Page 63 of The Lost Duke of Wyndham

Her eyes widened. That was news. He had been out all night and was considerably worse for the wear. She glanced at a nearby clock. It was not yet even noon. When could he have collected Amelia? And where?

And why?

“It is a long story,” he said, clearly to cut her off before she could ask any questions. “But suffice it to say, she will inform you that you were in Stamford this morning, and you invited her back to Belgrave.”

Her brows rose. If he was asking her to lie, it was very serious, indeed. “Thomas, any number of people know quite well that I was not in Stamford this morning.”

“Yes, but her mother is not among that number.”

Grace wasn’t sure if she should be shocked or delighted. Had he compromised Amelia? Why else would they need to lie to her mother? “Er, Thomas…” she began, unsure of how to proceed. “I feel I must tell you, given the number of delays thus far, I would imagine that Lady Crowland would be delighted to know—”

“Oh for God’s sake, it is nothing like that,” he muttered. “Amelia assisted me home when I was”—he blushed then. Blushed! Thomas!—“impaired.”

Grace bit her lip to keep from smiling. It was quite remarkable what a pleasant image that was—Thomas allowing himself to be anything less than perfectly composed. “That was most charitable of her,” she said, perhaps a little too primly. But really, it couldn’t be helped.

He glared at her, which only made it more difficult to maintain an even face.

She cleared her throat. “Have you, er, considered tidying up?”

“No,” he snapped, “I rather enjoy looking like a slovenly fool.”

Grace winced at that.

“Now listen,” he continued, looking terribly determined. “Amelia will repeat what I have told you, but it is imperative that you not tell her about Mr. Audley.”

“I would never do that,” Grace said quickly. “It is not my place.”

“Good.”

“But she will want to know why you were, er…” Oh, dear, how to put it politely?

“You don’t know why,” he said firmly. “Just tell her that. Why would she suspect that you would know more?”

“She knows that I consider you a friend,” Grace said. “And furthermore, I live here. Servants always know everything. She knows that.”

“You’re not a servant,” he muttered.

“I am and you know it,” she replied, almost amused. “The only difference is that I am allowed to wear finer clothing and occasionally converse with the guests. But I assure you, I am privy to all of the household gossip.”

For several seconds he did nothing but stare, as if waiting for her to laugh and say, Only joking! Finally he muttered something under his breath that she was quite certain she was not meant to understand (and indeed she did not; servants’ gossip was occasionally risqué, but it was never profane).

“For me, Grace,” he said, his eyes boring into hers, “will you please just tell her you don’t know?”

It was the closest she had ever heard him come to begging, and it left her disoriented and acutely uncomfortable. “Of course,” she said quickly. “You have my word.”

He nodded briskly. “Amelia will be expecting you.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Grace hurried to the door, but when her hand touched the knob, she found she was not quite ready to go. She turned around, taking one last look at his face.

He was not himself. No one could blame him; it had been a most extraordinary two days. But still, it worried her.

“Will you be all right?” she asked.

And immediately regretted that she had done so. His face seemed to move, and twist, and she could not be sure if he was going to laugh or cry. But she did know that she did not want to be witness to either.

“No, don’t answer that,” she mumbled, and she ran from the room.

Chapter Twelve

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