The Lost Duke of Wyndham (Two Dukes of Wyndham, #1)(16)

Now, the dowager growled, "Look out the window," speaking to her as if she'd turned idiot overnight.

"You got the best look at him."

Dear God, she would gratefully forfeit five years off her life just to be anywhere but inside this carriage.

"Ma'am, I said - he was at the end of the drive. I didn't really see him."

"You did last night."

Grace had been trying not to look at her, but at that, she could not help but stare.

"I saw you kissing him," the dowager hissed. "And I will warn you now. Don't try to rise above your station."

"Ma'am, he kissed me."

"He is my grandson," the dowager spat, "and he may very well be the true Duke of Wyndham, so do not be getting any ideas. You are valued as my companion, but that is all."

Grace could not find the outrage to react to the insult. Instead, she could only stare at the dowager in horror, unable to believe that she had actually spoken the words.

The true Duke of Wyndham.

Even the very suggestion of it was scandalous. Would she throw over Thomas so easily, strip him of his birthright, of his very name? Wyndham was not just a title Thomas held, it was who he was.

But if the dowager publicly championed the highwayman as the true heir...dear God, Grace could not even imagine the depth of the scandal it would create. The impostor would be proven illegitimate, of course - there could be no other outcome, surely - but the damage would be done. There would always be those who whispered that maybe Thomas wasn't really the duke, that maybe he ought not be so secure in his conceits, because he wasn't truly entitled to them, was he?

Grace could not imagine what this would do to him. To all of them.

"Ma'am," she said, her voice quavering slightly. "You cannot think that this man could be legitimate."

"Of course I can," the dowager snapped. "His manners were impeccable - "

"He was a highwayman!"

"One with a fine bearing and perfectly correct accent," the dowager retorted. "Whatever his current station, he was brought up properly and given a gentleman's education."

"But that does not mean - "

"My son died on a boat," the dowager interrupted, her voice hard, "after he'd spent eight months in Ireland. Eight bloody months that were supposed to be four weeks. He went to attend a wedding. A wedding." Her body seemed to harden as she paused, her teeth grinding together at the memory. "And not even of anyone worth mentioning. Just some school friend whose parents bought themselves a title and bludgeoned their way into Eton, as if that could make them better than they were."

Grace's eyes widened. The dowager's voice had descended into a low, venomous hiss, and without even meaning to, Grace moved closer to the window. It felt toxic to be so close to her right now.

"And then..." the dowager continued. "And then! All I received was a three-sentence note, written in someone else's hand, reporting that he was having such a fine time that he believed he was going to remain."

Grace blinked. "He didn't write it himself?" she asked, unsure why she found this detail so curious.

"He signed it," the dowager said brusquely. "And sealed it with his ring. He knew I couldn't decipher his scrawl." She sat back, her face contorting with decades old anger and resentment. "Eight months," she muttered. "Eight stupid, useless months. Who is to say he did not marry some harlot over there? He had ample time."

Grace watched her for several moments. Her nose was in the air, and she gave every indication of haughty anger, but something was not quite right. Her lips were pinching and twisting, and her eyes were suspiciously bright.

"Ma'am - " Grace said gently.

"Don't," the dowager said, her voice sounding as if it might crack.

Grace considered the wisdom of speaking, then decided there was too much at stake to remain silent.

"Your grace, it simply cannot be," she began, somehow maintaining her courage despite the withering expression on the dowager's face. "This is not a humble country entail. This is not Sillsby," she added, swallowing the lump that formed in her throat at the mention of her childhood home. "We are speaking of Belgrave. Of a dukedom. Heirs apparent do not simply vanish into the mist. If your son had had a son, we would have known."

The dowager stared at her for an uncomfortably sharp moment, then said, "We will try the Happy Hare first. It is the least uncouth of all the local posting inns." She settled back against the cushion, staring straight ahead as she said, "If he is anything like his father, he will be too fond of his comforts for anything less."

Jack was already feeling like an idiot when a sack was thrown over his head.

So this was it, then. He knew he'd stayed too long. The whole ride back he'd berated himself for the fool he was. He should have left after breakfast. He should have left at dawn. But no, he had to get drunk the night before, and then he had to ride out to that bloody castle. And then he'd seen her.

If he hadn't seen her, he would never have remained at the end of the drive for so long. And then he wouldn't have ridden off with such speed. And had to rest and water his mount.

And he certainly wouldn't have been standing by the trough like a bloody bull's-eye when someone attacked him from behind.