Her head held high and her fluffy grey tail swishing elegantly behind her, Tansy sauntered past Lord Lockhart’s feet toward the open doorway. The fingers of a gentleman’s glove were snared between her teeth, and without a backward glance she disappeared through the door, carrying it off for parts unknown.

  A moment passed in stunned silence. “Your damned cat stole my glove,” he said at last.

  “It would appear so, yes.”

  Tentatively, Lord Lockhart ventured, “I don’t suppose there’s any hope of fighting her for it?”

  “I wouldn’t recommend it. She’s quite fond of stealing my ribbons, and I’ve never dared to take one from her once she’s laid claim to it.”

  He gave a heartfelt sigh. “I thought not.” And then, in faint tones of awe, “Of course you would own a cat whose proficiency in thievery rivals your own.”

  “What am I meant to say to that?” Grace asked, settling her chin in her palm. “Naturally, she learned from the best.”

  ∞∞∞

  Henry had remembered the card still tucked up his sleeve only once he’d returned home. He’d had to strip himself of his coat and unbutton the sleeve of his shirt to get at it, of course. Probably he ought to have returned it to Grace, but he was loath to present himself at the house once again whilst Mr. Moore might still be in residence.

  As he sat outside in the garden, he practiced the smooth, rhythmic motions of making the card disappear and reappear, hidden in the cup of his hands. Even with hours of practice he wasn’t half so elegant and seamless as Grace, but what had begun as a bit of a fumbling journey had eventually approached tolerable.

  The false shuffle had proved a bit trickier, though he rather thought he’d become reasonably proficient in dealing from the bottom of the deck. His fingers still wanted to stutter a bit over the movements—as if a tendency toward honesty had been bred into his very muscles and bones—but except for that slight hesitation, if he moved quickly enough even his own eyes could not tell the difference between a card dealt from the top and a card dealt from the bottom.

  When he kept his fingers just slightly curved, the card bent into the cup of his palm and stayed tucked there securely. So long as he remembered not to lift his hands too high, and provided he could adequately tuck the cards down into his sleeve and subtly slip them loose once more, he ought to be capable of providing the distraction Grace required. Perhaps not quite so elegantly as she did, but late in the evening, when the gentlemen present would be well into their cups, he supposed he just might fool the lot of them.

  Another flip of the card, which slid smoothly through his fingers. Grace’s deck was now missing a card, rendering it incomplete for parlor games, but he suspected she likely had a fair few decks to her name. Probably she wouldn’t miss this one card, anyway.

  Probably she already had, actually, though she hadn’t seen fit to ask for the return of it before he’d left, which was just as well, considering he’d decided he was going to keep it.

  It was the queen of hearts which had ended up stuck in his sleeve, and it felt like a sign of sorts. It was a hell of a risk they’d both be taking tomorrow evening, and weren’t gamblers supposed to be a superstitious lot? They would both require all the luck they could lay hands on, and this card seemed a suitable token of it.

  “You missed dinner.”

  Henry startled to the words, his head lifting. In the gloom of early evening, he saw Mother standing perhaps twenty feet away as if uncertain of her welcome. The unrelieved black of her gown seemed to meld into the encroaching darkness. “Mother,” he said in surprise. “What are you doing out here?”

  “I had heard,” she said softly, in that waifish, nearly inaudible little voice which had somehow become hers this past year, “that you intended to attend Alicia’s dinner party.”

  They hadn’t really spoken more than a few words to one another in the last few days. Out of the shame of it all, he supposed, Mother tended to make herself scarce whenever he was about. After that conversation they had had, in which she had tearfully informed him of his illegitimacy and Uncle Nigel’s subtle threats, she had been quieter even than usual.

  “I am,” he said. “How did you learn of it?”

  “Alicia sent a note round this morning,” she said, “asking if I’d reconsidered my attendance.”

  Though he suspected he knew the answer already, he asked, “Have you?”

  Mother’s hands plucked nervously at the heavy fabric of her skirts. “I have not. Henry, do you think it wise to attend? Your uncle—”

  “Aunt Alicia is not Uncle Nigel,” he said as he tucked the queen of hearts into the pocket of his coat. “She’s been nothing but kind to me. To you.” And she didn’t deserve to be brushed aside, or to be painted with the same brush her husband had earned. “She was good enough, even,” he said, “to extend an invitation to a guest of my suggestion as well.”

  “The Seymour girl,” Mother said. “She mentioned as much in her note. She said—she said you looked very fine dancing together evening last.”

  Had they? One couldn’t tell, really, how one looked while dancing. But Grace had an effortless elegance and feet as quick and sure as her fingers. Light steps which whispered across the smooth surface of a ballroom floor as if she’d been born to it.

  Probably, he thought, her earlier predilection for burglary had helped her to it. For some strange reason, the thought of her parlaying her skills in thievery into her present talent for dancing amused him excessively.

  “Had you attended last evening’s ball,” Henry said slowly, “you might have seen for yourself.”

  Mother winced. “Henry—”

  “You must know, Mother, that you can’t hide yourself away forever.” And the longer she did, the harder it would be to emerge.

  “I know,” she said quietly. That whisper-soft voice; like the last echoes left upon the strings of an instrument after the music had ceased. “Nigel will eject us, eventually.”

  He most certainly would, if he managed to succeed in his aims. The townhouse that belonged to his family had been entailed to fall into possession of the oldest male heir. And as it was quite a bit grander—and owned outright by the estate—there was no doubt that Uncle Nigel would prefer to give up the lease on his own smaller townhouse when he might as well make use of this one.

  “As to that,” he said. “I might have come up with a potential solution.” Perhaps. Too early to tell just yet. Tomorrow would determine it, he hoped. He gestured to the empty chair across from his own. “Will you sit, just for a few minutes? I want to test out a theory.” Henry held up the deck of cards for her inspection.

  A full five seconds passed in utter silence, and Henry was certain she would refuse. But at long last, she took that first tentative step toward him. An eternity passed before she slowly took her seat, easing down onto the very edge like a wary bird perched for a swift flight.

  “Vingt-et-un,” he said as he shuffled the deck. “We used to play, years ago. Do you remember?”

  “I was never much good at it,” she said, her thin shoulders pinching into a defensive posture, as if she half-suspected he would lash out at her. “Shouldn’t you rather play with someone more skilled?”

  “I intend to. Tomorrow evening, at Uncle Nigel’s.” He dealt a pair of cards to each of them. “We’ll keep it simple this evening. No wagers.”

  “A card, please,” Mother said, and she took the card he offered to her. “Oh. I’ve gone over. And for you?”

  “Twenty-one.” He scraped together the cards and set them aside, dealt a fresh hand.

  Mother gestured for another card. “Miss Seymour seems...lovely,” she said delicately.

  “Have you met her?”

  The briefest of flinches flickered across her face. “No, but—but I can’t envision you having an interest in anyone who wasn’t. Is there an interest?”

  “I called upon her today,” he said. Mother had gone over once again. Henry discarded the last hand and dealt anew. “She’s an amiable woman,” he said. “Very pretty. Witty. Kind.” Kinder than he had had any right to expect of her. “I’ve made a bargain of sorts with her.”

  Mother’s gaze lifted from her cards. “A bargain? What sort of bargain?”

  Henry hesitated, his fingers curling around the deck of cards in his hand. “What I am about to tell you,” he said, “must not leave this table. You must not speak of it to anyone—not even Eliza. Do you understand?”

  Mother’s eyes widened. “Has this got something to do with—with—” She pursed her lips into a grim line, and ventured at last in a muted whisper, “Our private matter?”

  “Yes,” he said. “So we must not betray Grace’s trust, just as she has promised not to betray ours.”

  “She knows?” It emerged on a thin little wail, aching and devastated. That ever-present shame, killing her soul a piece at a time.

  “She would be the last person to judge, and she’s agreed to help us, besides,” Henry said. “Grace was, at one point in her life, a thief. Her fingers are every bit as nimble as ever they were; a fact to which I can attest myself. I gained her an invitation to Aunt Alicia’s dinner party so that while I have occupied the gentlemen with cards after dinner, she may sneak away to Uncle Nigel’s study and retrieve whatever evidence”—or evidence of evidence, as it were—“which he might happen to possess.”

  Mother’s lips parted on a shocked breath. “Miss Seymour agreed to this?”

  “In fact, it was her suggestion,” he said. “Which is why I asked you to play cards. I have been charged with distracting the gentlemen with cards rather than billiards. It would be beyond foolish for Miss Seymour to burglarize a room directly beside the billiards room, after all. So I am to keep the gentlemen—but most especially Uncle Nigel—invested in cards in order to leave Grace free to wander. And to do that, I must keep him losing.”

  Mother’s shoulders sank. “I’m sorry to disappoint,” she said. “But if your aim was to practice cards, then I have been a poor partner. I’ve lost every hand thus far.”

  “I know,” he said. “That’s what I’ve been practicing.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Grace is also skilled in sleight of hand. She taught me a few tricks when I called upon her today. You lost,” he said, and felt the tiniest bud of hope bloom in his chest, “because I’ve been cheating.” Competently. Ably, even.

  And Mother had not noticed anything amiss. That pit of anxiety which had gnawed at his stomach these last days felt suddenly almost manageable; his cause somewhat less hopeless than it had felt only moments ago.

  Mother shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Henry,” she said. “Do you think this is wise?”

  No; of course it wasn’t wise. But it was necessary. “Grace believes it is possible,” he said. “And really, Mother, we are not in a position to refuse the aid of someone who would help rescue us from our present predicament.”

  There was a strain in her face; a tightness about her eyes which still shied away from his. “You speak as if you have developed a fondness for her,” she ventured quietly.

  Fondness wasn’t quite the right word for it. For his entire life, he had known he had something to prove. That he would have to rise above the scandal and gossip which had colored the early years of his life, to demonstrate himself to be the very model of what an earl was meant to be.

  The path which he had been set upon from birth allowed little room for childhood foibles, for those slips which might be forgiven in another. Any misstep, no matter how minor, would be proof positive that he was no better than he ought to be. He was meant to excel in his studies, to manage his estates, to prove himself honorable and decent in all matters. Eventually to marry precisely the right sort of woman, and to sire a handful of little heirs to carry on his legacy into the next generation. The right way to live—the only way, according to his position and his situation.

  No matter what private feelings he might have harbored, the fascination he’d long held for Grace Seymour was not just a minor misstep. It would be a divergence from the path he was meant to walk entirely. He knew it intellectually, and yet he had never been able to shake himself of that fascination, that helpless fixation he had long had upon her.

  Only now it was tinged with shades of admiration. With gratitude. With respect and awe.

  “I am grateful to her,” he said, folding his hands over the deck of cards between them. “Let’s leave it at that, shall we?”

  “Henry,” Mother said imploringly, and as if on instinct she reached out, her fingers hovering over his. A moment, two—her fingers fell to the surface of the table without ever making contact. “Your father and I,” she said, her voice falling once more, like a stone cast into a well, “made so many mistakes. I couldn’t bear to watch you make the same ones.”

  And there it was again; the dull ache of shame. A familiar companion after so many years. His hand could almost feel the phantom press of hers upon it, the touch she had not been able to force herself to offer.

  They had made mistakes, of course, his parents. But he would always be the greatest of them all.

  Chapter Ten

  You have a lovely home, Mrs. Marsden,” Grace said as she accepted the glass of sherry Lord Lockhart’s aunt extended to her. The ladies had withdrawn to the drawing room after dinner, and Mrs. Marsden had immediately set about making her guests comfortable, as a good hostess was meant to do. But she had paid a special attention to Grace, a special sort of welcome—like a loving aunt would certainly do, for a lady favored by a beloved nephew.

  “That’s very kind of you,” Mrs. Marsden said as she settled onto the couch beside Grace. “I’m so pleased that you accepted our invitation, Miss Seymour.”

  “Grace. Please. Let us not stand on ceremony.”

  “Grace, then. And you must call me Alicia.” The woman offered her a shy sort of smile. “My nephew seems rather taken with you. I must admit, I had despaired of him taking any true interest in the Season.”

  “Had you?” Grace inclined her head. “May I ask why?

  “He’s always been a rather solemn sort, my nephew,” Alicia said. “Henry was the dearest little boy there ever was, but so serious. I suppose I thought—I thought he would do his duty, eventually, but that it always would be a duty to him. So it was a pleasant surprise indeed to see him so enjoying his dance with you.” Her eyes were warm and fond, the corners crinkled just a little.

  One could always tell by the eyes. Not for nothing were they said to be the window to the soul; it was too simple, when one truly looked, to see what sort of person lay behind them.

  “I must thank you,” Grace said, “for your invitation. My family is not the sort that often receives such genuine welcome into homes like yours.”

  Alicia bowed her head over her glass and lowered her voice, “Truth to tell,” she said softly, “I remember it well enough myself, how daunting the Ton once seemed. And sometimes—sometimes I suppose it still does.”

  “Oh?”

  “I was once an outsider myself,” Alicia confided. “My father was in trade, you see. I married into the aristocracy. A younger son, it is true, but even that was trespass enough to be thought something of a pretender to their ranks. An interloper who reached higher than she had any right to do.” There was a shred of pain there within her dark eyes, the sort that lingered long after the wound itself had faded. A scar rendered visible still, with the remembered cruelty she had suffered.

  Poor lady, to have been so judged by those who by all rights ought to have been her peers. And it had only made her kind. Sensitive to those who had experienced the same. Welcoming and warm and hospitable.

  Her husband, in turn, was a damned boor. He’d snapped at her thrice over dinner; first, over the quality of the beef which had been served; second, the wine; and third, for speaking too loudly to the gentleman at her right. Lord Lockhart, who had been seated beside Grace for dinner, had had tension rolling off of him in waves, though he had managed—with Grace’s subtle encouragement—to hold his tongue.

  Even a fool could see that Mr. Marsden held the purse strings clenched within his iron fist. He had sparkled like a polished diamond at dinner, while his wife sat beside Grace now in a gown that was patched at the hem. No luxury was spared for those things that Mr. Marsden considered important—himself, to all appearances—while Mrs. Marsden was forced to economize wherever she could.

  Grace sipped her sherry. “It must have been a difficult adjustment for you,” she said softly. “I know it was for me. I don’t know how I would have managed without my sisters to guide me.” She nodded to indicate Mercy across the room, engaged in animated conversation with some lady or other. “Or without the friends they had made amongst the Ton.” Friends who had long become as close as family. Had Alicia had a similar support from her husband, once? From his family?

  Alicia winced, just a little. “I regret to say that my marriage was not a love match,” she said. “We rubbed on well enough together for a while, but once it had become clear that I would not produce a child, well—I suppose I lost whatever small bit of Nigel’s affection I might once have possessed.” She cast her gaze to her lap, a splash of color spreading high across her cheekbones. “Forgive me,” she said, reaching out to squeeze Grace’s hand gently. “I don’t know what’s come over me, to speak so plainly of such things.”

  Probably, Grace thought, the poor woman hadn’t had anything approaching a confidante in some time. And everyone needed someone, from time to time. “Perhaps you will be good enough to come to tea in the future,” Grace said. “I have got three older sisters”—each of them nearer to Alicia’s age than her own—“and they are all excellent listeners. I’ll admit that it does get a bit chaotic—”

  “I spend so much of my time alone in the house,” Alicia said. “I think I might welcome a bit of chaos from time to time. Thank you, Grace; that sounds just lovely.” She cleared her throat, and rearranged herself in her seat, smoothing at her patched skirts. “Would it be beyond the pale to inquire of your relationship with my nephew?”