Never a Gentleman (32 page)

It was at that moment, of course, that she heard it again in her head.

I married her. I’ll be damned if I have to fuck her.

The memory propelled her right out of that comfortable, tumbled bed to stand on the bare floor, naked and shaking. He had
sounded so angry when he’d said that; so disgusted. Had he been lying? Or had he lied last night when he’d held her as if
she were precious to him? She simply didn’t know, and the thought sent a flood of cold washing through her.

Not knowing what else to do, she pulled on a wrapper. Her body still seemed to glow. She could almost feel Diccan’s hands
on her again. She wanted so badly to believe that he’d lied to his mistress, that it had been a facade. Yet a lifetimes worth
of experience told her differently. No one would choose her over Minette Ferrar. And yet, Diccan had at least made her feel
as if he had.

He had been kind. She had fallen in love.

When she heard a rustle of movement in Diccan’s room,
she had to restrain herself from running in and begging to be held. To be reassured that the night before had meant as much
to him as it had to her. No, she thought. It would demean her and embarrass him. She would stay where she was.

Somehow she found herself at his door anyway. Maybe, she thought, she could prove something to herself if she greeted him
with a smile and sent him off with a joke. Maybe she could prove something to him if she let him go as easily as before.

She really should have known better. When she opened the door to Diccan’s room, it was to find Schroeder standing in the middle
of the floor, a porcelain bowl of soapy water in her hands.

The pretty blonde flushed as if Grace had caught her
in flagrante
. “I was just cleaning up.”

“Indeed.” Grace was proud of how calm she sounded. “Biddle is indisposed?”

Schroeder clutched the bowl so tightly that water sloshed onto her apron. “He is with the master on their way to Brighton.
The prince, you know…”

Grace felt as if her heart had stopped. She managed a nod. “Ah.”

He hadn’t even thought to wish her farewell. Grace decided that was answer enough.

“Is there anything I can do for you, madame?”

Grace saw pity on Schroeder’s face, and oddly enough, that was the last straw. “I’ll be getting dressed, Schroeder.” Turning
away, she walked out and closed the door behind her.

There was no note, of course. Only Schroeder, who laid out a pretty
eau-de-Nil
figured muslin for her. “I hope
this is acceptable,” the abigail said in strained tones. “You have your lessons with Her Grace this morning. And then the
primrose sarcenet for tea this afternoon with Lady Haversham?”

Grace nodded. She kept nodding, even as Schroeder helped her wash off evidence of the night before and change into chemise
and stays and muslin. She couldn’t seem to breathe. Each layer of clothing made it worse. She kept replaying the night before
in her head. She thought how much trust it had taken to close her eyes in Diccan’s arms. How much it had meant to her that
she could.

Thank God she hadn’t told him.

“Will you have breakfast, madame?” Schroeder asked. “Cocoa, perhaps?”

Just the thought made her queasy. “Not this morning, I think.”

Long after Schroeder had left, a bemused frown on her face, Grace stood in the middle of her bedroom and thought of what her
day would be. What all her days would be, slipping into progressively tighter and tighter stays, boxed in by society and convention
and the casual oppression of the
ton
, all so she could hold on to a husband who didn’t want her.

A husband who would come to her sometimes and make her feel as if she meant something to him. Who would define her days without
ever knowing it. And Grace would end up doing anything…
anything
… for those brief moments with him. She would learn to excuse his infidelities, his inattention, his casual tyrannies. She
would become one of those pitiful women who suspended her life upon her husband’s sporadic attentions.

Standing there in the middle of her uninspiring blue
room, looking out the window to where the early sunlight washed the rooftops and strawberry vendors sang in the streets, Grace
came to the most momentous decision of her life. She wouldn’t do it. She
couldn’t
. She had given up everything for him. Everything she’d wanted. Everything she’d once hoped to be. All she had left was her
self-respect, and she was about to peddle that away for a look. A kiss. A casual glance across a room. She would once again
sentence herself to the periphery of everyone else’s lives for nothing more than Diccan’s notice.

By God, it wasn’t enough.

For a long time Grace could only stand there, watching the street come to life, a hand clenched against the grief that crowded
her chest. In the end, though, she turned away and tugged on the bell cord. When Schroeder answered, she asked her to pack
a bag and arrange a post-chaise. She ignored the astonished looks her staff gave her as she personally packed her red Guards
jacket and riding boots.

She was pulling on her gloves in the foyer when, as if to put a final punctuation on the day, Kit Braxton walked in the front
door.

Grace stopped, her mouth open. Good Lord, she’d forgotten. “Kit,” she greeted him.

Kit was accompanied by another gentleman she knew from the war. Shorter, with the sweet face and the curling white blond hair
of a cherub. “Hello, Alex,” she said. “Why did Kit drag you over?”

“Moral support,” he answered with a rueful smile, hands in pockets.

She nodded and turned for the salon. “I only have a moment, but why don’t we sit?”

She was ashamed to realize that she’d forgotten Kit’s
mission. The night before had pushed everything else from her mind.

Kit waved Alex and her into the salon. “We need you to stay silent about your suspicions,” he said bluntly, shutting the door
behind him.

Grace made it a point to offer the men seats before settling herself onto her cream Sheraton settee, the perfect society matron.
“We who?”

Kit exchanged a brief glance with Alex as they took up the matching navy blue chairs across from her. “Those of us who love
you,” he said.

Grace considered him a moment. “Bollocks. Who?”

Kit frowned. “You don’t need to know. You just need to listen to me.”

Grace almost cursed again. There was a sheen of perspiration on Kit’s forehead, and he kept clenching his hand. She might
never understand society, but she knew soldiers. Kit didn’t want to be here, but he was on a mission. Suddenly beneath his
words she heard echoes of unnamed men trying to figure out what to do with her, a surprise pawn in a chess match.

“Did you wait for Diccan to leave for Brighton?” she asked, “or is this simple serendipity?”

The glance Kit and Alex exchanged was answer enough. The timing of this visit was no accident. The question was whether Diccan
had had a part in it. Grace fought a sudden flush of shame. Had the night before been an attempt to do the same thing? Keep
her off balance? Focused on something beside the greater question of just what he was involved in?

“Are you telling me Diccan is a traitor after all?” she asked.

Kit looked down at his clenched hand. “There are questions. The government is looking into the allegations right now.”

She quirked an eyebrow. “You mean to say he’s a traitor.”

He shook his head. “It isn’t my judgment to make.”

“It’s just your job to warn me off.”

“You came to me, Grace,” he reminded her gently.

She sighed. “Yes, I did. Oddly enough, I’d hoped for answers.”

“This is the answer.”

She turned away a moment, her focus out the front windows onto the tidy world of Mayfair. “What about Mr. Carver? Is he who
he says he is?”

It was Alex who answered. “He works for the Home Office.”

It was a blow, but she refused to let them see it. “And what do I do when he and Uncle Dawes come to me for information?”

“We’ll take care of it,” Alex said, his pale head bobbing.

“Who?” she asked, knowing that Alex, the man dubbed the White Knight, had as much trouble lying as Kit. “Those who love me,
or the government? I assume they’re the ones making these allegations.”

“Both.”

She nodded absently, her anger hardening. “I see.”

“You must understand, Grace,” Kit insisted. “It could be dangerous.”

He actually made her laugh, a dry, sharp sound. “I might forgive you for that if you hadn’t lived two tents away for the last
five years. Tell me, Kit. Am I too stupid to understand or too frail to act?”

Kit actually looked as if he were the one who’d been hurt.
He moved over to sit alongside her. “Gracie,” he said, reaching for her hand. “Please understand. It’s complicated.”

She neatly pulled away and came to her feet. “Oh, I imagine it is,” she allowed absently. She wasn’t quite certain how, but
she found herself standing before the window, as if it would give her a better perspective of the problem. “Are the Lions
involved?”

It took him a moment to answer. “We owe you that much. Yes.”

She turned. “And you think Diccan is a Lion, even though he protected us from them not three months ago. Or would it be my
uncle, the man who fought with Cornwallis, who is betraying his country?”

He sighed. “I told you. We don’t know. It’s more likely Diccan is after money. Reports from his various posts claim he amassed
quite a small fortune performing shady tasks for local governments.”

Grace shook her head. No. Against all evidence, she couldn’t believe it. But again she thought of the sneer in Diccan’s voice
when he’d been with his mistress.
Of his laughter the night before. Diccan was, indeed, a liar. A very good one. She just wasn’t sure about what.

“And you don’t want me to search for suspicious documents.”

Kit stepped up to her. “No. We want you out of it.”

Turning back to the almost bucolic scene out the window, where a nanny strolled by with her charges and a pair of matrons
chattered beneath their frilly parasols, Grace struggled with the new information. They would expect her to simply back away,
she knew. Leave everything in their capable hands. What, she wondered, should she do? What did she
want
to do?

“All right,” she said, turning back to Kit. “I take myself out of it. You lot can deal with my uncle and my husband and the
Home Office. Just know that if anyone I love is hurt because of this, I swear I’ll see you in hell.”

“Now, Gracie,” Kit protested.

“Don’t patronize me again, Kit.” Walking to the door, she opened it. “Now, gentlemen, I am late for an appointment. I wish
you good day.”

Kit looked almost grief-stricken. But he gave her a quick bow and followed Alex out. “I’m still here if you need me, Gracie.”

Grace couldn’t bear to do more than nod. Kit had just taken away her last refuge. If Kit couldn’t tell her the truth, no man
would. He should know better, though, than to think she would calmly retreat into the arms of society. She would search for
answers on her own.

She was turning from showing him out the door, intent on doing just that, when Schroeder approached, Grace’s bonnet in hand.

“I don’t understand,” the woman said, her features pursed. “You don’t wish to take me along?”

Grace took the bonnet and set it on her head. “Thank you, no, Schroeder. As a matter of fact, I find I won’t need an abigail
at all. I’m going to the country, you see, where your talents would be wasted. Thank you for your help. I’ve left a letter
of recommendation for you.”

For a moment, she wasn’t certain Schroeder would leave. In the end, of course, the abigail dropped a curtsy and departed,
leaving Grace feeling even sadder than before. She tried to turn away again. Again she was interrupted, this time by Benny,
the second footman.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” the fresh-faced Cornish veteran
said, his posture rigid. “We’ve taken a vote downstairs and decided that I’m to go with you.”

Grace wasn’t sure how to react. The thought was so sweet, even though she could probably take Benny in a fair fight.

“You aren’t even going to have your abigail,” he insisted, hands clasped behind his back, his face red. “You should have someone
to do for you.”

“Thank you, Benny,” she managed, her throat thick with emotion. “I appreciate it.”

There was only one more thing she needed to do. Drawing a calming breath, she strode over to Diccan’s office and opened the
door. For a second she faltered badly. She could smell him in this room; citrus and smoke and the faint tang of something
purely Diccan. She saw the evidence of his life; racing journals, a small pile of dog-eared books, and a framed map of the
Ottoman empire he’d hung on the wall. Paintings she didn’t recognize and silhouettes of people she didn’t know.

Another reminder, if she needed it, of how little she really knew him. Was Robert here? What about the sisters she’d never
met? How had she fallen in love with a man who had shared so little?

But she was here for paper and pen. Striding to his elegant walnut desk, she opened the top drawer. She was reaching inside,
when something glinted at the back of the drawer. She picked it up.

A dagger, exquisitely wrought in gold over steel, obviously the work of master artisans. Mohammedan artisans. Grace would
recognize the style anywhere. But that wasn’t what caught her attention. It was the fact that the perfectly balanced handle
was encrusted with gems: rubies, emeralds, sapphires, peridots, pearls. Surprising for a man who
professed a loathing for all things ornate. Too-convenient evidence for those who claimed he was a mercenary, especially since
he’d spent those years in Constantinople. The jewels alone could have kept Longbridge running for five years.

But then, Grace knew better than most how lavish gifts tended to be in the East. For just a second, she saw herself at fifteen,
her hand out as a necklace was poured into her palm, a glittering waterfall of sapphires, hot green enamel and 24-karat gold,
all crafted in intricate designs: peacocks and lotus flowers and spirals, a swirling symphony of color and whimsy and wealth.
It had been the jewelry of a mughal’s bride.