Chapter Eight
Courting me!” Grace found herself grateful for the wave of polite applause for the musicians that swept over the room and disguised her shrill cry.
“Yes. It’s the perfect solution,” Lord Lockhart said blandly, as if he hadn’t just made the most outrageous suggestion Grace had heard in the whole of her life. “If the public believes we have formed some manner of attachment to one another—”
“A courtship, you mean to say,” Grace hissed beneath her breath as he settled her hand in the crook of his elbow, securing it in place with the pressure of his opposite hand.
“—Then I could call upon you without arousing suspicions. You could expect to receive invitations to my family’s events.” Those icy blue eyes raked across her face. “That is, of course, unless you have already got a suitor. That man you were speaking with earlier—”
Grace’s brows pinched. “Who?”
“Dark hair. Bit unkempt.”
“Oh. Danny Beaumont?” A laugh bubbled up in her throat. “He’s not a suitor; he’s practically my cousin. And he’s desperately in love with Lady Hannah Gillingham, besides.”
Was that relief that had settled into the slope of his shoulders? The corner of his mouth hitched up. “Is she practically your cousin, also?”
“I’d say so, yes. As I’ve known her since she was twelve.” An odd thought tucked itself in the back of her mind and pulled her shoulders tight. “You’re not courting someone else?”
“No, and it would be the height of cruelty to set my sights on any woman before my personal matters have been satisfactorily resolved,” he said. “It would be unconscionable to make promises to a woman which I might not be capable of keeping.”
His title, she supposed. His estates, his fortune.
For that was often what marriage meant amongst those of his class—one married not only one’s husband, but his connections, his possessions, his prestige.
Which made it seem all the more remarkable to her that her family was full of couples who had found happiness in their spouses, whose marriages were loving and affectionate.
He was meant to be escorting her back to her family, and yet he seemed to be dragging his feet, his path circuitous instead of direct.
To make a point of his pretended interest?
Luckily she hadn’t been engaged for the following dance.
“Call upon me, you said,” Grace murmured as they threaded slowly through the crowd.
“It would be convenient for the purposes of strategizing. And for the sake of your reputation, you’d do well to keep your invasions of my garden to a minimum.”
If he only knew. “Chasing after Tansy is a convenient enough excuse,” she said.
“Tansy is a devil given feline form,” he said, “and she cannot be relied upon to make her little visits when it would be most expedient. Besides, I’ve something of an impression that your sisters have rather too many responsibilities of their own to prove particularly strict guardians.
The caterwauling that seems to emanate from your house at all hours would suggest we might expect at least a modicum of privacy to converse. ”
“You’ve heard it?”
“I imagine everyone on the street has heard it,” he said, his voice tinged with exasperation. “This morning there was some manner of shrieking over a hair ribbon, I believe?”
“Well, there’s an awful lot of children about. And little Lucy”—Felicity’s daughter—“is fond of filching Flora’s favorite ribbon.”
“Hasn’t she got any of her own?”
“Oh, dozens and dozens. But Flora’s has got lovely little rosettes embroidered upon it, and it is a beautiful shade of blue.” Was that a chuckle he had muffled behind his hand? “There’s the threat of a battle to the death which must be averted at least once a week.”
“It sounds like chaos,” he said. “In my house, there’s just me, Eliza, and Mother. Eliza is with her governess much of the day, and Mother so rarely leaves her rooms. The house feels too often like a mausoleum.”
“I can hardly imagine it. There’s so many people within ours that it’s a madhouse most days.
” Probably he was right; her sisters had so much pandemonium to contend with that they would find themselves more likely than not unchaperoned—so long as they stayed within the drawing room and kept the door open.
With the near-constant shrieks and battles waged amongst the children, it was unlikely even that someone might eavesdrop upon them.
“I suppose you’re right,” she admitted. “Tansy isn’t precisely a suitable chaperone, besides. ”
“I’ll call upon you tomorrow, then.” His steps slowed still more as they neared her family. “To whom am I returning you this evening?”
“Do you know, I’m not certain.” Grace peered through the crowd, striving to see which of her sisters remained. “Probably Charity,” she said. “Mercy appears to have wandered off, and I believe Felicity and Ian are joining this next set.”
“And do you always attend events in such numbers? There must be a dozen of you altogether.”
“Nearly always. We enjoy each other’s company, and good company has a way of livening up an event that might otherwise be rather dull.
Of course, Aunt Phoebe and Uncle Chris don’t attend events quite so often as the rest of us, as Uncle Chris’ knee injury prevents him from dancing.
” But they were nearly always present for family events regardless.
“I’ll confess I find that something of a relief. Mr. Moore is rather too intense for my taste.” At her quizzical glance, he clarified, “I had the dubious pleasure of making his acquaintance a few nights ago. Certain veiled threats were made.”
Grace smothered a laugh. “Yes, that does sound like him,” she said. “You mustn’t take it personally.”
“Oh, I have no doubt but that he intended it to be extremely personal.” The flat, grim monotone conveyed a sort of dark humor she didn’t quite understand.
Charity came weaving through the crowd as they approached. “There you are,” she said. “I had wondered where you’d gone off to.” A polite and gentle admonishment for not having returned Grace to her side promptly upon the completion of the dance.
“Do forgive me, Your Grace,” Lord Lockhart said. “I simply found your sister’s company too enjoyable to surrender as quickly as I ought to have done.”
Charity’s brows arched in interest. “Did you, then, my lord?”
“I have asked Miss Seymour already if I might call upon her tomorrow,” Lord Lockhart replied. “With your approval, naturally.”
“Provided Grace has agreed,” Charity said, “then you may have it.” There was a measure of confusion within her voice, and Grace knew she must be recalling every incident in which Lord Lockhart had complained of Tansy’s frequent intrusions into his garden, or else his home.
Of how often Grace herself had grumbled over the character assassination of her beloved pet at his hands.
She would have questions later, Grace was certain.
Lord Lockhart took her hand in his and bowed over it. Not the simple, polite gesture that a lady could expect from any gentleman with whom she had consented to dance, but a deep, respectful one that would no doubt send a flurry of whispers sailing through the room.
Practically an announcement of interest, laid bare for the public to dissect and gossip about. It would be all over London by morning—that Lord Lockhart had paid her such attention as this.
“I believe I saw my aunt only a few moments ago,” he said to both of them. “She is giving a dinner party two days from now. I am certain I can secure an invitation for Miss Seymour. Might I prevail upon you, Your Grace, to serve as her chaperone?”
“I’m afraid I’ve already committed to an event that evening,” Charity said. “Dinner with my husband’s sister-in-law, you understand. It cannot be moved, but—I believe my sister, Mercy, has got that evening free.”
Grace managed to swallow back a sigh of relief.
Out of her three sisters, Mercy was by far the one whose notice was easiest to elude.
With the right distraction—and with Lord Lockhart’s assistance—probably Mercy would never even notice that a short jaunt to the retiring room had taken a bit longer than it ought to have done.
“I’ll ask Aunt Alicia to send round an invitation.” At last Lord Lockhart released Grace’s hand and sketched a bow. “Until tomorrow, then.”
“Well,” Charity said lightly as they watched him leave, winding his way once more through the crowd toward his aunt. “Do you know, he was rather more polite than I expected him to be, given your mostly acrimonious history.” A shrewd glint came into her eyes. “Is there something you’ve not told me?”
“Am I not allowed a secret or two? I am four and twenty, you know.” Officially, she had no need of a guardian, though her sisters frequently stood in as chaperones when necessary. Still, they were rather more protective of her reputation than they ever had been of their own.
“But you do know that you can tell me anything?” Charity pressed. “Anything at all.”
Her own secrets? Of course. But someone else’s? Well, that felt rather less certain. Even if she knew well enough her family would be the very last to place judgment for such a thing, she doubted whether Lord Lockhart would be comfortable with them being privy to his secrets.
She was reasonably certain that they wouldn’t approve of stealing on his behalf.
Not for any particularly moral reason, but because there certainly would be consequences if she were caught.
Though Uncle Chris would likely cheer her on—but only because he took a perverse delight in being contrary and outrageous.
“I do know,” she said. “And when I have got something to say, I will.” When the danger had passed, and there was no longer any risk. When she could determine how best to speak of such things without revealing secrets that were not her right to share.