Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

P eople were staring. Grace had noticed such curiosity before, in truth, ever since the viscount's party had arrived in London. But she had never felt the scrutiny more intensely than she did as they arrived at Gunter's Confectionary. Patrons peeped from beneath the brims of their high-crown beavers or around the rim of their bonnets, whispering as if she and Lucien were exotic animals caught in the throes of a mating ritual. And the reason for their fascination sat beside her, totally oblivious to the attention.

Even in his rumpled coat, Lucien, the Elusive Viscount of scandal sheet fame, drew every eye, men envying the aura of power he exuded, women hoping to spark passion in his penetrating gaze.

A blonde, over-generous-with-the-rouge-pot, attempted to catch Lucien's eye by licking the creamy dessert from her spoon as if promising him far more carnal delights. Grace felt an uncharacteristic sting of jealousy, adding to her already strained nerves.

She couldn't help but be grateful when one of her stepmother's friends beckoned. "Can you forgive me for stealing dear Helen away?" the woman asked Grace, clasping Helen's hand. "I have missed her so!"

Helen's eyes lit up and Grace could have kissed the woman when she insisted the countess join them, too.

Even Lucien seemed uncharacteristically quiet as the ices were served at their separate table, as if he was still mulling over the tumult in St. James's Square.

Hoping to escape for a walk alone to sort through her conflicted feelings, Grace ate her ice as fast as she was able—a fine idea until too much cold made her feel as though someone was driving an ice pick through her eye. She massaged her temple, stifling a groan as a portly man with a florid face planted himself in front of Lucien.

"By Jove, look at you, Everdene! Emerald waistcoat and all!" The stranger twirled his silver-headed cane with such exuberance he nearly knocked crystal dishes from a server's hand.

Lucien eyed the cane in a way that left no doubt as to his disdain for such excessive displays. "I can't imagine why the color of my waistcoat should be a topic of concern to anyone but my valet."

"It's proof that Chuffy was right! It was you we saw earlier, pulling that street urchin off of the statue! And then tangling with some nasty character moments later."

She could see Lucien's hand tighten on the base of his crystal ice dish, but the stranger rushed on, undaunted.

"Chuffy said it looked like you, but I wagered a crown that Viscount Everdene was the last person in all England who would soil his gloves in such an endeavor! Yet now that I see your waistcoat and your lovely companion's blue gown, there can be little doubt!"

Lucien regarded him with a frosty gaze. "How fortunate that you've settled such a vital question. Now you can turn your prodigious mind to some other matter."

"Aren't you a droll one! You know many would find the event most diverting. Give the caricaturists something amusing to draw, wot?" The man gave a hearty laugh. "Lord Ignatius Pinchbeck at your service, my lady. And you are?"

"Lady Grace Elliot," Lucien said.

Grace felt Lord Pinchbeck's gaze sharpen.

"Ah the very miss who snatched The Elusive Viscount from beneath the other ladies' noses. You must have cast quite a spell on my old comrade to get Everdene to dirty his gloves on street urchins."

"His lordship was most helpful," she said, disliking the blustering fool. "I was grateful. So were Sibby Rose and wee Darragh."

Pinchbeck's eyes near popped out of his head. "You know the urchins' names? How singular! Do not be turning Everdene into a blasted Whig, now." Good humor vanished into a scowl. "Bad enough he built that village and made tenants in three counties more discontented than before. If it weren't for the Harcourt voting record over the years one might think?—"

"I vote as I see fit."

"It is just hard to know what side you come down on nowadays. Making both sides angry is hardly the way to—" Pinchbeck flinched under Lucien's hard gaze. His mask of amiability returned. "Well, those are subjects for another day. Today let me offer congratulations to your betrothed." He turned to Grace. "I lost a large sum at Whites, betting that his lordship would not be leg shackled before he turned fifty. I hope to make up for the loss through the expertise of my new business partner. In these troubled times, one must cast a wider net to draw in profits."

"Indeed?" Lucien said. "Then I suggest you get to it and allow us to enjoy our ices."

Unperturbed, Pinchbeck slid into the seat across from him. "I am quite fortunate to have such an astute partner in business. No man of discernment could resist the excellent connections this gentleman has made. More wealth than one could imagine, ripe for the plucking." He turned and called out, "Come here, my good man. There is someone you must meet!"

Grace glanced that direction as his companion turned and wove toward them through the crowd.

She froze.

"Lord Everdene," Pinchback said, beaming. "May I introduce you to the most forward-thinking industrialist you will ever meet. The Honorable Neville Freyne."

A hundred shards of memory burst through Grace in that moment. She stared at the man who might have been her future, recalling with chagrin that fizzy feeling of excitement, of first love, and the heartbreak of the letter that had dashed all her hopes.

Now, here he stood, familiar, yet a stranger with sun-bronze skin, and eyes so altered. They had been forthright when she loved him, but now there was an opaque quality, something harder. But then, she was much changed as well.

"Lord Everdene," Neville said with a bow.

"And may I present Lady Grace Elliot," Pinchbeck began.

Neville's gaze lit on Grace. Held for a moment. "We need no introductions," he said softly. "My dear Lady Grace!" He took her hand and lifted it to his lips, holding the kiss there for a little too long.

She stared at the crown of his head, remembering what it felt like to touch those golden locks, fine and feathery soft. They were, perhaps, thinner than she remembered. Or did it only seem so because she had run her fingers through Lucien's thick dark mane?

When he let loose her hand, he straightened his frockcoat that was cut in the latest fashion. "So, what do you think of your old friend, now that he's seen the world?" he asked. "I hope you are suitably impressed with the change."

His waistcoat dazzled, embroidered with gold and silver thread. Cufflinks and shirt studs glinted with gemstones, and a diamond stick pin shone in his cravat. Rings flashed on each hand. It was as if he wished his clothes to trumpet his importance the moment he walked into a room.

Egad, had he been but ten years older, he could have been Helen's male twin.

She wondered how she'd ever thought herself in love with him. In truth, he'd been more a boy when she knew him. Young and freshly minted without a hint of the shallow, garish man he'd become. "You look…well," she said.

He smiled. "I was hoping I might run into you here in London. Your father wrote to me that you would be in the city. I could hardly believe my good fortune when he confided that you are not yet wed."

Humiliation flooded through Grace as she imagined her father's letter, as if he were reminding a potential buyer at Tattersall's that a mare was up at auction once more.

Lucien curved one hand over her shoulder. "Perhaps you had not heard that Lady Grace has done me the honor of agreeing to become my wife."

"I suppose I had heard something of the connection." Neville laughed without humor, his gaze locked on Grace. "Now that I am returned home, perhaps I can persuade her to change her mind."

"As I understood it," Lucien replied, his voice cutting like steel, "you were the one who faltered."

Neville eyed Lucien, then swallowed. "Beg pardon, my lord. It was meant as a jest." He gave the slightest bow. "I have discovered that bold actions are required to succeed in life and in business. In fact, your father, the earl, was someone I always admired."

"My father?" Lucien replied, his hand still firmly on Grace's shoulder.

"I thought of him during my time in the West Indies and Americas, where I saw the opportunity for wealth beyond imagining. Plantations in Georgia and Mississippi with cotton fields that go on forever. Sugar plantations in Brazil and the Caribbean. I'm surprised he hasn't started investing there."

"Places where people are still enslaved?" Grace asked.

"Lord Pinchbeck," Neville continued, "has informed me there is a troubling movement to forbid trade with such countries. England must embrace the benefits free-trade offers or lose its rightful place in the world."

Grace bristled. "Even if that trade involves the suffering of thousands?"

Pinchbeck gave a dismissive wave. "They produce sugar more cheaply because of it," he said. "And without American cotton, every mill in England would turn its workers into the street."

The thought made Grace queasy. She thought of the children they'd just left, both so thin, their father desperate for work. Neville had always known how she abhorred enforced servitude and slavery. Had she really never noticed this side of him?

"I know it sounds hard, Grace," he said, his voice softening. "God knows, we all benefit from the tender hearts of our angels of hearth and home. But that very tenderness is why men must protect the gentler sex from the world of commerce. Permit me to point out that you have never seen these plantations with your own eyes as I have. It is not nearly as bad as abolitionists claim. The slaves fare better than our own working poor. Their people have warm cabins, food to sustain them, work to keep them busy?—"

"Their children ripped from their arms at a master's whim!" she countered, indignant. "They are whipped and hunted. As for the condition of our own poor, we should do better by them as well! Children like the little ones we just encountered on the street—" She pictured little Scrap and Sibby Rose. Grace turned to Lucien, thinking he would surely agree with her, but the expression on Lucien's face never wavered as Neville spoke over her and Pinchbeck nodded in agreement.

"Englishmen do have a choice," Neville reasoned. "That's the whole point of Free Trade. Anyone who's conscience troubles them can choose not to buy the cheaper sugar from Brazil or cotton fabric for their homes. Sentimentality can have no part in business decisions if England is to survive. Am I right, Lord Everdene?"

"Is that how you feel, my lord?" Grace turned to Lucien, once again searching his face, hoping for him to refute Pinchbeck's claim.

He frowned, a deep line forming between his brows. "It is complicated, as so many things are."

"Far too complicated for the fairer sex to understand," Neville added with a gentleness that infuriated her.

"Never mind the masses!" Pinchbeck banged his cane on the table, rattling the dishware. "All this nonsense about common men getting the vote. Last thing we need is for landed gentlemen to lose their hold on the government! Imagine the chaos! We must extinguish this reform nonsense as soon as may be."

Grace felt a pang when Lucien made no counter to such an argument. How very different from her own parents, who had risen to the defense of reformers. Her mother always said that one should lead by example, and so Grace tilted her chin up. "Times are changing, Lord Pinchbeck," she said. "We live in an age of factories, trains and more industry than our forebears could have imagined possible. Surely it is only right that we change, too."

"Indeed we must, Grace!" Neville said. "Small crofts are a thing of the past, running estates into the ground. No one knows that better than Lord Everdene, after the expense he incurred on his model village."

She felt Lucien stiffen. "New Everdene is none of your concern," he warned.

"I am merely saying we all have ill-fortune when we gamble from time to time. It is not too late to make up for your losses. Invest some of the Harcourt fortune in our new factories."

Lucien's expression was unreadable. "It certainly bears further exploration."

Was New Everdene truly in trouble? Grace thought of how she'd admired the progressive village and Lucien's sardonic reaction when she'd praised it. The past decade had been the hardest in recent memory, with blights and crop failures, industrialization shifting the balance until there were times their world was unrecognizable. Was it possible New Everdene could be a failure?

She was aware of the weight on Lucien's shoulders.

"Perhaps, Lord Everdene, I can present our business plans to you," Pinchbeck offered.

"Perhaps." Lucien gave a slight nod in Grace's direction, before returning his attention back to Pinchbeck. "I have reason to believe we will be returning shortly to the country. As for the investment you suggest, there is much to consider. As Lady Grace mentioned, times change, and we must change with them. But I am not yet convinced as to what those changes should be, nor do I think one should rush into it."

Neville's brows rose in surprise. "On the contrary. The House of Lords must take decisive action!"

"With the malcontents stoking fires among the populous, it's out duty to stamp them out before it's too late!" Pinchbeck thumped his fist on the table.

Grace, surprised by Neville's vehemence, thought of Sibby Rose and little Darragh. Their father searching for work, their mother struggling. She glanced at Lucien, hoping the incident by the statue had given him faces to remember. Small, wan, pinched with hunger, running from those who would force them into servitude. But when he failed to counteract Neville's argument, her heart sank. This was the man she was to marry? She searched his face for something she did not find there. Any expectation of knight's errant shattered at his impassiveness.

Realizing that she would have to wield that imaginary sword herself, she stood and squared her shoulders, drawing on her mother's zeal as she faced the three men. "Perhaps before you stamp those fires out, you should discover why they are burning?" Without waiting to hear their response, she excused herself and walked away.