The Lost Duke of Wyndham (Two Dukes of Wyndham, #1)(6)

She stopped short, stumbling off the bottom step. Large hands immediately found her upper arms to steady her. She looked up, even though she knew who it had to be. Thomas Cavendish was the grandson of the dowager. He was also the Duke of Wyndham and thus without question the most powerful man in the district. He was in London nearly as often as he was here, but Grace had got to know him quite well during the five years she'd acted as companion to the dowager.

They were friends. It was an odd and completely unexpected situation, given the difference in their rank, but they were friends.

"Your grace," she said, even though he had long since instructed her to use his given name when they were at Belgrave. She gave him a tired nod as he stepped back and returned his hands to his sides. It was far too late for her to ponder matters of titles and address.

"What the devil are you doing awake?" he asked. "It's got to be after two."

"After three, actually," she corrected absently, and then - good heavens, Thomas.

She snapped fully awake. What should she tell him? Should she say anything at all? There would be no hiding the fact that she and the dowager had been accosted by highwaymen, but she wasn't quite certain if she should reveal that he might have a first cousin racing about the countryside, relieving the local gentry of their valuables.

Because, all things considered, he might not. And surely it did not make sense to concern him needlessly.

"Grace?"

She gave her head a shake. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"Why are you wandering the halls?"

"Your grandmother is not feeling well," she said. And then, because she desperately wanted to change the subject: "You're home late."

"I had business in Stamford," he said brusquely.

His mistress. If it had been anything else, he would not have been so oblique. It was odd, though, that he was here now. He usually spent the night. Grace, despite her respectable birth, was a servant at Belgrave, and as such privy to almost all of the gossip. If the duke stayed out all night, she generally knew about it.

"We had an...exciting evening," Grace said.

He looked at her expectantly.

She felt herself hesitate, and then - well, there was really nothing to do but say it. "We were accosted by highwaymen."

His reaction was swift. "Good God," he exclaimed. "Are you all right? Is my grandmother well?"

"We are both unharmed," Grace assured him, "although our driver has a nasty bump on his head. I took the liberty of giving him three days to convalesce."

"Of course." He closed his eyes for a moment, looking pained. "I must offer my apologies," he said. "I should have insisted that you take more than one outrider."

"Don't be silly. It's not your fault. Who would have thought - " She cut herself off, because really, there was no sense in assigning blame. "We are unhurt," she repeated. "That is all that matters."

He sighed. "What did they take?"

Grace swallowed. She couldn't very well tell him they'd stolen nothing but a ring. Thomas was no idiot; he'd wonder why. She smiled tightly, deciding that vagueness was the order of the day. "Not very much," she said. "Nothing at all from me. I imagine it was obvious I am not a woman of means."

"Grandmother must be spitting mad."

"She is a bit overset," Grace hedged.

"She was wearing her emeralds, wasn't she?" He shook his head. "The old bat is ridiculously fond of those stones."

Grace declined to scold him for his characterization of his grandmother. "She kept the emeralds, actually.

She hid them under the seat cushion."

He looked impressed. "She did?"

"I did," Grace corrected, unwilling to share the glory. "She thrust them at me before they breached the vehicle."

He smiled slightly, and then, after a moment of somewhat awkward silence, said, "You did not mention why you're up and about so late. Surely you deserve a rest as well."

"I...er..." There seemed to be no way to avoid telling him. If nothing else, he'd notice the massive empty spot on the gallery wall the next day. "Your grandmother has a strange request."

"All of her requests are strange," he replied immediately.

"No, this one...well..." Grace's eyes flicked up in exasperation. How was it her life had come to this? "I don't suppose you'd like to help me remove a painting from the gallery."

"A painting."

She nodded.

"From the gallery."

She nodded again.

"I don't suppose she's asking for one of those modestly sized square ones."

"With the bowls of fruit?"

He nodded.

"No." When he did not comment, she added, "She wants the portrait of your uncle."

"Which one?"

"John."

He nodded, smiling slightly, but without any humor. "He was always her favorite."

"But you never knew him," Grace said, because the way he'd said it - it almost sounded as if he'd witnessed her favoritism.

"No, of course not. He died before I was born. But my father spoke of him."

It was clear from his expression that he did not wish to discuss the matter further. Grace could not think of anything more to say, however, so she just stood there, waiting for him to collect his thoughts.