nothing more than a fallen bird, all too willing to tromp upon her wings.
But that, of course, was her opinion. Grant, on the other hand, was the Earl of Crowle, and he had a standing to maintain. As a single earl on parade during the fashionable hour, he was also a target for every girl and her mama within the quarter-mile radius.
>
So they stopped and chatted. The woman was a baroness, apparently, but one with social ambitions. Grant made polite talk with the girls, eliciting true laughter from the children, while Irene felt her teeth clench and her cheeks ache.
Damn them, but they made her feel old. And damn them for being sweet and innocent—exactly the kind of girl Grant would soon be marrying. After all, he had responsibilities to his title, for all that he decried them. Eventually, he would bow to tradition and be forced to set up a nursery with some woman of his set. A virginal woman probably, with blonde curls, blue eyes, and a sweet temperament. A girl who was decidedly not Irene.
“Oh look,” Irene suddenly interrupted. “Is that your brother over there? With Miss Powel and…” Her voice trailed away.
“And my mother,” Grant said, his voice heavy with reluctance.
Irene glanced sharply at her companion. “Is that why we are here today? To meet—”
“My mother? Gads, no.”
Then he calmly turned back to the baroness and her charges, able to gracefully detach from the three, only after promising to stop at their ball in two weeks. Then, two minutes later, they were walking toward his family, though his steps were slow.
“I promised Josephine that I would come walking today to meet with her. I thought it would be just her and Will, but…”
“But now, you must face your poor, neglected mama.” Irene felt a smile curve her lips. “I am suddenly feeling more chipper about the day.”
“Why? You want to see me set down as if I were a small boy?”
Irene laughed. “No, silly. I want to meet the woman who raised such a wonderful man.” Then she squeezed his arm. “And yes, I am still a little cross with you and would relish seeing you set down just a tad.”
“I knew it.”
She laughed. “I have some sympathy for your mother. I cannot imagine why you would remain apart from her for so long. You are her son, and I suggest you start with a most heartfelt apology.”
“I know,” he said, and there was no reluctance in his tone. Neither did she hear a teasing grumble. He felt guilty, she realized, and now, she felt bad for poking at him.
“She loves you, you know,” she said softly. “She will forgive you.”
Grant glanced at her. “Somehow that makes it even worse.”
Then there was no more discussion because the two parties met up. Will and Josephine were walking together, their eyes barely noticing anyone else, though they smiled and greeted everyone. It was Grant’s mother who drew Irene’s attention. She was of average height with warm brown eyes, which were now trained hungrily on her eldest son. The signs of age were in her weathered face and wrinkled skin. Beneath her stylish bonnet, her hair was gray and styled in a casually fashionable manner. But the woman often reached to touch her coiffure then pulled her hand away, as if she weren’t used to having the pins or the hat.
Meanwhile, Grant stepped forward and greeted his mother, pressing a kiss to her cheek as she grabbed hold of his hands. “Mother,” he said, “you look lovely.” And when he might have pulled away, she held him still.
“I have you now in my clutches,” she said, her voice unexpectedly strong for a woman obviously aging. “I shall not release you just yet.”
Grant dipped his head, his gaze dropping, but quickly returning to the woman’s face. He looked at her as closely as she inspected him. Whereas his mother just appeared desperately happy to see her son, Grant’s shame was obvious to everyone. Well, at least it was obvious to Irene, in the pink of his cheeks and the hunch to his shoulders.
“I am well, Mama. How are you?”
“Very well now that both my sons are with me. You have lost weight. And there is a hollow look to your cheeks, but not your eyes.” Her gaze darted to Irene. “Am I to wish you happy?”
It took a moment for Irene to understand her words. Then she felt her face heat to a bright, hot blush. And burning in her mind were the fresh-faced girls from five minutes before. Maybe one was destined to be the new Lady Crowle. So without even thinking, she shook her head.
“I would not expect such an announcement, my lady,” she said. “Though I know how much your son has been anticipating this reunion with you. So I am sure he is happy right now.”
“No,” said Grant from her side, his expression unexpectedly dark. “No, actually ‘happy’ is not the word I would choose right now.”
If her face was hot before, now her temperature sank to a chilling cold. She bit her lip, horrified by her obvious emotional display. Normally, she was much more under control.
Meanwhile—thankfully—Josephine interrupted the awkwardness with her own bright words. “We have set a date, by the way. For our wedding and the engagement party. You will come, won’t you? Both of you?”
“If you wish it,” Irene said, grateful for the shift into easy conversation. “I should be most happy to attend.”
“And you?” asked Lady Crowle as she leveled her heavy stare on her eldest son.
Irene looked at the woman’s focused expression and realized that was where Grant had learned his intensity—a direct look that seemed to burn straight through a body. No wonder the man fidgeted.
“Of course I will be there,” he said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Why would you disappear for five years without a word?” returned his mother.
Grant didn’t respond at first, and into the silence, the woman pushed even further.
“Where were you, Grant? What have you been doing?”
And there it was, the question baldly spoken. Everyone turned to look at the man who was swallowing as if his throat had suddenly constricted. Irene waited for that casual wave of his fingers and his bored aristocrat response: oh, this and that, Mama. But apparently, he couldn’t get it out. Clearly, he found it hard to lie to his mother.
“Mama, is it really important? Does it matter what I was doing?”
“Apparently so,” the woman said tartly. Her eyes narrowed. “You missed your father’s funeral. You missed holidays and birthdays.”
“I sent what money I could.”
“As if I ever cared about that! I wanted my son, Grant. I wanted to know if you were alive.”
He looked away, his expression stricken. Then he said the words. They were half whispered, half spoken, and Irene feared that the others wouldn’t hear. “I was working, Mama. At a mill.”
Irene saw the words hit his brother. Will jerked slightly, and his eyebrows rose in shock. But his mother simply frowned.
“And?” she asked, pointedly.
Grant turned back. “And what?”
Irene leaned forward. “I don’t think she heard you.”
“I heard him perfectly well,” the woman snapped. “Learned to understand his mumbles when he was still in short coats. What I don’t understand is why he never visited. Or wrote. Ridiculous to send money and not a letter. Beyond annoying to not even let us know where the money came from.”
Grant frowned at his mother. “Mama, I was working.” He practically spat the last word, for all that it was still uttered in an undertone. “Night and day, aching body, burning eyes. Like a damned ditchdigger.”
His mother grimaced. “I heard that. Working. At a mill. Did you also have to work on Christmas day? Were your hands amputated such that you could not pick up a quill?”
Grant ran an obviously not amputated hand through his hair. Fortunately, that gave him an even more dashing appearance. Unfortunately, some of the ladies strolling nearby noticed and looked on with appreciative smiles. And attentive ears.
They were starting to draw attention. And yet, Grant’s mother would not let this go—at least not until she’d tortured her son a bit more.
“We have been worried sick,” she said softly. “All of us. Why did you not send word?”
Grant swallowed, his expression sick. “Because I was working. At a mill, Mama.”
It was clear she did not understand. And it was just as clear that Grant could not e
xpress himself any better. So rather than see the two struggle back and forth to no point, Irene decided to do what she could to help. She touched his hand to show her support, but her words were for Lady Crowle.
“I believe he had no wish to shame the family name, my lady,” she said softly. “He changed his name to Mr. Grant and functioned solely in that identity for five years. To great success, I might add. The clothing he wears—and my own—were designed and implemented by his hand.”
She felt Grant flinch at her words, his arm jerking away, though he didn’t separate them. Obviously, he didn’t like that she said these things aloud, but really, Irene was rather proud of him. For all that he was ashamed of his labors, she wanted his family to know what he had done. Perhaps they would be proud as well.
Will was proud. She could see that in the way his head tilted. His gaze took in the cloth they wore, and his chin dipped in approval. Lady Crowle, however, barely flicked a glance at their attire. Then her attention riveted right back to Grant’s face.
“But what is any of that to the point? It’s handsome stuff, to be sure, but why would you absent yourself for five years? Not a word, Grant! To anyone!”
Which is when she heard Grant take a deep breath. He pulled it in and released it in a huff that everyone heard. And when he spoke, his words were hushed with shock.
“You don’t care,” he finally breathed, surprise in every word. “You don’t care what I was doing. I could have been at a brothel—”
“Grant!” grumbled Will from the side, clearly annoyed at his brother’s language.
“In a disreputable den then,” Grant quickly amended. “You don’t care what I was doing. At all.”
“Well, of course, I care,” snapped his mother. “Did it work out all right? Did you accomplish what you wanted?”
Grant blinked. “Um, no. Sadly, not.”
It took a moment for Irene to remember that he didn’t see his work at the mill as successful. After all, he’d meant to buy back the family land. Land that was now in Miss Powel’s dowry and would go to his brother. She glanced at Will and saw him look down, his expression shuttered, as he too understood the awkwardness of the moment.
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