Chapter 35

CHAPTER 35

L ucien hadn't had time to say goodbye.

The harsh reality crowded in on Grace as she paced the ballroom, the crumpled note Cassandra had given her still clutched in her hand. It seemed a cruel jest that the note that had plunged Lucien into danger had been written on a page from a Dickens novel.

A make-believe London Street wound about the room, just waiting for the actors to bring A Christmas Carol to life: Scrooge and Marley's Counting House, the merriment of Fezziwigs and the Cratchit's humble, yet love-filled home set like jewels in the tableaux.

Yet when the lamplighter set Penelope's clever streetlights aglow, there would be no cutthroats lurking in the shadows, no mysterious enemies hunting for prey. In the dangerous slums where Lucien was going, God only knew what peril could be waiting.

People will die …Tom O'Malley had warned.

She felt a touch on her back and wheeled around, startled. Simon stood behind her, his face red from the cold. "You're back!" she exclaimed.

"Just in time to hear that Lucien's gone."

She handed him the note and he read it. His mouth set grim. "It was a damn fool thing for him to go off to the Seven Dials alone. I am sure it has been a shock to you."

"A shock. Yes."

"You should sit down for a bit before the guests arrive," Simon said. "The stress isn't good for the baby."

Grace eyes widened in surprise. "Lucien told you?"

Simon grimaced. "No. Lucien told Cass before he left. Made her promise we would take care of you and the babe in case?—"

"He dies," Grace bit out, her stomach twisting.

"No one is more able to take care of himself than my brother," Simon attempted to soothe. "It's just—fatherhood is terrifying when you've had an upbringing like ours. You realize just how vulnerable your wife and child would be without you." He straightened one of the upturned barrels from which costumed vendors would serve refreshments once the guests arrived. "The moment the party is over, I swear I will find him."

Grace threw up her hands. "By then anything might have happened to him. You have to go after him now ."

"You know I cannot do that," Simon reasoned. "Lucien entrusted me with your safety."

"Who is going to keep him safe? Fight for him ?" Grace thumped her fist against Simon's chest. "No one ever has!"

Simon caught hold of her hands, his handsome face softening. "Until you."

"I am completely protected here, in my own home," she said fiercely. "I'm surrounded by family and you've posted guards around the premises. We know Lucien is riding into danger. Alone. Go to the Nolans', Simon. Help him." Tears filled her eyes. "He has a right to know his child. Lucien deserves this chance at happiness."

Simon's gaze locked with hers. Held. And she knew she had won.

"Happiness…," Simon breathed. "Yes, he does."

The tableaux seemed spun of magic, bringing Dickens' irresistible tale to life just as Grace had hoped it would. In the three hours since Simon had ridden after Lucien, Marley, decked in chains and cash boxes, confronted Scrooge. Bob Cratchit carried Tiny Tim on his shoulders. Ghosts of Christmas Past, Present and Yet To Come cast their ethereal spells, while carolers, vendors and shoppers laden with Christmas bundles wove amongst the guests, filling the chamber with music.

The lamplighter moved about the room, igniting the oil lamps Penelope had mounted on posts, the flames setting swaths of gilt-painted stars glittering.

Benches and chairs arranged at points around the room allowed guests to pause and listen to a selection from the story and drop coins into upturned top hats.

Yet despite the delight on the faces of her guests, it was hard for Grace to keep a smile on face. Her cheeks ached from the effort and she feared she might scream if one more person asked where Lucien was. But as Mrs. Camilla Aylcock swept toward her in a garish plaid silk gown, Grace was fairly certain her self-control was about to be put to the test.

"Wherever did you find these actors, Lady Everdene?" the baronet's wife gushed, waving her fan. "I vow, I'm tempted to stick them with pins to see if I can get them to break character. And the scenes you have created are quite exquisite."

"I hired the actors from a traveling troupe a friend recommended, and the painting was done by Lord Everdene's sister, Lady Cassandra," Grace said. "Captain Harcourt's wife helped with the structures and scenery."

"Did Mrs. Harcourt suggest positioning the barrels and kegs at different heights with the food spread upon them? It is quite effective!"

For a moment Grace's forced smile became real. "That was actually Lady Alice Pinchbeck's suggestion."

"Lady Pinchbeck's daughter?" Mrs. Aylcock scooped up a cup of ratafia from one of the keg tops she'd admired. "I own I am surprised she is even speaking to you. I must tell you, Lady Pinchbeck feels you are quite the bad influence and was most insistent that I not come here tonight. But I would not be deterred."

Nor would Alice, Grace thought warmly. Alice had turned up at the door of Raven's Court, windblown and defiant to apologize for her mother's ill behavior. When she had glimpsed plans for the party spread upon the table, Alice had added her own suggestions. I know just where I can find you the perfect kegs.

"You seem positively overrun with Harcourts, save one," Mrs. Aylcock said. "Where is the Elusive Lord Everdene?"

A chill ran through Grace and she stiffened her spine. "He was called away on some important business."

"What could be more important than the first event his bride has hosted?" the woman scoffed.

People dying …Grace bit off the words before she could say them out loud. "His lordship has many responsibilities."

"For your sake, I do hope this won't stir up gossip. My son confided that the wagers in Whites' betting book regarding who would trap Everdene into marriage have been amended. They are laying odds regarding how soon he will tire of his bride. Men can be so very wicked!"

Lady Downe frowned at Mrs. Aylcock from a seat on one of the benches, then rose and breezed over with a swish of her deep green skirts. "Truly dedicated Members of Parliament have no time for such trivial pursuits. One never knows when men like Lord Everdene and my husband will be called away to attend concerns of the crown. Committees to serve on, investigations to head. Why, the latest inquiry regarding public health…" She stopped and lay a hand on the Grace's sleeve with such tenderness her throat ached. "Suffice it to say, Lord Everdene is one of the hardest working men in the House of Lords. We will have a lovely evening despite his unfortunate absence tonight, and shall be able to do wonderful things for the school. Now, Mrs. Aylcock, perhaps you had best go to the retiring room. I fear you have spilled a bit of punch on your bodice, and silk stains abominably."

With a sour smile, Lady Downe steered Grace away, while Mrs. Aylcock examined her bodice for spots.

"That woman is a nightmare!" her ladyship huffed as she withdrew coins from her reticule and dropped them in a caroler's outstretched cap. "Pay her no heed. It is obvious to anyone who knows his lordship that marriage agrees with him. I have never seen Lord Everdene smile as much as he has these past months. Not since his mother disappeared. I do not think that the Harcourt children ever recovered from her absence all those years. I knew Countess Ravenscroft before her disappearance from society. She was as kind and gentle a soul as you ever saw."

"She still is." The countess had remained in the country, doing good works, but Jane was like an echo of her mother, Lucien's gentle sister quietly speaking to a young widow dressed in half-mourning. A group of actors outside Fezziwig's Warehouse invited guests to join a country dance and her ladyship went to join them.

Grace glanced nervously at the clock then paused to take a paper poke filled with treats from one of the street vendors, something about the man drawing her gaze.

His chin was buried in the knitted scarf that swathed his neck, his greatcoat a cheerful bottle green. Fingerless mitts concealed hands that trembled.

His station had been made to look like he was roasting chestnuts. Flames of red and orange silk topped one of the barrels, while the others held refreshments.

One would think the fire was really burning, the way sweat trickled down his temples.

Had he become overly warm? He was standing very near to a brace of streetlamps.

He caught Grace's eye and looked down quickly.

"I fear it is growing far too warm in here to be wearing so many layers of winter clothes," she said. "I am very sorry if you are uncomfortable."

"'Tis not so bad, my lady," he said in a lilting Irish accent. Perhaps that was why he seemed nervous. Few people were willing to hire the Irish, especially with the unrest in the streets.

"If you are feeling ill from the heat, you are welcome to take a few moments outside to cool…" Something in his expression stirred her memory and she regarded him more intently taking in his tip-tilted eyes, the shape of his mouth…

A muscle spasmed at the corner of his eye, and he shuffled his wares, knocking one of the pokes askew. He looked as if he expected her to have him hauled out by the scruff of his neck.

"I am sorry for staring," she said gently, "but you remind me of a drawing I saw. It's of a man we've been searching for. Darragh Nolan."

He jerked his head back an inch, the scarf slipping, revealing a crescent shaped scar on his chin. She gasped in wonder, seeing the truth flare in the man's eyes. "It is you, Darragh Nolan!"

At that moment, she heard a familiar voice from the far side of the room. Her heart leapt with relief.

Lucien stood at the door, still wearing his greatcoat. His hair was mussed, sharp cheeks red from cold. Beloved. Safe. He clapped his hands, as ever, taking command of the space. "Forgive my tardiness," he announced. "I have arranged a surprise for my wife. We will withdraw to the back garden at once. All of you. Guests, performers and staff as well. This will be an exhibition you will never forget."

Grace's heart thrilled and a wave of excitement rippled through the crowd. People began walking out the door.

She was moving between Darragh and the display just as his hand shot out toward the pole of the faux streetlamp. She lunged instinctively, jarring the barrels themselves as she caught the falling post before the glass lamp could crash down and shatter atop them.

"Oh, dear! That could have been—" She froze as stared at the barrel top. The silk flames had slid aside, revealing a sprinkling of dark powder and a coil of fuse disappearing into a knot hole. Grace gasped, looking up in horror. Nolan's eyes widened, white-rimmed, almost mad. Terror clutched at her chest.

In a heartbeat his arm snaked around her, pinning her arms to her sides. He dragged her against him, his muscles ropy cords made even stronger by his desperation.

She struggled to get free, oversetting a small barrel. Black powder spilled at their feet. She jolted him backwards, then realized her mistake. He reached through one of the false windows, grasping a branch of candles with his other hand.

"Don't do this!" she pleaded. "Darragh, we've been searching for you. Want to help you. You and Sibby Rose and Moira."

His gaze held hers, tortured in the light of the flickering flame.

"No one can help me now."