Sweet Surrender (2 page)

Eleanor and Michael picked up their bags, too, and the three of them started toward the mansion.  As they approached, it grew larger and larger until the walls towered over them.  They stood, gaping up at it.

"What should we do?" Eleanor asked.

"We knock on the door, silly," Michael answered.

He strode forward, leading the way as was his custom.

From his earliest days, he’d been unique in a manner other boys could never be.  He was shrewd and smart and overly wise for his age.  He would be a ruler of men, would always have lesser mortals tagging after him, eager to admire and adore.

When Georgina had begged Grace—with her dying breath—to serve as Michael’s guardian, it had been easy to agree.  Who wouldn’t love such a marvelous child?

He bounded up the stairs, then paused to glance over his shoulder at Grace.

"Is my grandmother here?" he queried.  "Did Mr. Porter say?"

"She’s not here, but he claims you have an uncle.  He’s here."

"An uncle!  How splendid!" Michael gushed.

"An uncle?"  Eleanor frowned and murmured, "Georgina never mentioned that Edward had a brother."

"No, she didn’t," Grace whispered, "which vexes me enormously."

"What’s his name?" Michael inquired.

"Jackson Scott."

"I like it!" Michael beamed.  "It’s very noble."

"Maybe Mr. Porter erred."  Eleanor’s frown deepened.  "Maybe we are at the wrong house."

"We’re not at the wrong house," Michael insisted.  "I just
know
this was my father’s home.  Can’t you feel it?"

He spun away and had raised his hand to knock on the door when it was whipped open.  Two giggling women raced out.  From their attire, they appeared to be housemaids, although their caps were off and their hair down.

A man was chasing them, and he might have been a gentleman, but he’d removed his coat, and his shirt sleeves were rolled back.  He was clutching a decanter of liquor, the contents sloshing out as he ran by.

The trio didn’t notice Grace, Michael, or Eleanor.  They were too absorbed in their game.  They dashed down the steps and hurried off.

"Last to the lake," one of the women shouted to the man, "is a rotten egg."

They chortled as if it was the pithiest remark ever uttered, then they increased their speed.

"I hope that wasn’t my uncle," Michael said as the group vanished around the corner.

"I’m sure it wasn’t," Grace replied.  The door was still open, and she nodded to it.  "Let’s find some help."

They entered cautiously, not certain of what they might encounter, and Grace’s trepidation spiraled. 

The house was ornate, like something out of a fairytale, but there were no servants in evidence.  Off to the side, there was a fancy salon cluttered with debris.  Apparently, Jackson Scott had been reveling quite raucously, but there was no one present to clean up after him. 

When she had left Cornwall for Milton Abbey, she had pictured the Scotts as staid, boring merchants.  They would rise at dawn, labor strenuously, eat heartily at a bountiful dining table, and retire early to rest up for the next day’s endeavors.

Her opinion had been based on what a fine man Edward had seemed to be.  What she hadn’t imagined was inebriation and wicked conduct.  If debauchery was in progress, how could she introduce Michael into such a depraved environment?

There was a bench in the foyer, and she motioned to it.  Michael and Eleanor sat while Grace paced, each stride echoing off the high ceiling.  Eventually, a footman approached. 

"Oh, hello," he said.  He gaped as if he’d never seen visitors before.  "I didn’t realize you had arrived."

Obviously,
Grace nearly sneered.  Instead, she politely inquired, "Can you assist us?"

"With what?"

"I’d like to speak with Mr. Jackson Scott regarding a…personal matter."

"I wouldn’t dare to interrupt him."

"You can’t tell him he has a caller?"

"I’m not that brave," the man insisted.  "He’s…entertaining.  He doesn’t like to be bothered."

"Is the butler here?"

"Most of the staff was given a holiday.  There are only a few of us on the premises."

"I see," Grace said. 

"Perhaps if you came back next week?"

"We can’t.  I have to talk to him today."

"He’s asked not to be disturbed."

With that uncooperative response, he sauntered off, leaving Grace in a tremendous quandary.  Was it all right for them to wait?  She supposed they could become squatters in the foyer.  If they were lucky, Mr. Scott might stroll by and deign to notice them.  

"Well!" Eleanor huffed with indignation.  "What do you make of that?  I’ve received more courtesy from a stray mutt in the road."

"What now, Grace?" Michael inquired. 

Grace studied them, deciding they looked as exhausted as she felt. 

The previous months had been extremely difficult.  First, Eleanor had finished school and returned home.  Then Georgina had grown ill and died.  Her monthly stipend from Edward’s estate had stopped.  Shortly after, the sheriff had notified them that they were being evicted.

In the years Grace had stayed with Georgina, she’d saved a small amount of money from her nursing, but it wasn’t much.  Her modest income had never been sufficient to sustain the three of them.

She’d had no option but to beg assistance from the Scott family.  She’d written to Beatrice, who hadn’t answered the letter.  So Grace had recklessly traveled to Milton, being absolutely certain that—once they met Michael—they wouldn’t deny him.

But she was assailed by doubts.  What if she’d been wrong?  What if the journey had been for naught?  If Jackson Scott sent them packing, what would they do?

There was nothing for them in their rural village, and even if there was, they had no funds to pay their way back.  They’d have to start over in the Milton area, where they had no acquaintances or ties.  Eleanor would have to hire herself out as a maid or shop girl, and the notion was so depressing that Grace could have plopped down and wept for a week.

She was twenty-five years old, and her entire past had been filled with struggle and toil.  Her parents had perished when she and Eleanor were little.  As orphans, they’d had no kin to help them.  Eventually, Georgina’s mother—their neighbor—had taken them in and raised them. 

She’d been a healer and had taught Grace her trade.  Grace had a natural affinity for healing, so she’d gratefully embraced the path fate provided.  Student had become master, and she’d ultimately guided the woman through her own demise. 

Yet with Georgina’s recent death, Grace was where she’d been as a young child.  Broke.  Afraid.  On her own—but this time with two charges who needed her care and support.

Why was the world such a grueling place?  She bet Jackson Scott never had to wonder over when his next meal would arrive.  

A sound wafted by, of voices laughing and glassware clinking.  It came from the second floor.  Was Jackson Scott holed up in one of the rooms?

The prospect that he was idling away the morning set her temper ablaze. 

Dare she climb the stairs?   Dare she accost him? 

She glanced over at Michael and Eleanor, their expressions expectant and curious.

"I think I hear people upstairs," she said.  "I have to see if it’s Mr. Scott."

"Really, Grace"—Eleanor’s tone was scolding—"is that wise?"

"We can’t tarry forever without a resolution.  You stay here.  Don’t move an inch—no matter what."

"Should I come with you?" Michael asked.  "Mr. Scott might wish to speak with me right away."

"You sit with Eleanor," Grace replied.  She wasn’t about to introduce Michael before she learned the true situation.  "I may be gone for many minutes.  Don’t be nervous and don’t search for me."

"We won’t."  Eleanor slipped her arm through Michael’s to keep him with her as Grace marched up the stairs.

On the landing, the noise was louder, and she followed it to the room at the end of the hall.  The double doors opened into a large, messy salon.  Empty glasses and decanters of liquor were strewn about, as were pillows and blankets.  A vase had been smashed, but no one had bothered to pick up the glass shards.

There was an ornate, throne-like chair over by the window.  A man lounged in it, and she didn’t have to be told that—with very little effort—she’d found Jackson Scott. 

With his black hair and blue, blue eyes, he looked exactly like Michael, exactly like Edward.  There could be no mistaking their close blood relationship.

He was different though, too, appearing tough and menacing in a way Edward had never been.  He seemed arrogant and weary and ruthless, and her heart sank.

This wasn’t the encounter she’d envisioned, at all.  She’d pictured a stuffy parlor, tea on a tray, stiff-backed chairs, uncomfortable questions, erudite answers.

Instead, she’d walked in on what had to be an…
orgy
.  She’d never been particularly clear on what the word described, but this had to be it. 

Mr. Scott was being tended by several lithe, blond beauties.  They were scantily clad in undergarments made from a thin, gauzy fabric Grace had never seen before.  Mr. Porter had mentioned that Mr. Scott lived in Africa, and he had to have brought the clothing with him from that wild locale.   

Two of the women fanned him with palm leaves, while a third danced a seductive dance.  A fourth was seated on his lap and feeding him bites of food. 

As Grace watched the shocking spectacle, he leaned in and kissed the woman on the mouth!  The woman gleefully participated, the others simpering as if they couldn’t wait to be next, and Grace was so astonished, she was surprised she didn’t faint.

His dark hair was much too long—it actually brushed his shoulders—and needed to be trimmed.  His chest was broad and muscled, his skin tanned, which she could plainly see because he wasn’t wearing a shirt or shoes.  He was attired only in a pair of loose-fitting trousers sewn from another exotic, flowing fabric.

It was the sort of garment she imagined a sultan might choose when entertaining his harem.  Not that she’d ever imagined such a thing, but if she had, this was precisely the type of decadent scene that would have presented itself.

This depraved devil was Michael’s uncle?  This corrupt wretch was brother to charming, witty, amiable Edward?  How could it be possible?

She thought of the desperate months recently passed, of the dreary miles they’d traveled, and her temper boiled over. 

How dare he disappoint her!  How dare he be so utterly and completely ill-suited to her purpose!

"Excuse me," she said, but no one noticed her.  She could have been invisible. 

"Excuse me!" she shouted, and she clapped her hands for good measure.

Mr. Scott frowned, then glanced over to where Grace stood in the entry.  On observing her, his fury was palpable, and she should have fled, but she was impaled by his magnificent eyes.  She couldn’t move, which was aggravating in the extreme.

She had nursed every kind of patient with every sort of illness and condition.  Maiming.  Dismemberment.  Birthing.  Dying.  Nothing fazed her, and she wasn’t about to let Jackson Scott be the first to succeed.

"Hello, Mr. Scott," she brazenly said.  "I’m sorry for the interruption, but there was no butler to greet us."

"So you just barged in?" he asked.

"Yes.  My mission is dire, and I couldn’t return later."

His gaggle of admirers tittered with amusement as his hot, angry gaze slithered down her person.  Compared to the women who were salivating over him, he definitely found her lacking, and he smirked, wanting her to know that he wasn’t impressed.

Clearly, his taste ran to willowy and fawning, so she shouldn’t have been upset by his overt disdain, but she was.  She could have defended herself to Mr. Scott, could have told him all the ways she was remarkable, but why would she?

She couldn’t help it if she was short—only five foot four—and much too thin at a hundred and twenty pounds.  But work and worry could make a female waste away from fretting. 

Her hair, the bane of her existence, was a rusty auburn, pulled into a tidy chignon.  It highlighted her expressive green eyes, and she was secretly proud of it—not that she’d ever admit to having one small vanity. 

At least she was fully dressed.  Her gray gown, the best she owned, covered her from chin to wrist to toe, and she wouldn’t apologize for modesty.  Not when modesty was so obviously a trait he despised.

"Who the hell are you," he snapped, "and why are you in my home?"

"I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t curse in my presence."

"It’s my house.  I’ll speak however I damn well please.  If you don’t like it, you don’t have to stay."

She gnawed on her cheek, keen to argue, but castigation would be pointless.  Jackson Scott was a rude fiend.  Debate was futile.

"I am Grace Bennett, Mr. Scott."

"Bully for you.  Now go away.  You annoy me."