What the Duke Wants (36 page)

He looked back at his friend. “I said done. You’ll take her. You’ll protect her. But until the arrangements are made, she’ll stay here.” He turned back to Beatryce. “Now, tell us what we want to know.”

“Fine. But will you please untie me from this chair first? I cannot feel my arms anymore.”

* * * *

After leaving the green room, Grace met a footman at the top of the stairs.

“The duke rang for someone to escort me to a guest room to rest.”

“Certainly, Miss Radclyffe. This way.”

Surprisingly, the footman led her up another flight of stairs where the rooms for family were located. He showed her to a feminine, floral room in blue and green. A fire was blazing in the hearth, and a maid was there laying out tea and cakes.

“Good afternoon, miss. I’ve laid out the paper you requested on the table here along with a tea tray.”

“Thank you, Miss…?”

“Martha, miss. You may call me Martha. Your maid, Bessie, has put away your things, and is settling in upstairs at the moment. She said to ring if you need her.”

“Thank you, Martha; I will. That will be all.”

“Yes, miss.”

After the maid closed the door on her way out, Grace walked over to the tea tray, her heart heavy with sorrow.

Oh Papa…

The tears fell as Grace collapsed into a chair before the table. She leaned forward, propped her elbows on the table, and sobbed quietly into her hands.

She wept for what felt like hours before her sobs began to subside. She sat up and took a look at the table. The tea was cold now, but she poured a cup anyway. As she was stirring her sugar, she noticed the society papers laid out before her—bits of the paper were smudged from her tears and she’d probably find newsprint on her face if she were to look. She laughed at the image.

She picked up the paper and began to read. Ambrose had obviously wanted her to read it for a reason. She scanned over various bits of gossip, including the biggest article of all, the Duke of Stonebridge not appearing at his own wedding, but she saw nothing of interest that he might want her to see. She looked again, and let out a squeak when she saw it. The notice was printed right in the center of the page in larger type with a box around it—she had read everything around the notice but the notice itself.

She put her hand over her mouth, and began to cry all over again as she read:

Ambrose Philip Langtry, the tenth Duke of Stonebridge, announces his intention to ask Miss Grace Elizabeth Radclyffe, proprietress of the House of Grace fashion house in Oxford, for her hand in marriage…if she’ll have him.

Twenty minutes later, Grace washed and composed herself before lying on the large tester bed. Someone knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

She smiled as Ambrose, all disheveled and handsome as sin, walked in and looked around the room for her. He spotted her on the bed and smiled.

“Better?” he asked.

“Yes, better.”

“Good. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not about my father, but I do have questions. Did you find out what you needed to know from Beatryce?”

“We did.”

“I’m glad.” She chewed her lip.

“What else is on your mind, love?”

“Well, I was wondering. What will happen to Aunt Mary and the girls when this evidence becomes public? What will happen to my uncle?”

Ambrose rubbed the back of his neck. He clearly did not want to answer, but he did it anyway. “Honestly, Aunt Mary and her daughters will have to find a relative to take them in. But it will not be easy. These charges against your uncle? Murder, high treason? They are all quite serious. All his holdings will revert to the crown. As for Swindon, he will likely be executed. Grace, I realize he’s your uncle, but these crimes, they are grave.”

“I know. He is horrid. He killed our fathers. Though I pity him, I do, but I’m more worried about Aunt Mary and the girls. Especially the girls. They’ll have difficulty, won’t they? They certainly won’t be accepted in society after this, will they?”

“No, I’m afraid they won’t. Society is harsh and hypocritical. I’m afraid your cousins might even find it difficult for a relative to see past that and give them refuge. Life will certainly be very different for them.”

She looked at her hands twisted together with worry. “I’m a relative,” she whispered; then she peeked up at Ambrose. “Ambrose, we must do something. I cannot bear to think of little Adelaide homeless. I can’t bear it at all.”

Chapter 29

Beckett House London…

2 am…

The earl paused in the hall on his way to his study; he needed to catch his breath. He hadn’t walked this fast in twenty years and he was hyperventilating, but he needed to make haste. He needed to arm himself. He needed to do something. That damn duke had stood him up, and now Beatryce was missing—the ridiculous cow.

He was going to vomit.

He pushed on. By the time he reached his study, his hands were shaking and he fumbled about as he tried to find the key to his locked study. He tried six different keys before he found the right one and his clammy, shaking hands made it difficult to fit the key to the lock.

At last, the door opened, and he stepped inside. It was dark, and what little light that was available came from the moon shining in the study windows. The fire was out, as were all the lamps. Good. He felt safer in the dark.

He moved into the room to the floor-standing globe on the far side of the rug. He struggled to slide it off—it was heavy—and he dropped the keys he was still holding as he did. The sound of keys landing on the hardwood echoed loudly in the dark room. He ignored them.

Once the globe was out of the way, he got on his knees and pulled up the now freed corner of the Aubusson rug. Argh. The weight on his knees was excruciating, but he had to ignore the pain. He found the trick release in the floor and pulled up several loosened boards that were normally hidden under the rug. He threw them haphazardly to the side as he worked, sweat dripping everywhere. The wood floor became slick.

When the hole he was making was wide enough, he reached in it for the box he had hidden there. He felt around in the dark and became panicked with worry, but alas, after a few minutes, he found it.

He pulled out the box, set it on the floor, and pushed it across the room as he crawled toward his desk. When he reached the chairs in front of his desk, he set the box on one and used the chair to pull himself up. It wasn’t easy, and he hoped to God he never had to get on the floor again. He could barely stand.

But once he was, he placed the box on his desk and went to the book shelves on the far wall, looking for the secret book that was really a hidden compartment holding the key to his box. It was impossible to see in the dark, but he was too frightened to light a lamp. If someone were watching the house, he didn’t want them to know he was in his study. Best for them to think he was in bed. Mary was there; maybe they’d mistake her for him.

He returned with the key and held the box up in the moonlight so he could find the keyhole—there.

He opened the box with haste, looked inside, and screamed for all he was worth, “Nooooooooo!”

It was empty. Immediately, the sound of steel striking flint sounded on both sides of the room, and before long, two lamps burned brightly, revealing the Marquess of Dansbury and the Duke of Stonebridge.

“Hello, Swindon. Looking for something?” asked the duke.

His eyes bugged out of his head with shock. He looked between the two men several times, as if he wasn’t sure they were really there, before he moved. He spun around and glanced out the window before racing—or waddling—around his desk. He grabbed Stonebridge.

“Stonebridge, you must help me. Take me. I beg you. He’ll kill me if you don’t. Please. Please. Please. I’ll tell you everything; I swear I will…just don’t let him kill…”

Those were the last words he ever uttered. The gun shot echoed loudly in the night. Swindon was dead before he hit the floor. Stonebridge and Dansbury looked up in time to see a cloaked figure race away from the window.

Chapter 30

The Duke’s London House…

The next morning…

Grace scrunched her face. Something tickled the end of her nose. She opened her eyes. Above her, looking down, was Ambrose, who was tickling her with a feather from her pillow.

“Good morning,” he said when she smiled.

“Hmmmm…morning,” she responded in kind, then chuckled at the yawn that escaped her. “What time is it?”

“Almost ten.”

“Almost ten? Goodness, I’ve slept for eleven hours.”

She sat up and attempted to rub the sleep from her eyes. Ambrose reached over and picked up a cup from the table. He wafted it beneath her nose. The smell of hot chocolate titillated her senses.

“Hmmmm…chocolate in bed? A lady could get used to this.” She took the cup from him. He blew on it before handing it over.

After a few sips, while Ambrose just sat there watching her, she placed the cup on her bedside table, folded her hands in her lap, and said, “Right. Tell me what happened.”

Ambrose sat back against the footboard.

“I’m afraid I have some rather unpleasant news. Your uncle was murdered last night.”

“Murdered? By who?”

“We don’t know. A cloaked figure shot him through the window and ran off. Bow Street is looking into the matter.”

“And Aunt Mary? How are the girls?”

“The girls were still sleeping when I left. Your Aunt Mary felt it best to wait and tell them in the morning. As for your Aunt Mary? Well, she seemed surprisingly glad, actually. She took to weeping at first, then began laughing hysterically. It was all rather odd and uncomfortable, to be honest.”

“Really? Well, that is certainly unexpected. Laughing, you say?”

“Yes—in fits and giggles, then outright guffaws. A few of the runners had difficulty controlling their mirth, despite the grave circumstances. Apparently, it was catching.”

“Strange. So what happens now? Does this mean Aunt Mary and the girls are safe or are they still at risk of losing everything once the evidence comes out?”

“Well, funny you should ask that. I mean, yes, if the evidence of your uncle’s activities were to come to light, his property—the money, houses—would all be forfeit despite the fact that he is deceased, but it seems that in all the confusion last night, the evidence has disappeared.”

“Disappeared?”

“Yes, disappeared…Unexpectedly, I might add.”

“How could it just disappear?”

“I don’t know. I gave the papers to Dansbury. He said he gave them to me. But we both looked, checked all our pockets…and…well…nothing.”

She jumped up and threw her arms around him, her love.

“You would do this for me?”

“Darling, I have no idea what you are implying, but yes, I would do anything for you.”

He kissed her. And it felt good. It felt wonderful.

He was just beginning to nuzzle and kiss her neck, when she pushed him away and asked, “What about Beatryce?”

“Beatryce and Dansbury are readying to leave town. She still might be in danger. It seems she was right in that someone else is involved, but none of the evidence we found in your uncle’s study gives us a single clue. Everyone mentioned by name is already dead, so for now, she will remain in hiding; your aunt will be putting it about that she is visiting family on the continent. Beatryce will be safe with Dansbury—if they don’t kill each other first.”

They both laughed at the thought.

“Why aren’t Aunt Mary and the girls in danger, too? If Beatryce is in trouble…”

“They clearly know nothing. I’m not worried. Now, enough about murder and mayhem. Where were we?”

“I believe, Your Grace, you were about to ask me to marry you.”

Ambrose, who had been leaning in for another kiss, froze, his lips still puckered. He pulled back and cocked his head.

“What did you say?”

“I said, I believe, Your Grace, you were about to ask me to marry you.”

He grabbed her hands and slid to his knees on the steps to the bed. “Well, we wouldn’t want people to think I ever denied a lady anything, now would we?”

He cleared his throat. “Miss Grace Radclyffe, proprietress of fashion, voice for the less fortunate, and the love of my life, will you marry me?”

“Yes. Yes. YES!” she yelled and pulled him into her arms.

The door to her room burst open, and Bessie and Aunt Harriett practically fell into the room.

“Congratulations,” they both shouted.

“It’s about time; thought I was going to have to beat some sense into the both of you,” added Aunt Harriett.

“My,” Grace said, startled by the unexpected intrusion, “were you listening at the door?”

“No…” said Bessie.

“Of course,” said Aunt Harriett at the same time. “What kind of guardian would I be if I allowed my ward and my nephew alone in her bedroom without putting my eye to the key hole to make sure no shenanigans were going on? Had you made any further advances on her, young man, I would have marched right in and boxed your ears, boy, and don’t you doubt it for a moment.”

“I would never doubt you for a moment, Auntie, I swear.”

“Now,” she continued, “since Grace is officially in mourning, and I know that neither of you want to wait, Bessie and I have seen to the packing of a small valise for the both of you so you can head off to Gretna immediately. No sense in wasting a moment, I say.”

Ambrose laughed and looked at Grace. “What say you, love? Fancy throwing convention completely to the wind and running away with me? I’m willing if you are.”

Grace’s ensuing smile was brighter than the sun. “Why not? Let’s start off as we mean to go on. Let’s set the ton’s tongues wagging.”

And that’s how Grace Radclyffe, fashion designer, dress maker and voice for the less fortunate, started her unconventional life as the tenth Duchess of Stonebridge.

Epilogue

Six years later…

What a beautiful morning
. Grace walked along the garden path, her bonnet, shoes and stockings in hand, and looked at the beautiful land surrounding her. Stonebridge Park was her home now and she loved it here more than any other place in the world.