“We do.” Penelope approached with a polite smile. “I fear this visit was more of a surprise than we intended. The note Cassandra sent to apprise you of our visit seems to have gone astray.”
Lucien’s gaze locked on his sister. “Unfortunate indeed.”
Cassandra smiled, a glint in her eyes. “I cannot imagine where it got to. But we are here now, and that is all that matters.”
“Grace told us you were touring Pinchbeck’s factory,” Simon said with a lift of his eyebrows. “You had some interest in an Irishman who once worked there?”
“Yes. Darragh Nolan. My visit was most enlightening.” Lucien turned to Grace, and for a moment, she felt as if they were alone. “You must not get your hopes up too much, my dear, but it is possible he has been seen in London.”
Grace caught hold of his hands. A bright flare of excitement burst within her. “Truly?”
“The foreman at Pinchbeck’s said some of his men claimed to have seen Nolan at a London pub. It may be mere nonsense from men in their cups, but that’s why I am so late. I went to the boarding house where Tom O’Malley stays and enlisted his help, then spoke to an agent of inquiry.”
Grace turned to his siblings to explain that O’Malley was a friend of Mr. Nolan’s back in Ireland. Her gaze suddenly snagged on Jane, who was no longer peering at the world through lowered lashes or darting glances fleeting as a bird’s wing.
Surprisingly, Jane was actuallylookingat Lucien, perhaps for the first time since her return. “It is…quite kind of you to help them,” Jane said softly.
Lucien’s expression softened as he regarded his sister. “You, above anyone, know I am not kind by nature, Jane. I would have walked past them as if they were invisible if it were not for Grace.”
Cassandra’s lips pursed. “Tripped over them and been angry they scuffed your boots more like,” she muttered. “I can’t imagine what Father and his allies would have to say to you.”
“Quite a bit, actually.” Lucien went to the mantel where the portrait of an Elizabethan Harcourt ancestor hung, complete with ruff and the family coat of arms. “I have been inundated with missives and meetings attempting to sway me. Father’s allies are as angry as the folk I saw in the Seven Dials. But the Tories have far less reason.”
“Well said, Luce.” Simon curved a hand over his brother’s shoulder. “I would love to discuss matters later over port.”
Grace saw her husband stiffen for a moment, his face guarded again, as if Simon’s touch startled him. “The issues are far from simple,” Lucien told him. “The threat of revolution spreading from the continent is real.”
Cassandra joined her brothers at the hearth looking up at the motto painted on their ancestor’s coat of arms. “While I am vigilant, I am safe,” she read. “There will always be those who would burn the world down to get their way.”
Grace suddenly wondered if Cassandra was one of them.
Penelope rose, smoothing one of the silk tassels on her cream-and-green day dress. “I think we should give you the wedding gifts we brought from Everdene,” she suggested, perhaps to break the tension.
Grace agreed, grateful for the distraction as they gathered where some bundles sat across the room. A beautiful embroidered cushion from Jane was the first they opened. The forest scene seemed almost real, with a doe and fawn drinking at a stream. An exquisite statue of a rearing horse was from Simon, Penelope and little Kit, Simon explaining, “This is Caspian, the stallion Jamie MacLeod and I sneaked out of Afghanistan. Without your gift of the Harcourt stables, Lucien, this bloodline would still be just a dream.”
It was obvious Lucien was deeply touched by the gift. Grace began to hope the strain in the family might ease.
“My gift will be late.” Cassandra laughed. “I wanted to paint something from a classic myth, but Jane objected. Apparently, Persephone being wed to Hades isnotan appropriate image for a wedding gift.”
Had she meant it as a jest? Grace didn’t know. She could only be grateful not to receive such a painting. She looked from one sister to the other, remembering the gruesome painting Cassandra had shown the night of the dinner party. How closely Holofernes had resembled the earl, Judith’s knife biting into his throat.
“Fortunately, for you,” Cassandra continued, gesturing to a large, flat oval object draped in holland cloth, “Mother painted something far more fitting.”
Grace leaned close to Lucien as he unwrapped the gift. Her breath caught as he unveiled a painting of a boy and girl facing off in front of their dancing master. The girl’s eyes sparkled with mischief, the boy stiff and solemn, refusing to react.
Grace pointed to the little girl’s blue satin slipper. “I do believe she is stepping on his toe,” she teased, slanting a glance up at her husband. “On purpose.”
“He deserved it.” Lucien placed his hand on the small of her back, and for the first time since he had entered the room, a hint of his smile touched his lips.
She laughed. “We will have to hang this in the ballroom at Everdene Hall, where we took those dancing lessons!” She imagined their own child, one day, asking about that that painting, hearing the tale of their childhood rivalry. Would Lucien be there beside them?
“Everdene?” Cassandra said. “That won’t do at all. You must hang it where you will be able to see it.”
“I am sure we’ll return home as soon as there is a break in parliamentary business,” Grace said.
“Returnhome?” Cassandra leveled a pointed stare at Lucien. Grace felt tension coil between Lucien and his sister, a spring about to snap.
“Yes,” Grace faltered. “Our family estates are so near…being able to—to spend time together is one of the reasons we are so happily matched.”
