Chapter Thirty

The Duke's London House…

The next morning…

Grace scrunched her face. Something tickled the end of her nose. She opened her eyes. Above her, looking down, was Ambrose, who was tickling her with a feather from her pillow.

"Good morning," he said when she smiled.

"Hmmmm…morning," she responded in kind, then chuckled at the yawn that escaped her. "What time is it?"

"Almost ten."

"Almost ten? Goodness, I've slept for eleven hours."

She sat up and attempted to rub the sleep from her eyes. Ambrose reached over and picked up a cup from the table. He wafted it beneath her nose. The smell of hot chocolate titillated her senses.

"Hmmmm…chocolate in bed? A lady could get used to this." She took the cup from him. He blew on it before handing it over.

After a few sips, while Ambrose just sat there watching her, she placed the cup on her bedside table, folded her hands in her lap, and said, "Right. Tell me what happened." Ambrose sat back against the footboard.

"I'm afraid I have some rather unpleasant news. Your uncle was murdered last night."

"Murdered? By who?"

"We don't know. A cloaked figure shot him through the window and ran off. Bow

Street is looking into the matter."

"And Aunt Mary? How are the girls?"

"The girls were still sleeping when I left. Your Aunt Mary felt it best to wait and tell them in the morning. As for your Aunt Mary? Well, she seemed surprisingly glad, actually. She took to weeping at first, then began laughing hysterically. It was all rather odd and uncomfortable, to be honest."

"Really? Well, that is certainly unexpected. Laughing, you say?"

"Yes—in fits and giggles, then outright guffaws. A few of the runners had difficulty controlling their mirth, despite the grave circumstances. Apparently, it was catching."

"Strange. So what happens now? Does this mean Aunt Mary and the girls are safe or are they still at risk of losing everything once the evidence comes out?"

"Well, funny you should ask that. I mean, yes, if the evidence of your uncle's activities were to come to light, his property—the money, houses—would all be forfeit despite the fact that he is deceased, but it seems that in all the confusion last night, the evidence has disappeared."

"Disappeared?"

"Yes, disappeared…Unexpectedly, I might add."

"How could it just disappear?"

"I don't know. I gave the papers to Dansbury. He said he gave them to me. But we both looked, checked all our pockets…and…well…nothing."

She jumped up and threw her arms around him, her love.

"You would do this for me?"

"Darling, I have no idea what you are implying, but yes, I would do anything for you."

He kissed her. And it felt good. It felt wonderful.

He was just beginning to nuzzle and kiss her neck, when she pushed him away and asked, "What about Beatryce?"

"Beatryce and Dansbury are readying to leave town. She still might be in danger. It seems she was right in that someone else is involved, but none of the evidence we found in your uncle's study gives us a single clue. Everyone mentioned by name is already dead, so for now, she will remain in hiding; your aunt will be putting it about that she is visiting family on the continent. Beatryce will be safe with Dansbury—if they don't kill each other first."

They both laughed at the thought.

"Why aren't Aunt Mary and the girls in danger, too? If Beatryce is in trouble…"

"They clearly know nothing. I'm not worried. Now, enough about murder and mayhem. Where were we?"

"I believe, Your Grace, you were about to ask me to marry you."

Ambrose, who had been leaning in for another kiss, froze, his lips still puckered. He pulled back and cocked his head.

"What did you say?"

"I said, I believe, Your Grace, you were about to ask me to marry you."

He grabbed her hands and slid to his knees on the steps to the bed. "Well, we wouldn't want people to think I ever denied a lady anything, now would we?"

He cleared his throat. "Miss Grace Radclyffe, proprietress of fashion, voice for the less fortunate, and the love of my life, will you marry me?"

"Yes. Yes. YES!" she yelled and pulled him into her arms.

The door to her room burst open, and Bessie and Aunt Harriett practically fell into the room.

"Congratulations," they both shouted.

"It's about time; thought I was going to have to beat some sense into the both of you," added Aunt Harriett.

"My," Grace said, startled by the unexpected intrusion, "were you listening at the door?"

"No…" said Bessie.

"Of course," said Aunt Harriett at the same time. "What kind of guardian would I be if I allowed my ward and my nephew alone in her bedroom without putting my eye to the key hole to make sure no shenanigans were going on? Had you made any further advances on her, young man, I would have marched right in and boxed your ears, boy, and don't you doubt it for a moment."

"I would never doubt you for a moment, Auntie, I swear."

"Now," she continued, "since Grace is officially in mourning, and I know that neither of you want to wait, Bessie and I have seen to the packing of a small valise for the both of you so you can head off to Gretna immediately. No sense in wasting a moment, I say."

Ambrose laughed and looked at Grace. "What say you, love? Fancy throwing convention completely to the wind and running away with me? I'm willing if you are."

Grace's ensuing smile was brighter than the sun. "Why not? Let's start off as we mean to go on. Let's set the ton's tongues wagging."

And that's how Grace Radclyffe, fashion designer, dress maker and voice for the less fortunate, started her unconventional life as the 10th Duchess of Stonebridge.