Chapter Fourteen

Grace didn’t move for a few appalled seconds. Her embarrassment was such that she wondered if she should simply lie there until someone came to take her to her bed where she would remain until she was at least ninety.

“The first rule of the ton my dear, if you’re going to cause a scene, make sure you do it with style.” Grace looked up at the owner of the authoritative, if slightly dry, voice to her side.

“I should think you have sustained a fractured ankle at the very least,” the diminutive lady continued, her voice now firm and confident. “The rug in question is very clearly a hazard and should be removed forthwith.”

Grace managed to get to her knees, giving a small apologetic smile up at Bailey who was hovering anxiously at her other side, before turning back to the lady still regarding her quizzically.

“I fear it wasn’t this particular rug at fault madam, but rather my penchant for tripping up on any and all possible obstacles, however large or small they may be.”

“I think perhaps my version of events is much better, my dear,” the lady, who could only be Miss Beaumont, argued.

Climbing to her feet, Grace smiled ruefully. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at telling untruths.”

“Then the members of the ton will surely eat you alive, your grace.”

Blinking at her guest’s cutting assessment of her peers, Grace finally endeavoured to gather her wits and remember her manners. “Please be seated, Miss Beaumont. It was not my intention to prove just how much I need taking in hand, at least not on our first acquaintance. Mrs Jenks will bring us some tea shortly.”

Miss Beaumont gave a snort of laughter. “Well you certainly have wit girl, but that may not be enough to carry you through the snide comments and the malicious gossip that is most likely even now circulating the drawing rooms of London.”

Grace’s response was delayed as Mrs Jenks brought in a tray of tea and tiny cucumber sandwiches. Grace smiled up at the housekeeper in thanks, before eying the sandwiches, thinking they would be very unlikely to keep her stomach from complaining until supper. However, she gave no indication of her concern and managed to perform her duties as a hostess with the necessary aplomb, resulting in Miss Beaumont nodding her head approvingly.

Feeling a little more comfortable with the small though clearly formidable lady sitting opposite, Grace took a deep breath, deciding to voice her concerns.

“May I ask you a question, Miss Beaumont?”

“Felicity, please, your grace, and most certainly.”

“The gossip you speak of. Is that why we have received no callers?”

Her companion shook her head, taking a sip of her tea. “Very unlikely my dear. If anything, the juicier the on-dit, the more likely your front door will need replacing by the end of the season. No, your grace, the most likely reason you have yet to receive any callers is simply because there are hardly any ladies of your equal rank. They will no doubt be waiting breathlessly for you to call on them first. Of course, that will not happen until after you have made your formal bow.” Miss Beaumont paused and frowned slightly, placing her teacup down and partaking of a cucumber triangle.

“Under normal circumstances, I pay no heed to gossip -malicious or otherwise, but in this instance, I believe it may be of use to know what is being said, and I will therefore endeavour to find out what I can – discreetly of course.”

“I am very much obliged,” Grace responded with relief. “I think we shall deal very well together, Felicity.”

“That is certainly my hope, your grace…”

“Just Grace, please.”

Miss Beaumont nodded in acknowledgement, giving a slight smile.

Grace smiled back, clapping her hands in delight.

“Well then, my dear, if we are to whip you into shape, there is certainly no time like the present. Pray remember that showing any overt enthusiasm, no matter how fortuitous the information you are receiving, is considered very bad form within the ton . That, more than anything else will focus attention on both your background and lack of breeding.

“And Grace, it will make not one jot of difference that your husband is a Duke if the ton collectively decides to hold you in contempt.”

Grace stared at her new mentor in trepidation. “But surely not everyone would give us the cut direct. Why you yourself Felicity stated not a few moments ago that you personally pay no heed to gossip.”

Miss Beaumont shook her head sadly. “People like me do not count my dear. We are simply invisible to those who set the rules. My advice would be to listen and pay heed to my advice without intimating whence it came.”

Grace frowned. “You are painting a very bleak picture of the members of London’s Fashionable Society. I cannot help but wonder whether it might behove me to simply return to Devonshire and therefore avoid any prospect of irreparably ruining the Sinclair name.”

“Unfortunately, that in itself would be enough to feed the gossipmongers, my dear,” Felicity responded with a rueful smile. “For good or ill, you married into one of England’s highest-ranking families, and the ton will have their pound of flesh. No Grace, our best course of action is to ensure that you are a success when making your formal bow. Then, and only then should you still wish it, you may return to the wilds of Devonshire with both the Sinclair name and your own reputation intact.”

∞∞∞

Nicholas wondered whether he had been completely beef witted in leaving Grace to form her own opinion of Miss Beaumont. It clearly flew in the face of everything he’d been taught. But therein lay the rub. Nicholas was determined he would not be as his father. Truth be told, his thoughts were turning more and more to his wife. In day to day matters, he found himself wondering what Grace would think in each situation, what she would do. He’d sworn he would never allow himself to get close to another human being after losing both his brother and his son, but despite his efforts to keep his distance, Nicholas feared he was becoming entirely too comfortable with her presence. And even more disconcerting, he found himself wanting to make her happy - and not just in the bedroom.

Frowning, he looked down at the accounts he was working on. His father had left the Sinclair finances in a very healthy position, but the current state of the townhouse indicated just how miserly he had become in his latter years .

The Sinclair London abode had urgent need of improvement. Nicholas had ensured its smooth running by substantially increasing the number of servants under its roof, but the furnishings remained dark and dreary no matter how much they were cleaned and polished. Nicholas had no interest in choosing their replacement apart from removing the overpowering imprint of his father which seemed to permeate everything.

Of a sudden, he wondered whether Grace would consider staying in London beyond the end of the Season to oversee any renovations while he returned to Blackmore. Surely she would enjoy shopping for the latest fripperies. If he could persuade her to do so, he would be killing two birds with one stone in eradicating the uncomfortable presence of the old Duke and distancing himself from his wife’s allure.

Putting his seal on the last document with a flourish, the current Duke of Blackmore did not stop to wonder why his perfect solution didn’t make him feel happier.

∞∞∞

The Reverend Shackleford couldn’t help wondering whether his current troubles had been sent by the Almighty to test him. Frowning into his ale tankard, he shook his head sadly. He had always been on such good terms with God. He worked tirelessly for the good of his congregation and his family. Why the church coffers were healthier than they’d been in a decade, and he had not only secured his eldest daughter an incomparable match but done his utmost to ensure she didn’t make a complete cake of herself and ruin them all in the process.

Sighing, he took a sip of his ale before finally admitting to himself that his plan to kidnap Grace had not been one of his better ideas. Percy, usually his loyal companion, had spent most of the last two weeks on his knees. The Reverend had finally only put his foot down when his curate requested a hair shirt. He would never have believed that Percy would turn out to be such a chucklehead.

The problem was Percy Noon was the Reverend’s sole confidant - apart from his Creator, and there were some things it did not behove a vicar to chat with the Almighty about. Kidnapping and the resulting Devil’s own scrape being one of them. It was clear that his curate was wallowing in the very depths of remorse over their escapade, which was all very well, but Percy’s regret didn’t solve the problem of potential repercussions.

In particular, the fact that they had been spied upon by the little varmint who’d brought the Duke’s original letter to the door. Now the rapscallion was demanding a whole shilling to keep his mouth shut.

If the Good Lord did not frown on murder, the Reverend would be sorely tempted.

As it was, for possibly the first time ever, he was at a loss as to what to do. And without Percy, he had no one with whom to formulate a plan. Gloomily, he stared down into the depths of his ale. There was no getting away from it, he’d made a mull of the whole thing, and now the Almighty was punishing him.

“Now then sir, it’s not often I get to see a man of the cloth in such a fit of the blue-devils. Allow me to procure you another ale, and if you have a mind, partake of some lively conversation to lift your spirits.”

Startled, the Reverend looked up at the large jovial-sounding individual standing in front of him. The candlelight in the Red Lion was only sufficient for him to receive a vague impression, and under more usual circumstances, he would have sent the presumptuous fellow on his way.

However, on this occasion, three things conspired to ensure Augustus Shackleford’s ruin. The first being the fact that he was sorely in need of a sympathetic ear; the second that Freddy, who could spot an ivory tuner from twenty yards away, had unusually remained at home; and thirdly, the Reverend didn’t have enough coin in his pocket for another pint.