Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
Page 13

“You are an unnatural grandson,” she hissed.
Thomas shrugged, deciding to allow her the last word. She’d had a difficult night. And he was tired.
And besides that, he didn’t really care.
Chapter 4
The most irritating part of it, Amelia thought as she sipped her tea, which had (of course) gone cold, was that she could have been reading a book.
Or riding her mare.
Or dipping her toes in a stream or learning to play chess or watching the footmen at home polish silver.
But instead she was here. In one of Belgrave Castle’s twelve drawing rooms, sipping cold tea, wondering if it would be impolite to eat the last biscuit, and jumping every time she heard footsteps in the hall.
“Oh, my heavens! Grace!” Elizabeth was exclaiming. “No wonder you appear so distracted!”
“Hmmm?” Amelia straightened. Apparently she had missed something of interest whilst pondering how to avoid her fiancé. Who, it was worth noting, might or might not be in love with Grace.
And had kissed her, anyway.
Shabby behavior, indeed. Toward both of the ladies.
Amelia looked at Grace a bit more closely, pondering her dark hair and blue eyes, and realized that she was actually quite beautiful. This shouldn’t have come as a surprise; she’d known Grace her entire life. Before Grace had become the dowager’s companion, she’d been the daughter of a local squire.
Amelia supposed she still was, only now she was the daughter of a dead squire, which did not offer much in the way of livelihood or protection. But back when Grace’s family had been living, they were all part of the same general country set, and if perhaps the parents had not been close, the children certainly were.
She had probably seen Grace once every week; twice, she supposed, if one counted church.
But in truth, she hadn’t ever really thought about Grace’s appearance. It wasn’t that she didn’t care, or that she considered her beneath notice. It was just that
. . . well . . . why? Grace had always been simply there.
A regular and dependable part of her world. Elizabeth’s closest friend, tragically orphaned and then taken in by the dowager duchess.
Amelia reconsidered. Taken in was perhaps a euphemism. Truly, Grace worked hard for her keep. She might not be performing menial labor, but time spent with the dowager was exhausting.
As Amelia knew firsthand.
“I am quite recovered,” Grace said. “Just a bit tired, I’m afraid. I did not sleep well.”
“What happened?” Amelia asked, deciding there was no point in pretending she’d been listening.
Elizabeth actually shoved her. “Grace and the dowager were accosted by highwaymen!”
“Really?”
Grace nodded. “Last night. On the way home from the assembly.”
Now this was interesting. “Did they take anything?”
Amelia asked, because really, it seemed a pertinent question.
“How can you be so dispassionate?” Elizabeth demanded. “They pointed a gun at her!” She turned to Grace. “Did they?”
“They did, actually.”
Amelia pondered this. Not the gun, but rather, her lack of horror at the retelling. Perhaps she was a cold person.
“Were you terrified?” Elizabeth asked breathlessly.
“I would have been. I would have swooned.”
“I wouldn’t have swooned,” Amelia remarked.
“Well, of course you wouldn’t,” Elizabeth said irritably. “You didn’t even gasp when Grace told you about it.”
“It sounds rather exciting, actually.” Amelia looked at Grace with great interest. “Was it?”
And Grace—good heavens, she blushed.
Amelia leaned forward, lips twitching. A blush could mean all sorts of things—all of them quite splendid.
She felt a rush of excitement in her chest, a heady, almost weightless sort of feeling—the sort one got when told a particularly juicy piece of gossip. “Was he handsome, then?”
Elizabeth looked at her as if she were mad. “Who?”
“The highwayman, of course.”
Grace stammered something and pretended to drink her tea.
“He was,” Amelia said, feeling much better now. If Wyndham was in love with Grace . . . well, at least she did not return the emotion.
“He was wearing a mask,” Grace retorted.
“But you could still tell that he was handsome,”
Amelia urged.
“No!”
“Then his accent was terribly romantic. French? Italian?” Amelia actually shuddered with delight, thinking of all the Byron she’d read recently. “Spanish.”
“You’ve gone mad,” Elizabeth said.
“He didn’t have an accent,” Grace said. “Well, not much of one. Scottish, perhaps? Irish? I couldn’t tell, precisely.”
Amelia sat back with a happy sigh. “A highwayman.
How romantic.”
“Amelia Willoughby!” her sister scolded. “Grace was just attacked at gunpoint, and you are calling it romantic?”
She would have responded with something very cutting and clever—because really, if one couldn’t be cutting and clever with one’s sister, who could one be cutting and clever with?—but at that moment she heard a noise in the hall.
“The dowager?” Elizabeth whispered to Grace with a grimace. It was so lovely when the dowager did not join them for tea.
“I don’t think so,” Grace replied. “She was still abed
when I came down. She was rather . . . ehrm . . . distraught.”
“I should think so,” Elizabeth remarked. Then she gasped. “Did they make away with her emeralds?”