Chapter 32

CHAPTER 32

G race stared at Lucien, feeling as if the floor had crumbled beneath her feet. The future she had dared to imagine as she and her husband grew closer shattered: summers at Everdene and The Willows, a little boy with Lucien's ice-blue eyes and a daughter with his smile splashing in the lake with their cousin Kit, driving the wicker pony cart, playing hide and seek in the ballroom where she and Lucien had once had dancing lessons. He had crushed her dreams before ever placing his wedding ring onto her finger. She just hadn't known it.

Cassandra broke in brightly. "Lucien has a lovely estate in Lancashire. I am sure you will be happy there."

"Lancashire…," she echoed, her gaze holding Lucien's. "So far north it is almost to Scotland."

When were you going to tell me? she wanted to rail at him.

She felt like a fool. She had seen the expressions on the family's faces in that terrible moment she'd learned the truth. Jane stricken, Penelope shocked and desperately groping for something to say. Simon glared at Cassandra, who suddenly seemed smaller, as she had the moment after she'd snapped back into herself after wounding Lucien with the fencing foil. Her hand betrayed the slightest tremor.

Was she enjoying the discord she had wrought? Or was some part of her regretting it?

Grace saw Lucien regarding her with a somber gaze and wasn't sure who she was angriest at. Through his silence, he had opened her up to this humiliation, left her defenseless.

She needed to be alone, but she wouldn't give Cassandra the satisfaction of excusing herself.

Instead, she went to fetch a large work basket she always kept at the ready, determined to keep her hands busy as the Harcourts attempted to make awkward conversation.

"What are you working on?" Penelope asked with a kind of desperate cheerfulness.

"I am making Christmas gifts for the factory children who go to our school on Sunday."

"Perhaps we could help while the men discuss business," Penelope offered. "I know Simon had some questions about the estate he wanted to ask Lucien."

"Of course," Grace said as Lucien gave her one last, heavy look, then left the room with his brother.

As she laid the pieces of the project out on the table, Penelope murmured, "I am so…so…sorry. I had no idea what Cassandra planned."

Grace forced back tears. "I suppose I was looking forward to more time with my family so near Everdene. I thought…"

What? That she could change Lucien? That there was some sort of miracle unfolding between them and she understood Lucien better than the family that had known him all his life?

But they'd known him before , a stubborn voice insisted inside her. He had made that promise to Cassandra before Sibby Rose and the riot. Before he had begun spending entire nights in Grace's bed, before she'd awakened to that awed expression on his face…before she'd felt the spark of new life inside her. A wave of fierce protectiveness overwhelmed her.

What was real? What was not?

And what would happen when she told Lucien that she was carrying his child?

Lucien would never forget the expression on Grace's face—shock, disbelief. He'd felt sick when Cassandra delivered her verbal riposte, dealing a wound he had known would come when he did not confess the truth himself. Why the devil hadn't he done so, those times when he'd come so close to admitting what he'd done? Trusting that they would work through it?

Grace looked so vulnerable when she'd turned to him after Cassandra's revelation, obviously hoping that he would make things better…And then her belief in him had changed to hurt and betrayal as the truth sank in.

He had wanted to gather her into his arms, try to explain…he would, God curse it, as soon as he was able to get her alone. He walked into the study with its scent of beeswax and leather, the scent of Arkwright's cheroots. What little time he had spent at the townhouse in the past, he'd spent here, before Grace had made Raven's Court something he'd never expected. A home.

"What was that all about?" Simon asked.

For a moment, Lucien wanted to end the conversation before it started. Instead, he poured them each a brandy from the decanter on a nearby table and handed a glass to Simon.

"After the picnic at The Willows, Grace came to me. She had made a promise to her brothers after their mother died. Swore she'd never leave them."

He could see the flicker of understanding in Simon's face, both of them remembering those dark days when their mother and sisters had vanished and they'd only had each other.

"Lord Elliot was determined to marry Grace off to some friend of the stepmother who lives in Scotland. Clear the way for his new wife. Grace said we could help each other. If we married, she would be my political hostess and provide me with an heir. I would ensure that she could live at Everdene and keep her vow to her brothers."

Simon regarded him with that damnable patience he'd acquired in the past two years, just waiting for Lucien to go on.

"Just before Grace and I became betrothed, I tried to make amends to Cassandra. Told her I had been wrong in siding with Father all those years ago. I could not change the pain I had caused, but I would do whatever I could to make things right. Her price—that I never live at Everdene again."

Simon turned the snifter in his hand. "You didn't tell Grace what you had agreed to."

"No. From the first it was to be a marriage of convenience. I made it clear I would provide financially for her and a child, but I was not interested in being involved beyond that. I told myself the agreement with Cass changed nothing. I didn't expect…"

"Didn't expect what?" Simon asked quietly.

Lucien crossed to the window, braced his arm against its frame. He peered out into the street.

A ragged boy ran through the gate toward the servant's entrance, a parcel gripped in his hands. Once Lucien would not even have noticed, but now he wondered. Was it some delivery for the charity event or one of Grace's school children?

How could he begin to explain how she had changed him?

"I didn't expect to love her," he confessed in a low voice.

"But that is wonderful!" Simon exclaimed.

"Is it? Since she's been my wife, she's had bricks thrown at her, been caught in a riot. The people who made those attacks were trying to get at me. Even this entertainment she is giving on Wednesday has become a target for my rivals. Pinchbeck's wife is determined to make it a failure if she can."

"Then we will make certain it is a roaring success."

He turned to Simon. "You know as well as I do that I am not the husband she needs."

"That is for Grace to decide. I saw the way she looks at you."

He remembered just that morning as he'd left with Arkwright, the softness in her face, the strength, the love. Jesus, God, the love…

A lump formed in his throat.

"Tell her, Luce. Tell her you love her. Explain what happened with Cass. Grace has such a loving heart, she will understand."

She would. He knew it. So much compassion, kindness, so much love directed at him was a miracle…yet terrifying.

A soft scratch at the door made Lucien straighten, wiping any emotion from his face. "Enter."

The door slid soundlessly open, a footman hovering uncomfortably on the threshold, something in his hands. "My apologies, my lord. A young lad just delivered this. Insisted that I put it directly into your hands and that you open it at once. There was something about the lad's face. I thought it best to do as he asked."

Lucien frowned, remembering the boy he had seen running up the walk. He took the small bundle. "Thank you."

The servant bowed then left the room.

Lucien crossed to his desk and set the package down. It was wrapped in some kind of newsprint with a caricature of lords lashing a skeletal worker with their whip. A note was tucked under the string tied around it. He slipped it free, reading the words in blotted ink.

Spark to flame,

flame to powder,

lay waste what was,

new world order…

"What is it?" Simon asked.

"Another warning." Lucien handed Simon the note. "At least they didn't break a window this time."

"What is in the package?"

Lucien carefully peeled back the crumpled newsprint.

His pulse stuttered, ice flooding his veins as he recognized what lay inside.

Grace's battered toy soldier.

Lucien wanted to throttle someone. He had all but terrified the footman, demanding the description of the lad who had delivered the package. He and Simon had searched the nearby area with the servant in tow. But there were swarms of delivery boys thronging the streets of London, all but invisible in their worn coats with hats pulled low over their faces. In the end he had known it was futile. The lad had melted into the crowds.

There was nothing to do but break the news to Grace.

Windblown and frustrated, he and Simon returned to the parlor. Lucien's chest felt too tight as he surveyed the room where he and Grace had spent such warm, pleasant hours.

The women were industriously gathering groups of pages between covers of bright calico and stitching them in place. Lucien noticed for the first time that the pictures contained a tin soldier amidst various adventures. Stranded on a lily pad, sailing in a toy boat, facing down a fierce cat and defending some little mice in waistcoats or frilly bonnets.

Grace, offering children whose lives were bleak a glimpse of something whimsical. The thought that some cowardly bastard threatened to put that light out filled him with rage.

"We have had a change in plans," he said so gruffly the women all looked up, startled. "You will all stay at Raven's Court until the charity event is over."

Cassandra looked decidedly uncomfortable. "But I thought we agreed?—"

"There has been an incident."

"What happened?" Grace rose and Lucien reached into the pocket of his coat, the toy soldier all but lost in his hand. Slowly he opened his fingers, showing it cradled against his palm.

"Lord Admiral Nelson!" Grace cried, so pleased Lucien winced. "Wherever did you find him?"

"It arrived today in a package with this."

He handed her the note, watched as the color drained from her face. The other women gathered around, reading over her shoulder with worried frowns. Even Cassandra seemed stricken.

Simon lay a comforting hand on his wife's back. "We'll go to the hotel now. Gather our things and return in the morning."

Lucien barely registered what was going on around him as the women said goodbye. When the last skirt had disappeared into the dark interior of the coach, Simon paused and turned to Lucien. "I am going to send word to McLeod. Have him come to London to help with the search for whoever is making these threats. There is no man I trust more."

Lucien swallowed hard. "I am in your debt."

"We're family. We will find these bastards and put an end to this together."

Lucien watched his brother climb up into the equipage and the horses swing out onto the road. Somewhere, in those streets, an enemy was waiting. An enemy who had targeted Grace because of him.

He turned and reentered the townhouse where Grace was already bustling around, giving orders to servants, her face taut.

He stared for a moment at the note laying there amid the innocent drawings, then ordered up his hat and cloak, fury he'd suppressed since boyhood pouring through him.

He would hurl all the power of the Harcourt name against whoever was threatening Grace. Use any method to find them.

And when he did he would kill them.