Chapter 25

CHAPTER 25

W hen the next morning dawned, Grace acted as though their strange conversation, and all its damning implications, had never happened. She greeted Frances with a smile and a kiss on the cheek and rose to get ready for the day.

"I'm not sure what's the worse options," she said, hands on her hips, standing in the room in Frances' spare chemise. "Wearing your spare dress, which won't fit a bit—" She gestured at the chemise which was dreadfully undersized for a girl of Grace's height. "—or wearing that awful dress." She looked over at the threadbare, colorless gown that she'd worn during her captivity.

"My dress is better," Frances said quietly, her shyness still holding her voice in its clutches.

Grace nodded smartly, then shot Frances that almost right smile over her shoulder, the one that was just strange enough to remind Frances of the oddity of their whole situation. "I think you're right. I shall look like a child in short skirts, but I suppose I'll survive."

The implication that she'd survived worse did not need mentioning.

Grace had looked frankly ridiculous in Frances' dress, her wrists and ankles poking out beneath the hem and the ends of the sleeves, the bosom gaping, as that was, apparently, the only place where Frances was larger than her friend. Frances had barely managed to get her friend laced into the garment when Evan knocked at the door. He took one look at his sister, then shot Frances a longer look with wider eyes.

"I'll be right back," he mumbled before shutting the door swiftly behind him again.

It was only then that it occurred to Frances that Grace was now wearing the dress that Evan had stripped from her two nights prior. She felt her cheeks burn and busied herself looking at anywhere but her friend.

This time, at least, Grace seemed not to notice, instead primping in the small mirror that came with the room.

"Goodness, I look like I've not eaten in a year," she muttered to herself. "No wonder he was shocked. And the freckles ."

The scandalized note in her voice as she pressed her fingertips to her cheeks was so pronounced that it shocked Frances out of her bashfulness. She wrapped her arms around her friend from behind, startling Grace.

Grace might be different, Frances thought as she embraced her friend, but weren't they all? Diana was a mother , for goodness' sake. Frances had been thinking about this all wrong. There was no Old Grace and New Grace, there was just Grace.

And, miracle of miracles, she was here.

The same maid from the day prior appeared at their door again a few minutes later, this time with a dress draped over her arm.

"Mr. Miller bought this for ye, miss," she said to Grace. "The vicar's wife is about your size, and she had a dress to spare." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "And Mr. Miller was very generous about it, between you and me." Her volume returned to normal. "So let me help ye into this and see if it's a better fit, aye?"

It was indeed a much better fit, and by the time the young maid left, looking pleased with her work, Grace was looking less like a child playing dress up and more like a proper young lady. The vicar's wife did not possess the wardrobe of a duke's daughter, of course, but the dress was respectable and well-made, the simple cotton elegant if a bit sturdier than a typical day dress for a daughter of the ton .

When Evan returned, he seemed to agree.

"Better," he pronounced.

"Thank you for your sartorial expertise, Mr. Miller ," Grace said archly as she swept past her brother, head held high. Evan shot another alarmed look toward Frances, who was helpless to do anything but shake her head.

They collected a basket of provisions from the innkeeper's son and climbed aboard Evan's carriage, the sleepy-eyed driver showing no sign that he noticed they were leaving with one more passenger than with which they'd arrived.

And then they were off.

The inn had scarcely faded into the distance when Grace clapped her hands together.

"Right," she said. "Tell me everything that has happened."

For the next two days, they did. Grace quizzed her brother and her friend on every detail, small and large, offering commentary on each anecdote.

"Wait, that tall, broody fellow you've long been friends with?" she'd asked, pointing at Evan, when discussing Emily's marriage.

"The same," he confirmed as Frances grinned.

"Please, please let me be nearby when you call Benedict ‘that tall, broody fellow,'" she pleaded.

She asked about Emily's sisters, whom she (somewhat affectionately) called ‘the terror twins.'

"Rose is married," Frances confided, which led Grace to shriek so loudly that Evan's hands flew to cover his ears.

"Certainly not!" Grace insisted, laughing. "Please tell me at least that Amanda is still terrorizing the populace."

"She has focused her efforts on terrorizing Emily's husband, but yes, she is. Benedict is properly horrified that he once aimed to marry Amanda."

"Oh my goodness, what?" Grace's laughter was bright, filling the carriage until Frances felt almost dizzy with happiness. "You must tell me every detail of that story immediately."

And so Frances did. She talked more than she'd ever talked in the whole of her life. Evan bore most of this with good humor, only breaking on the second day, when Grace demanded detailed explanations of how fashion had changed, down to the preferred number of flounces per gown.

"Stop!" he insisted, grinding his knuckles against his forehead. "Grace. Please. I beg you. You have to stop. You're driving me insane."

It was only then, when Evan spoke out in frustration, that Grace seemed to be her happiest, as if she'd needed some brotherly teasing to really feel like her wretched ordeal was over.

"Sorry you rescued me yet, Evan?" she teased, toying with the end of the braid she wore, as Frances hadn't brought enough hairpins for the both of them to wear proper coiffures.

"No," he said, glowering furiously even as a playful smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, ruining the effect. "But if you don't stop, I shall make you ride out front with the driver. Or strap you to the roof like you're a piece of luggage. See if I won't."

"Very well," said Grace solemnly. "I shan't talk about dresses anymore."

Evan looked suspicious. "Do you mean that?"

Grace pressed a hand to her heart. "I solemnly swear it."

Cautiously, Evan nodded. "Thank you," he said. He leaned back in his chair with the expression of a man who felt blessed to finally get to enjoy some much-needed silence.

Grace was quiet for perhaps ten seconds. Then she turned to Frances with a deliciously evil look on her face.

"Tell me, Frances," she said innocently. "How have coiffures changed since I've been gone?"

Evan's groan was loud and long enough to drown out both girls' laughter.

It was early on the third day when the rolling countryside gave way to more and more buildings, the green spaces gradually overwritten by houses and roads, until they were in London proper, then moving along the familiar streets of Mayfair.

For the first time since they'd found her in that awful mill, Grace's expression didn't flicker quickly away from the dark feelings that seemed to overtake her. Her expression grew increasingly anxious as the homes around them grew grander, her shoulders curving in on themselves.

Frances reached out and squeezed her friend's hand.

"You'll be great," she said softly when Grace turned to look at her. "Everyone will be so happy you're back."

Grace pursed her lips and nodded. "I know. I just…" Her grip grew tight on Frances' fingers. "It's different."

Frances didn't know what she could say to that. There was nothing that could help the fact that Grace had had three years stolen from her by a ridiculous madman. There were no words adequate to describe the unfairness of it all. So she just held Grace's hand, trying to look comforting and strong, even as she worried for her friend.

Frances should have, she realized soon after, been worrying about herself, too.

They hadn't been thinking clearly, any of them. The reality of Grace's return had made the rest of life seem pale and unimportant by comparison. That was the only reason Frances could divine for why she, Evan, and Grace entirely discounted the role of Frances' parents in all of this.

As soon as Evan's carriage drew in front of the Johnsons' family home, the Johnsons poured out of its front doors.

All of them. Frances' siblings included.

She'd been avoiding Evan's gaze for days now, unable to look too hard at him without worrying that Grace would see the truth of all they'd done together written on her face. Now, though, faced with the collective power of her family—even heavily pregnant Cordelia—Frances whipped around to look at him on instinct.

Careful, responsible Evan Miller looked like he'd been slapped square across the face.

"Frances," he said, voice low with horror. "I forgot…"

Frances squared her shoulders, hoping that making herself look brave helped her start to feel brave.

"It was my idea," she said firmly. "I made you take me with you. I can face them."

His expression shifted, a dark frown suggesting that he was cross with her for even thinking such a thing. Frances found she didn't mind. His being cross with her was familiar territory, one that felt far more manageable than the self-recriminating shock that had adorned his features a moment before.

"Don't be ridiculous, Frances," he snapped. "I got you into this mess. I'm not going to leave you alone in it."

"I don't think—" Frances began, but she was interrupted by her mother, who had begun hysterically shouting her name outside the carriage door.

"Frances? Frances! Come out here at once."

"Release my daughter, you scoundrel," growled her father.

"Good Lord," muttered Grace, sounding half worried, half entertained. "Scoundrel."

"Grace," Evan ordered, "stay here. Frances, you, too. Let me deal with this first."

He opened the door of the carriage and stepped down. Frances wondered if Evan ever got tired of having his instructions ignored, because she and Grace both immediately followed him.

He could only cast them a single sardonic glance before the Marquess of Reed seized him by the crumpled lapels of his travel-worn jacket and attempted to shove him back against the carriage. Evan, half a foot taller and at least a stone heavier, only moved back a half step from the force.

"What have you done with my daughter?" the marquess blustered.

"Frances!" her mother cried, throwing her arms around her daughter and dissolving into wracking sobs. "We thought you killed!"

"I left a note," Frances pointed out. This had no effect.

"What's wrong with you?" The marquess was still shouting. "I should call you out."

"No!" Frances exclaimed loudly as her father continued to ineffectively try to shove Evan about. Evan's commitment to standing and glaring was far more efficient.

"But it's worse than killed," the marchioness wailed. "You are ruined! Ruined!"

"That's not worse than killed," Grace pointed out reasonably. Nobody heeded her. Indeed, none of the Johnsons seemed to have noticed her.

"My lord," Evan said calmly when the marquess had to pause for breath. "If you will calm yourself, I would be happy to explain."

"Calm myself!" seethed Frances' father. "Calm myself!"

Behind the hubbub, Frances saw her brothers exchange a series of speaking glances. Moments later, Peter and George approached, each taking their father by one of his arms and guiding him gently back. Harry, looking rather exhausted by the whole thing, stepped into the vacated space.

"Listen," he said, seeming older than Frances had ever known him to look. "I plan to discuss matters with my sister. But I learn that you have laid an unwanted hand upon her, I will call you out. Mark me, Oackley."

Evan, in that perverse way that men had, seemed oddly pleased by this. "I would expect no less, Johnson," he said. "You know where to find me."

"Wait a minute," Grace demanded. "That's it? Evan, you cannot leave Frances with these people."

"They're her family," Evan protested.

Grace looked highly unimpressed by this logic.

"We'll look out for her," Harry added, which shocked Frances. She'd never heard such a strong word of support from her brother in her life. Indeed, even Cordelia seemed determined to come to her sister's aid for once. She approached their mother and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.

"Come, Mama," she urged. "People are watching."

This was, Frances noted with dismay, true. A woman in a dark veil eavesdropped while she pretended to tend to her small dog, which tugged at the leash, clearly irritated to have been stopped in this unaccustomed place on their walk. A well-dressed couple, meanwhile, had stopped in their tracks and weren't even attempting to hide what they were doing. The marchioness looked around in sudden dismay, her histrionics vanishing in a flash.

"Very well," she muttered. She stepped back, though she did reach out and clasp Frances' arm in an iron grip. "We'll discuss this inside."

The part of Frances' heart that was prone to shyness was eminently grateful for this decision. The idea of becoming a spectacle was nearly as agonizing to her as it was to her parents, merely because it would involve a great number of people looking at her.

The rest of her, however, those other parts of her heart where friendship and love lived, cringed at the idea of being separated from Evan and Grace. Her mother's impatient tugging, however, left Frances little choice. She could either follow her mother or risk losing the arm.

She had time enough to shoot only one glance behind her, time enough only to see Grace's pale, worried face…and Evan's grim, resigned expression.

They'd hardly reentered the bustle of carriages on the Mayfair streets when Evan's misery was interrupted by his sister kicking him swiftly in the shins.

"Ow!" he protested. "What was that for?"

His sister was glowering at him. "Are you an idiot?" she demanded.

Well, yes, probably, Evan thought inwardly—but he was not so out of practice at brotherly relations as to admit that to Grace. He'd never hear the bloody end of it if he did.

Instead, he rubbed his shin. "No," he muttered. Blast, she kicked hard. Had she always kicked this hard?

"Wrong," she said flatly. "Because only an idiot would have left poor Frances to those—those vultures ."

"They're her family ," he said again. He couldn't say he was overly fond of them, but one couldn't go around abducting anyone who had annoying relatives. Even a ducal house will fill up far too quickly.

Which, of course, brought him to another family issue.

"Besides," he continued. "I thought it perhaps best that she not be there when we get home."

Home . The word tasted wrong on his tongue. He hadn't lived at Graham Manor since shortly after his sister had disappeared, finding the echoing halls oppressively empty without Grace's presence to lighten them. And while he supposed that life did go on, even after tragedy, he'd been disgusted by the way his father had maintained his political career even in the wake of Grace's abduction.

Would he return now that Grace was back among them? He honestly didn't know. His bachelor lodgings had become a respite these past years, a place where he could trust his privacy, save for the once-daily arrival of the woman he hired to clean the place. He could not imagine leaving Grace, not so soon after he'd found her again, but nor could he imagine returning to the doubtful comforts of his family's house.

He had meant the comment to distract Grace from worrying over Frances, but he realized he'd done the thing too well as he saw the way his sister gnawed at her lip as she looked out the carriage window. She'd never had such a habit before.

"Mother and Father," she said after a long moment of silence. "What did they think happened?"

This was the first she'd asked about their parents, he realized with a jolt. She'd asked Frances about everything else about London life, but the Duke and Duchess of Graham were untouched topics.

"You must understand," he said gently, "that we all thought you'd been killed."

He didn't know why he felt compelled to cover up the truth, not when Grace knew their parents as well as he did. And, indeed, the duke and duchess had responded to tragedy as they responded to everything else: as partners in the consummate political marriage.

Members of the ton had breathlessly praised the duke and duchess for their bravery in soldiering on after their shining star of a daughter had disappeared. Members of Parliament, even those who had long butted heads with Evan's father, had poured into the house to offer their condolences and to offer whatever assistance they could in such painful times.

The duke had nodded, accepting these offers graciously. He'd looked grim and exhausted but determined. The duchess had spent weeks looking as though she were mere moments from fainting dead away.

But they'd gone on, even when Evan had felt as though his entire world had imploded. He knew that this was what a good, sturdy Englishman was supposed to do, of course. He was supposed to be like his father, the duke, and remain brave and reliable, no matter the adversity.

But it had made Evan sick.

Grace watched the expressions play out over his face with a keen understanding in her gaze. That, too, was somewhat new. His sister had never been thoughtless, but she'd never watched the reactions of others so closely. She'd been too confident of her place in the world.

She nodded. "I do understand," she said.

"I love you, Grace." The words came naturally, though Evan was not typically a man given to emotional pronouncements. He'd not been raised to it. He, too, was member of a political family; words, he'd learned, were tools—even weapons. They were to be mastered, not to be dropped carelessly or for something as trite as sentiment.

But this had to be said.

The expression on his sister's face softened. "I love you, too," she told him.

And then they were pulling up in front of Graham Manor.

It was practically comical, the way the smooth, practiced proceedings of well-trained servants fell into disarray as soon as they saw who was arriving. It started with a footman, who was poised to open the carriage door the moment the wheels came to a stop.

"Good afternoon, Lord Oackley," he said, pleasantly, having recognized the crest on Evan's carriage. "And—" The benign, polite look on his face dropped away into a look of openmouthed shock. "I—Lady Grace?" he gasped, looking as though he'd seen a ghost. Evan supposed this was fair enough. "Is that…really you?"

"Yes, hello," said Grace so cavalierly that it almost made Evan smile.

"I trust my parents are in residence?" he asked the footman, who was still staring.

"Ah, aye—I mean, yes, my lord," the man said, snapping himself back into his professional aspect. "Both His Grace and Her Grace are at home this afternoon. I don't think they're open to visitors, but…"

"I daresay they'll make an exception," Evan said dryly. The Duke of Graham was indeed the kind of aristocrat who would demand that his own children appear only during pre-scheduled visiting hours, but this was an outstanding circumstance.

"Quite right, my lord," the man said, still blinking quite a bit more frequently than Evan thought was strictly regular.

The rest of the household responded in a similar manner. The servants would recognize Evan, begin to react, note Grace, and then be temporarily stunned by shock. Even their butler, Dobson, who had not earned his place in a ducal household by being easily shaken, went so far as to clear his throat before speaking.

"I shall fetch Their Graces at once," he said. He hurried to do so, then paused. It was the least decisive action Evan had ever seen the man take. "And might I say…I am very pleased to see you well and returned to us, Lady Grace."

He strode out of the room before Grace could reply—which, Evan decided, was likely good, as the man had just used up all his emotion for the decade.

Grace looked around the entrance of their home. "How strange to be back here…" she muttered.

There was no time for his sister to expound further on this thought, however, as a feminine cry rent the air.

There was a clatter, the rush of movement, and then their mother, Penelope, appeared at the balustrade that separated the two floors from the high entryway.

"Grace?" she cried, voice feeble and wavering.

Grace sucked in a gasp at the sight of their mother, one that reminded Evan of how thin and pale Penelope had become in the past several years. Her once-blonde hair had given entirely over to gray, and her cheeks were perpetually sallow and sunken. She'd never been a particularly expressive woman, their mother, always content to play a supporting role in her husband's ambitious vision of their lives. But she hadn't been quite as much a ghost as she was now, not before Grace had vanished.

The way she rushed down the stairs now, Evan realized, was the most activity he'd seen from her in ages.

Tears already dotted Penelope's cheeks as she hurried to her daughter, arms outstretched. "Grace," she kept repeating. "Grace. Grace. My Grace."

"Hello, Mother," Grace said, returning her embrace with an awkward pat on the back of their mother's thin shoulders.

"Grace," Penelope sobbed.

Grace shot Evan a pleading look that, again, almost made him laugh.

Slower, more measured steps announced another arrival at the top of the staircase—the illustrious Duke of Graham would never be so undignified as to run . He did, however, stop dead with an uncharacteristic lack of control when he caught sight of his daughter, returned from the dead. All the blood drained from his face, leaving him wearing a pale mask instead of his usual vibrant complexion that spoke of competence and good health—requisite things for any successful politician.

"Grace," he said, voice gone flat with shock. "I—how is this possible?"

As a powerful duke, Frederic Miller rarely had to face the notion that there were some things in the world that were beyond his control. He had not, to Evan's memory, ever responded well to reminders that he was not the utmost power in the world. Indeed, his words now were harsh and grating, as if he were ordering the very forces of life and death to explain themselves.

Penelope was looking more and more like Grace was the only force holding her up, so Evan crossed to his sister's side to help her support their mother's weight.

"Hello, Father," Grace said. Evan was pleased to see that his sister had retained her mastery of understatement. "I'm not dead."

"Yes," said the duke, still frozen, still looking down at them from above. "I see… But how?"

Grace looked at Evan for assistance.

"I found her, sir," he said, even as he took up responsibility for attempting to comfort their weeping mother. It did not come easily to him; they'd never been a particularly demonstrative family. He couldn't recall the last time he'd embraced his mother, but surely, he'd been a child. Even so, any effort to recollect a maternal embrace brought to mind a nurse or governess, not Penelope Miller.

The duke's keen gaze turned to his son. The color was returning to Frederic's cheeks; no mere resurrection would set his father on his back heel for long.

"Found her?" he demanded. "Where? How?"

Evan did not think these were necessarily the most important questions, but his father always had been careful to know the identity of his enemies, so that he could destroy them with ruthless precision. Usually this had been a matter of politics, but Evan supposed it could extend to kidnapping criminals, as well.

He briefly explained hiring Bow Street Runners to seek any sign of Grace, and how one had turned up her handkerchief. He cited his trip North, leaving out any mention of Frances, and how he'd gone to the mill, found Grace, and set the Runners on the subdued kidnappers.

"You'll put me in touch with these Runners of yours," the duke commanded. "I will need to speak to these…people." He sounded like he did not believe that Grace's kidnappers deserved such a term.

For once, Evan agreed with his father. Anyone who would imprison and terrorize a young woman for years was practically an animal, as far as Evan was concerned.

"They've been apprehended," Evan told his father.

The duke frowned. He did not care to be contradicted or denied, even in the mildest of fashions.

"I will speak to them," he said with the determination of a man who trusts his word will become reality. "This is not a matter to be ignored."

He half turned as if intending to hie off to his office to deal with this new information immediately. Before he could take a full step, however, he paused and looked down at his daughter.

He gave a tight-lipped smile. He never had been one for paternal affection.

"I am pleased you're returned to us, Grace," he said softly. "I never…" He trailed off. "I am pleased you are home," he repeated finally.

He gave his daughter a lingering glance, then graced his son with a decisive nod.

And then the Duke of Graham swept from the room, determined and aristocratic as ever, to see his will be done.