Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

N ever, in his wildest imaginings, did Lucien conceive he'd arrive at Everdene Hall atop a cart full of cabbages. He sat on the hard bench seat beside a farmer who smelled strongly of garlic and sweat, watching the rumps of weary shire horses as they plodded along.

He supposed he should be grateful the man had picked him up at all, since he looked like some unwary traveler who had been set upon by brigands. As it was, one stern glance had put an end to any questions the farmer might have ventured about his identity. The last thing Lucien needed was for word to spread that the fastidious Viscount Everdene had been seen in such a condition. He could just picture Cruikshank's next cartoon.

The wet stockings in his boots had rubbed his heels raw, his sodden breeches chafed, and the indignity of the entire situation felt like pouring whiskey over a wound.

Grace Elliot.

The expression on her face when she'd recognized him might have been amusing in any other situation. Those large, green eyes rounded with horror, her nose, sprinkled with cinnamon freckles. And that berry-red mouth falling open. Even as a child, she had been a calamity waiting to happen. If possible, the years had only made her behavior worse. And now she had accomplices. No rookery in the Seven Dials could have given rise to a more devilish gang.

The two smaller lads had taken steps back in the face of Lucien's outrage, but the eldest had met his most blistering glare with sheer defiance. And Lady Grace…she'd sprung between them like a lioness, shoulders squared, hand splayed on his chest.

He'd felt the wildness in that touch, something primitive, infuriating and irresistible that made him want…what? To haul her against him again, feel that unexpected heat.

Of all the distractions he didn't need right now…or perhaps it was exactly what he did need as the cart neared the drive that led up the hill to Everdene Hall. To think of anything but the reunion with his sisters.

The cart rolled to a halt at the foot of the tree-lined lane, the farmer nodding to his passenger. "Whatever business ye have at the manor, Captain Harcourt will take care of ye. A war hero, he is, and the best of men. Built a village finer than any ye've ever seen."

One Lucien was still trying to pay for during a time when too many English landowners were barely keeping their estates afloat.

"Aye," the farmer continued. "It'd be best for everyone in this borough if he was to be the earl, 'stead of that brother o' his. Viscount Starch-In-His-Smallclothes."

The muscles in Lucien's face tightened. Obviously, the farmer had no idea who he was speaking to. Lucien leapt to the ground, his boots giving an inelegant squishing sound. He pulled a sovereign from his rumpled coat's pocket, narrowing his eyes. "In the interest of quelling rumors," he said, placing the gold coin in the farmer's callused hand, "I don't require starch in my smallclothes. Only in my cravats."

The man's Adam's apple bobbed as he looked from the coin to Lucien. "Yer—yer pardon, yer lordship," he managed. "I didn't—it's just what other people say…Me wife is always warnin' me I shouldn't run off my mouth t' strangers."

"A wise woman."

"Aye. May Gor' bless ye with such a fine wife one day. I can drive ye the rest o' the way up to the house, yer lordship. I'd be honored."

Lucien glanced at the cabbages, then shuddered inwardly at the thought of being seen in such proximity. "I'll walk."

Hopefully, he could slip through a rear entrance without anyone being the wiser. Hooking one finger in the collar of his coat, he slung the crumpled garment over one shoulder then strode up the lane, the farmer's jabbered apologies following him until the sloshing of his boots and the pounding headache behind his eyes drowned out all sound.

Over the years, he'd been forced to visit the estate more often than anyone in his family, conducting business affairs long before Simon had built his stable here. During all that time, Lucien had refused to acknowledge the tightening in his gut whenever he first glimpsed the red brick towers and creamy gold columns of the Tudor era county seat. Echoes of sins past…

But today's arrival was different. He ground his teeth as he saw two horsemen in front of the sweeping stairs that led to the grand front door. Simon sat astride his cavalry mount, Brutus, while Simon's best friend and partner in the stables, Jamie MacLeod, rode a golden mare. Lucien's own winded gelding stood nearby, a village lad holding its reins.

A cluster of women looked on. Lucien didn't need to draw nearer to know who they were.

Simon's wife, Penelope, their small son, Christopher, called Kit, in her arms, and two other women, something achingly familiar about their golden curls. His sisters. One of them pointed down the lane.

Simon's gaze lit on Lucien and he froze, then swung down from the saddle, passing the reins to the village lad. It was the longest walk of Lucien's life, striding toward them, the dried mud on his body cracking, sticking cloth to his body. He reeked of lake water and fish.

Lucien's jaw knotted as everyone stared at him.

He'd been bracing for this meeting with his sisters like a man anticipating the surgeon's knife. When last he'd seen them, Cassandra had been fifteen, Jane twelve. They had been girls. Now they were women. Cassandra had grown, tall, the fine bones of her face reminding him of a cat, her eyes tip-tilted and keen. An edge sharpened her beauty, as if to remind the world that she had claws sheathed beneath velvet.

Jane was her opposite, delicate and ethereal in a petal-pink frock. She stood just a little behind Cassandra, regarding him with the wide, wary eyes of a shy, woodland creature.

Simon's voice jolted him out of his thoughts. "Luce…We were just about to go out looking for you," he said. "What the devil happened? Tripp found Atlas running loose and brought him here."

What could Lucien say? I dove into a lake to save a woman who didn't need saving? I was duped by three boys bent on deviltry? I made a fool of myself and ended up with a nearly nude woman in my arms? And, by the way, did you know that that scrawny Grace Elliot has the most lush breasts I've ever felt?

He cleared his throat, trying to banish that last thought from his mind. "A minor mishap," he said with a wave of his hand. "Don't mind it." He did his best to attempt a somewhat cordial look toward his sisters. "Cassandra, Jane, perhaps we could postpone our greetings until I'm properly attired. This is hardly the way I intended our first meeting to go."

Cassandra looked from the top of his damp hair to his sodden boots. "I don't know. I rather like it. Considering how long I've been waiting to see you again, brother, it seems somewhat fitting, don't you think? After all, we left Everdene precipitously, and, if I recall…we didn't get to properly say goodbye."

The spark of satisfaction in her smile stung.

"We did not," he said, sketching his sisters a bow, only then aware of another figure in the shadows.

Cassandra beckoned the woman forward. "Paola, this is the brother I told you about. Lucien, my maid, Paola Vincenci. She has been kind enough to accompany me through all of my adventures."

The hot suns of Italy had turned the woman's complexion olive, her hair thick and black. Her nose was a trifle hawk-like, but what struck him most was the silken patch that covered her left eye, the ribbon that held it in place scarlet. Her remaining eye narrowed until it glittered like a sliver of jet.

"I am in your debt for seeing my sisters safely to England," he told the woman, then turned to his family. "I will see you all at dinner."

"Perfect," Cassandra said. "That will give us the opportunity to discuss guests for the dinner our dear Simon's wife is being gracious enough to host for us on Friday."

Penelope's cheeks flushed as she looked at Lucien. "I thought it would be nice to have some old acquaintances to welcome Cassandra and Jane home, if you've no objection."

"Everdene Hall is yours in all but name now. I urge you to do as you wish." They'd had a rocky beginning to their relationship when Simon first courted her, complete with threats Lucien had issued to Simon's future wife in an effort to keep family secrets hidden. Things were better between them, but there was still a distance he could not quite bridge. If the estate hadn't been entailed, Lucien would have signed it over to his brother in a heartbeat. Payment for grief caused.

Penelope regarded Lucien's cheek with a worried expression, the babe in her arms tugging at the bodice of her gown. "There is a cut on your face."

"I'm fine," Lucien answered more sharply than he intended. The babe started to cry and Lucien felt like a right bastard. He resisted the urge to reach out, touch his nephew's small back. Lucien's hand was filthy. Better to let people who knew how to soothe a child comfort him. Eight-month-old Kit had plenty of those.

Thank God, a voice buried deep in him whispered.

He turned and walked through the front door, one wave of his hand sending servants running to heat bath water and bring him brandy. Then leave him alone.

The house grew eerily quiet as Grace put her brothers to bed. The staff was exhausted from preparing for the luncheon and the drama afterwards. The boys, scrubbed until they were pink-skinned from their baths, snuggled into their beds, their hair soft and silky against their pillows, their nightshirts smelling fresh from the wash.

They looked like little cherubs, Bennet's arm clutched around a stuffed horse, Admiral Nelson on the bedside table to stand guard against any nightmare that might creep in. Grace could only hope the toad was still confined in a bucket somewhere.

"Grace?" Bennet caught her hand as she bent down to kiss his forehead, his voice so soft, tentative.

"What is it, sweeting?"

She heard his breath hitch. "Promise you won't leave us 'cause we're wicked."

Her heart squeezed. How many times had her littlest brother begged her for just such a promise? "You aren't wicked," she soothed. "You're just full of high spirits. You must make amends for what happened today like an honorable gentleman, but I know that you will. And there is nothing you could ever do that would make me stop loving you."

"Mama left us." Bennet's brow furrowed. "Promise you'll never leave us like mama did."

She wanted to promise him the world, anything to drive back that haunted curve to his mouth, a grief no child should bear. And yet, she measured her words with care. "Sometimes things happen we can't control. Mama was sick. She didn't want to leave you. I promise I'll stay as close as I can, and I'll always be with you in my heart."

She sat beside him, his small, warm hand in hers until his breath softened, steadied, his fingers relaxing in sleep. Gently, she tucked the coverlet up to his chin and brushed a kiss across his brow.

Drawing a deep breath, she went down to the dining room to face her father and Helen. As she entered the room, she saw her father at the table, only two places set, just as it had been before Helen had come along. She felt a twinge of wistfulness.

"Helen is not joining us?" Grace asked as she slid into her chair.

"No." There was something unnerving about that single word. She braced herself, sensing they were on unsteady ground, a new tension showing in her father's brown eyes.

Grace sipped watered wine from a crystal goblet. "Papa, I know the boys made a mess of things. I promise, I will take the situation in hand."

He gazed at her tenderly, a little sadly. "My dearest girl, you have carried far too much responsibility on your young shoulders for too long. You have been invaluable to me and to your brothers during your precious mama's illness, and our grief after her passing, something for which I will be eternally grateful. But I have not been entirely fair to you."

"Not at all! I?—"

He cut her off with a wave of his hand. "Helen has helped me to see that harsh truth. You were in the midst of your first season when your mother became ill. I'll never forget your delight, the two of you planning beautiful gowns, chattering about balls and beaus for half the night through."

Grace's eyes misted. How many times had she sifted through memories of those magical days. Visiting modiste's shops, receiving nosegays and invitations. That heart-pounding moment when the dance partner she longed for approached from across the room. She could see herself garbed in a rose-pink gown, feel Mama's hand brush back a curl that tumbled across her brow. Oh, my beautiful girl. Look at you! You are perfect.

Her mother had been the only one to think so.

She tucked the memory away.

"All of us changed our plans once we knew Mama hadn't much time left," Grace said. "The little boys didn't go off to school."

Papa shook his head. "That is not the same. Were it not for us, you would have married Neville Freyne and likely be a mother by now."

She had a vague memory of an earnest face, waves of golden hair, the cool slide of a ring on her finger. "Papa, please don't blame yourself. I wouldn't change it."

"Perhaps not, my dear, but I would. In your mother's absence, everyone here at The Willows has looked to you for guidance. The servants. Your brothers. They continue to do so. It is unfair to you and…," he hesitated, "to Helen, as my wife."

Grace couldn't quell the resentment that sparked in her chest.

"It is time for you to go back out into the world," her father said. "I've discussed it with Helen, and you will go to London for the season. You shall have a whole new wardrobe, enter the social whirl as you should have done. Most importantly, Helen has a young man in mind for you to meet, a cousin she thinks would suit you. He owns an estate near Inverness."

Her gaze sprang up to meet her father's. "In Scotland? But that's so very far away."

"It is. But I've heard it's lovely there."

A wave of bitterness washed over her. Will's warning before the ill-fated trip to the lake echoed in her ear.

If Helen has her way, she'll marry the two of us off and send the wee boys away to school…

She recalled the clasp of Bennet's hand, his pleading gaze as he begged for her promise. She stared at her father, feeling betrayed.

Was it true what Will had predicted? Would their father send his children away from the home they'd always known? Be relieved when they were gone?

I have to think of something to stop this …Grace thought, her heart squeezing. Mama, what can I do?