Page 5 of The Lost Duke of Wyndham

She looked at the highwayman, at his mouth, at that expressive, devilish mouth, and she knew that something was not right. His lips were parted, and more than that, they were still. For the first time, his mouth was without movement, and even in the silvery light of the moon she could tell that he’d gone white.

“If this means anything to you,” the dowager continued with quiet determination, “you may find me at Belgrave Castle awaiting your call.”

And then, as stooped and shaking as Grace had ever seen her, she turned, still clutching the miniature, and climbed back into the carriage.

Grace held still, unsure of what to do. She no longer felt in danger—strange as that seemed, with three guns still trained on her and one—the highwayman’s, her highwayman’s—resting limply at his side. But they had turned over only one ring—surely not a productive haul for an experienced band of thieves, and she did not feel she could get back into the carriage without permission.

She cleared her throat. “Sir?” she said, unsure of how to address him.

“My name is not Cavendish,” he said softly, his voice reaching her ears alone. “But it once was.”

Grace gasped.

And then, with movements sharp and swift, he leaped atop his horse and barked, “We are done here.”

And Grace was left to stare at his back as he rode away.

Chapter Two

Several hours later Grace was sitting in a chair in the corridor outside the dowager’s bedchamber. She was beyond weary and wanted nothing more than to crawl into her own bed, where she was quite certain she would toss and turn and fail to find slumber, despite her exhaustion. But the dowager was so overset, and indeed had rung so many times that Grace had finally given up and dragged the chair to its present location. In the last hour she had brought the dowager (who would not leave her bed) a collection of letters, tucked at the bottom of a locked drawer; a glass of warm milk; a glass of brandy; another miniature of her long-dead son John; a handkerchief that clearly possessed some sort of sentimental value; and another glass of brandy, to replace the one the dowager had knocked over while anxiously directing Grace to fetch the handkerchief.

It had been about ten minutes since the last summons. Ten minutes to do nothing but sit and wait in the chair, thinking, thinking…

Of the highwayman.

Of his kiss.

Of Thomas, the current Duke of Wyndham. Whom she considered a friend.

Of the dowager’s long-dead middle son, and the man who apparently bore his likeness. And his name.

His name. Grace took a long, uneasy breath. His name.

Good God.

She had not told the dowager this. She had stood motionless in the middle of the road, watching the highwayman ride off in the light of the partial moon. And then, finally, when she thought her legs might actually function, she set about getting them home. There was the footman to untie, and the coachman to tend to, and as for the dowager—she was so clearly upset that she did not even whisper a complaint when Grace put the injured coachman inside the carriage with her.

And then she joined the footman atop the driver’s seat and drove them home. She wasn’t a particularly experienced hand with the reins, but she could manage.

And she’d had to manage. There was no one else to do it. But that was something she was good at.

Managing. Making do.

She’d got them home, found someone to tend to the coachman, and then tended to the dowager, and all the while she’d thought—

Who was he?

The highwayman. He’d said his name had once been Cavendish. Could he be the dowager’s grandson? She had been told that John Cavendish died without issue, but he wouldn’t have been the first young nobleman to litter the countryside with illegitimate children.

Except he’d said his name was Cavendish. Or rather, had been Cavendish. Which meant—

Grace shook her head blearily. She was so tired she could barely think, and yet it seemed all she could do was think. What did it mean that the highwayman’s name was Cavendish? Could an illegitimate son bear his father’s name?

She had no idea. She’d never met a bastard before, at least not one of noble origins. But she’d known others who had changed their names. The vicar’s son had gone to live with relatives when he was small, and the last time he’d been back to visit, he’d introduced himself with a different surname. So surely an illegitimate son could call himself whatever he wanted. And even if it was not legal to do so, a highwayman would not trouble himself with such technicalities, would he?

Grace touched her mouth, trying to pretend she did not love the shivers of excitement that rushed through her at the memory. He had kissed her. It had been her first kiss, and she did not know who he was.

She knew his scent, she knew the warmth of his skin, and the velvet softness of his lips, but she did not know his name.

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