Now, she was in the carriage as Lady Heathway rattled off various people at the ball. Apparently, the boisterous young man was Mr. Jacobs and to be avoided. He was a flirt and a gossip. The gentleman who stared at her at dinner was Lord Skeffington and to be avoided. He was…just to be avoided. There was no particular harm in Mr. Vance, other than his grandfather was in trade, so not necessarily to be completely avoided but avoid an attachment.
Grace had a great urge to add one more to the list of those to be avoided. Lord Gresham was to be avoided. But then, he was her nephew and, in any case, there was no pause in Lady Heathway’s diatribe to have said anything anyway.
She could not wait to be alone in her bedchamber, where she might finally put aside her composure and stamp her foot over the lord’s effrontery.
The carriage had come to a stop in front of the house and much to Grace’s surprise, Ranston came hurrying down the steps carrying a gun.
As he helped Lady Heathway down, and then Grace herself, he said, “My lady, I came to escort you into the house armed, as there has been a prowler in the back garden this night.”
“A prowler!” Lady Heathway cried.
They were hurried into the house as Ranston told of the diabolical whine of the gate and his daring charge into the garden. This harrowing tale was occasionally peppered with comments from the footmen, who were convinced a stray cat had made the noise.
Grace was inclined to believe the footmen, as she’d been already apprised of Ranston’s peculiar belief that the house would be robbed at any moment. Any sort of sound might have confirmed to him that it was in the offing.
She could not divine what Lady Heathway made of it, but while Ranston was outlining his plan to patrol the house until dawn, Grace spotted a letter lying on a silver tray. The handwriting was distinct. It was from her mother.
Grace casually walked over and slipped it into the inside pocket of her pelisse. Lady Heathway would not be pleased to see it there and might perhaps even confiscate it. But itwasher letter.
“My lady,” Ranston said, “rest assured I will guard this house to my last breath. My piece is loaded, I will standby for Lord Heathway arriving home from his club, and I will protect the house until the safety of the glorious sun has risen once more.”
Lady Heathway nodded. “Well, itisEngland, Ranston, so don’t pin all your hopes on the sun making an appearance. Now, it’s nearly three already. If you find yourself feeling a bit on edge, do have a lie-down.”
Grace had reachedher room. Betsy had come in and helped her out of her dress while recounting what had gone on in the house while they had been at the ball. Mr. Ranston had been ready to fire in any and all directions. No sound was too small to be ignored.
At Barlow Hall, when the family went out it was a lovely evening of chatting and cards and an extra glass of wine from Manfred.Here, they’d been forced to get their clubs from under their beds and wait silently for the assault on the house while the butler strode through the rooms like a madman.
Grace thought it was very gracious of Lady Heathway to indulge such a fellow, but not exactly comfortable for anybody below stairs.
She had removed her mother’s letter from the pocket of her pelisse and laid it on the dressing table. Betsy had noted it and shook her head. “I hope Lady Barlow does less poorly than when I saw her last. The poor dove always did have a delicate constitution. She took to her bed for a month every winter, if I recollect, with a weakness complaint.”
Grace had nodded, as Betsy’s recollection was entirely accurate. After the holidays, Lady Barlow would inevitably retreat to her bed for at least a month to regain her strength. Grace had always thought the activities of the season, which she quite enjoyed, wore her person down. Then, the subsequent absence of parties wore her spirit down.
Betsy left the room, closing the door behind her. Finally, Grace was alone with her thoughts.
She did throw over her composure and stamp her foot once or twice, but found she did not get much satisfaction from it. The ball had not been as she’d thought it would be. There had been some pleasant moments, to be sure. Mr. Vance had been entertaining, and Grace sensed in him a fine gentleman, despite the concerns over his gunmaker grandfather. Lord Bertridge and Lord Blackwood too, were gentlemen she was pleased to know.
However, there had been not so pleasant moments. The awkwardness of being stared at by Lord Skeffington at dinner. One might take it a compliment to be so singled out, but it had not felt like a compliment. Then, Mr. Jacobs and…was it a wink? She thought so. Whatever it was, it had somehow seemed underhanded.
But most of all, Lord Gresham.
She had so looked forward to dancing with him. She had spent so much time rehearsing what she would say about Lady Heathway forcing him into it. She would make him understand thatsheunderstood. Then, they could start again on equal footing. Then, he could ask her at some other ball of his own volition. Or not ask her, as the case might be.
If she were honest with herself, she’d hoped he would ask.
Instead, she had been told in no uncertain terms that her interest was not welcome. If her cheeks had not flamed a thousand shades of red over the course of the dance and supper, she would be very much surprised.
She must stop thinking about it. About him, in particular. It had been her first experience of thinking well of someone, and perhaps hoping for more, and finding herself rebuffed. It stung. It stung deeply. But she must not be so arrogant as to think it was the last time it might happen to her. She would just be better prepared next time.
In any event, there was no possibility that another uninterested gentleman could possibly convey his feelings in as rude a manner as he had done.
She was determined to put the whole matter aside. Her mother had written a letter and she must discover what it said. She dearly hoped it was not another bid to come to Town as she well knew Lady Heathway would not agree to it.
Grace tore open the paper.
My dear daughter,
Sir Henry has been to see me, and nearly drained all the blood from me. Or so it feels. I fear he has little to offer in the way of help as these walls continue to oppress me and I am weaker than ever. The nurse Lady Heathway has sent is an uncaring beast of a woman. I am not to eat what I want or when I want, she insists on waking me at dawn and dragging me on long walks. My dear darling, you know how walking tires me! She even opens the windows in my bedchamber to let in the “fresh air” though I have told her repeatedly that it is the air that is the very problem.
