Well, at least that was proof positive that Lord Lockhart had not misled her. “I suppose I must also sympathize, then,” she said. “Even if Lord Lockhart doesn’t like Tansy.”

  Uncle Rafe chuckled. “Gracie, you’re the only one who likes that demon of a cat. And, more to the point, you’re the only one she doesn’t absolutely loathe.”

  “Speak of the devil,” Aunt Emma said, with an inclination of her head toward the drawing room doorway, “and she appears.”

  Tansy entered the room with a particularly feline swagger, directing a casual hiss at Danny’s legs as she sauntered by. The people in the room parted as the Red Sea had done for Moses as she passed, keeping well away from the reach of her claws. Even Rafe shifted closer toward the arm of the couch as Tansy stopped before it and coiled up to pounce.

  “She’s not a demon,” Grace said as she patted her knee, and Tansy picked a delicate path across the cushions toward her, her grey tail swishing and flicking gracefully with each step. “She’s a perfectly lovely cat.” Tansy curled up upon her lap, settling in to nap as Grace rubbed her furry grey head affectionately.

  “To you,” Aunt Emma said. “The last time I tried to pet her—only tried, mind you—I thought she was going to take my finger off.”

  “She ruined my cravat last week,” Uncle Rafe said. “Tore straight through it as if it were only paper. I’m fairly certain it was a warning that she could have gone for my throat, if she had had a mind to do it.”

  Tansy blinked her large green eyes, the very picture of innocence. Turning onto her side, she tucked her face beneath one massive paw and began to purr.

  Caught in between her claws was a single purple catmint flower, the evidence of a long and satisfying romp about his lordship’s garden. Grace plucked it out surreptitiously, crushing the petal between the tips of her fingers before it could be noticed by anyone else.

  It seemed Lord Lockhart was a man of his word.

  ∞∞∞

  It was a hell of thing to sit across the dining table from one’s mother and to know that you had been a mistake she regretted making. Henry listened with half an ear to Eliza’s animated chatter as he furtively watched Mother eat her supper in the same mechanical way she did each evening—on those evenings she bothered to attend dinner. As if she were only going through the motions of life, with a sort of brittle fragility that suggested any cross word, any hint of strife or discord might splinter her to pieces.

  She’d retreated within herself this last year. It had started the day Father had died, and with each day that passed, she had seemed to lose a little more of herself. Until her voice had dimmed to a whisper. Until she walked the halls like a ghost living out the repetitious cycles of the life that had once been hers.

  Once, but no longer. Mother had surrendered it a bit at a time, and it had begun with the donning of her widow’s weeds. Though their mourning period had elapsed, she continued to wear them in tribute, he thought, to the husband she had loved so dearly.

  He couldn’t recall the last time she had attended an event, though she had most certainly been invited. He couldn’t recall the last time a friend of hers had been admitted when they had come calling. He couldn’t recall even the last time she had left the house, except for the occasional walk in the garden.

  The talk they had had just a few days ago, when she had tearfully informed him of his illegitimacy, had been the most they had spoken in weeks. Months, perhaps.

  She simply did not know how to exist in the world without Father’s stalwart presence at her side. Father’s undeniable love and affection had, he thought, quelled the worst of the gossip about their relationship, and she had worn that adoration like a shield against the cruelty that the Ton had once slung at her.

  They had once slung it at him, too. It had, thankfully, lost its traction before Eliza’s birth, but Henry remembered well enough just how many scrapes he’d become embroiled in during his younger days, in an effort to defend his mother’s honor. He’d always known his parents’ marriage had not come about under the best of circumstances.

  He just hadn’t known exactly how dire those circumstances had been. How his very existence had led them to the precipice over which they were now precariously balanced. A fall from dubious grace that could come at any moment and ruin them all.

  Mother couldn’t even bring herself to meet his gaze. He had never doubted that she loved him, but it was impossible to deny that his very existence had brought her shame. How many years had she agonized over those few days which had rendered him illegitimate in the eyes of the law? How many nights had she lain awake, this long-held secret burning in the back of her mind? Had she always wondered whether it would slip out, eventually?

  Had Father also borne that shame? Had they regretted that they had never had another son—a legitimate heir who might inherit, should the truth of his birth reveal itself?

  All his life, he’d striven to be the best son it was possible to be. To be honorable and good, of unimpeachable reputation and sterling character. To be upstanding and virtuous and moral. Only to discover he’d failed before he had even been born.

  It didn’t matter. He couldn’t allow it to matter. Still he owed his parents for his very life. He owed Eliza the security she would lose if Uncle Nigel succeeded in his aim. He might have been an accident, a mistake—but still he owed a duty of care to those beneath his protection.

  “Henry!”

  Eliza’s abruptly-shrill voice pierced the fog of his thoughts at last. “Hmm?”

  Her lips pursed into a truculent pout, Eliza said, “I was saying how charming Augusta Coombs’ new bonnet is. I would so like to have one like it. Might I?”

  “Oh. Yes, of course.” Henry swallowed down the guilt that welled up from the pit of his stomach with another bite of roasted potato. There was always the possibility that in some not too distant future, there would be no money for the purchase of such things. Best, then, to let Eliza have those things which pleased her so while there was yet the opportunity.

  Eliza gave a muted squeal of glee, wriggling in her seat with excitement. “Oh, thank you! You are just the best of brothers,” she enthused.

  Was he, though? Would she still think the same if he failed to rescue them from the calamity he’d brought down upon their heads? That Sword of Damocles might swing at any moment.

  “May I be excused?” Eliza asked sweetly as she laid down her silverware and patted at her mouth with a corner of her napkin. “I must write a note to Augusta for the name of her hat shop so that I may send it first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “If you’ve finished with your supper, by all means.”

  “And you will take me shopping tomorrow?” Eliza inquired eagerly. “Once Augusta has written back?”

  The tines of his fork pierced the tender flesh of the filet of turbot upon his plate a bit too deeply. “Mother would be better suited—”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t,” Mother demurred, her voice quavering over the syllables. “Not—not tomorrow, certainly.”

  Not ever, he thought she meant to say. Not if it meant leaving the house and risking an encounter with anyone she knew. Not without her husband by her side to protect her from the worst of society’s censure.

  Not even for her daughter.

  Henry swiped one hand across his face in an effort to relieve the scowl that had settled there. “I’ll take you,” he said to Eliza. “Go on, then. Write your note.”

  With a joyous little screech, Eliza bounced out of her chair, pausing only briefly to plant a loud smack of a kiss upon his cheek before she scampered from the room. And then Henry was left alone with his mother, at an oppressively silent table.

  The candles upon the table sputtered, flickering flames ill-equipped to hold back the veil of darkness that seemed to collect between them. Like a funerary shroud had been draped across the table.

  Henry’s cravat felt unnaturally tight against his throat, and he resisted the urge to tug the knot loose. “She’s just fifteen,” he said into that all-encompassing silence. “We’ve been out of mourning for—what, two months?”

  “Henry.” Mother’s voice, pitched to a pleading tone, warbled in the air between them.

  “She wants to wear pretty clothes again,” he said. “To visit with her friends and laugh and play. She ought to be allowed those things. And she needs—she needs—”

  She needed her mother. He needed his mother. One didn’t stop needing one’s parents only because one had grown up. And now, Father was well beyond their reach. There was only Mother, and Mother—

  Mother couldn’t bring herself to do it. She could not pluck herself from the depths of grief and guilt and shame, even long enough for a short outing with the daughter who still needed her. Or to speak to the son who still loved her, who still wanted nothing more than to make her proud.

  Would she ever be able to bring herself to meet his gaze again? Or had he become unworthy of even that much respect the very moment the secret she’d harbored for so many long years had at last been revealed?

  What little appetite Henry had had vanished as his stomach knotted anew. Silently he laid his napkin upon the table and rose to his feet. “I beg you to remember,” he said softly, striving to keep his tone even and bland, “we have all lost Father. But Eliza oughtn’t lose her mother, too.”

  Henry left her alone, to the silence which she preferred, to the darkness in which she had enshrouded herself. And her anguished sob followed him from the room.

  Chapter Seven

  Your father wishes me to take you to task,” Grace said as she settled into a position against the wall beside Danny, just out of earshot of the rest of the family, and offered him a glass of lemonade which she had fetched only moments before. “And I have been granted permission to pinch your ear, should you prove obstinate.”

  Danny glowered just briefly at her over the rim of his glass, though his eyes strayed inevitably back to Hannah, who was presently engaged in a dance. “Couldn’t just mind your own business, could you, Gracie?”

  “Why ought I, when minding yours is so much more fun?” Though the droll response failed to amuse him, she still enjoyed the chiding glance he sent her.

  “Could at least have brought me something stronger than lemonade,” Danny groused as he discarded the glass he’d drained on the tray of a passing servant. He eased at once back into his position against the wall, folding his arms over his chest.

  “If I had,” she said, “I doubt you’d be much in a fit condition for dancing when you get around to asking her. I’ve watched you pour three glasses of champagne down your throat already.”

  “I’m not going to ask,” Danny said stubbornly, with a notch of his chin.

  “Oh? Is it enjoyable, then, to watch her dance with everyone else?” Grace sidled a step closer and confided, “She’s only got one dance left free. It’s a waltz.”

  “I’m not going to ask!” he reiterated crossly. A beat passed in silence as Hannah swirled past once again and the trill of her laugh sparkled through the air. Danny’s shoulders slumped. A sharp sigh whistled across his lips. “Got two left feet,” he said resentfully. “And she’d refuse, besides.”

  “I’ll bet you ten quid she wouldn’t,” Grace said. “Even though you as good as told her that the things which are important to her are a waste of your time.”

  “I did not!” Danny said, his shoulders snapping straight. “When?”

  “Evening last.”

  Danny blew out a ragged breath. “I said dancing was a damned waste of time,” he said.

  “And that the color of her dress made her look sallow.”

  “It did! How the hell is it my fault that yellow isn’t her color?” Danny threw up his hands in a surfeit of aggravation. “And she called me a gormless addlepate!”

  “You are a gormless addlepate,” Grace said patiently. “And a muttonheaded clod, besides.”

  He shot her a darkling look. “Couldn’t you be on my side for once?”

  “If your side were the right one, I would be.” Was there ever a more foolish creature created than man? “Do you really think dancing with Hannah would be a waste of your time? Because I promise you, that is what she heard you say.”

  A hot splash of color burned high in his cheeks. “I’ll step on her toes,” he said sullenly. “Never got the rhythm of dancing. Damned embarrassing, really.”

  “Do you know,” Grace said softly, “I think Hannah would prefer to be dancing with you—bruised toes and all—than with any other gentleman here. But if you continue to let her think that you consider the things that are important to her to be beneath your notice, eventually she’ll believe you. She’ll stop saving dances for you that you keep failing to claim.”

  Danny’s brows shot up. “Saving dances?”

  “Oh, yes. There’s twelve sets this evening. I’ve watched at least fifteen gentlemen approach her, and yet she’s still got one blank spot left upon her dance card. I’ll admit I’ve not paid too terribly much attention at other balls, but my best guess would be that she’s always saved at least one back for you. Just in the event that you decided to claim it.”

  That color in his cheeks burned hotter still, and he shoved his hands into his pockets with a little shrug. “It doesn’t matter,” he said glumly. “She’s not speaking with me at present.”

  “Of course she isn’t. You hurt her feelings.” Grace nudged his shoulder with hers. “But she still saved a dance for you, Danny.”

  “Gracie—”

  “I beg you, don’t make me pinch your ear. I’d really prefer to resolve such issues without violence wherever possible.”

  Danny gave a muted grumble, his shoulders slouching still further. “I’ll put my foot in it again,” he said on a sigh. “I always do, somehow.”

  “Probably you will,” Grace acknowledged. “So apologize. Each and every time you do. And endeavor not to do it again. She has little other recourse than to call you a gormless addlepate and decline to speak with you. After all, she can hardly push you into the mud like she used to when you were children.”

  Danny dug one finger beneath the collar of his shirt, wrenching at the knot of his cravat. “I think I’d rather she did,” he muttered. “How am I supposed to ask her to dance when she isn’t speaking with me?”

  “Lead with the apology,” Grace advised. “And for God’s sake, Danny, do not insult her gown.”

  The corner of his mouth hitched up in a wry grin. “I won’t. She looks lovely in pink,” he said. “That’s all I meant to say, truly.”

  “So you are going to ask her, then?” Grace inquired.

  “I suppose I’d better.” Danny withdrew one hand from his pocket and flexed his fingers within the confines of his evening gloves. “Probably it’s a preferable alternative to planting Mr. Templeton a facer, which is what I’ve been considering.”

  “Danny.”

  “Don’t be a scold. He’s danced with her thrice this Season already.”

  And he was eaten up with jealousy about it. “You might have danced with her thrice this Season already. If you had asked.”

  “Aw, hell, Gracie,” he murmured, abashed, and somehow Grace had the feeling that just a few moments of honest conversation had had more of an effect upon him than a good, old-fashioned pinch of the ear could ever have done. Danny rocked upon the balls of his feet with an odd restlessness; as if now that he had been prodded into action at last, he could hardly restrain himself. “I will collect that ten quid if she says no,” he said.

  But she wouldn’t. Hannah had only been waiting for Danny to come to his senses. Grace could see it in the sly little glances she cast over her shoulder every so often, whenever she chanced to pass close enough to get a good look.

  “I’ll give you ten quid anyway if you can get through a dance without stepping on her toes,” Grace said. “But you’d best get to it. You’ll have precious little time to ask before the next set. And it’s your waltz, I believe—if you find yourself brave enough to claim it.”

  “You’ll pinch my ear if I don’t,” he said, one foot scooting ahead of the other as he gathered his nerves. “I’m off, then. Wish me luck.”

  Grace lifted her glass in a subtle salute as he headed toward the opposite side of the room where Hannah’s dance had ended, presumably to catch Hannah before the waltz began.

  Uncle Rafe caught her attention as she meandered back into the midst of their group. “Any luck?” he murmured, sotto voce, his voice tinged with desperation.

  Striving to appear appropriately modest and humble, Grace inclined her head. “He’s going to ask her,” she said. “And I didn’t even have to pinch his ear.”

  “Thank God,” Uncle Rafe said, his face etched with relief. “He’s been just impossible these last days, moping about the house like every evil in the world had befallen him at once.” His gaze tracked his son across the room, and he watched intently as Danny cast himself into the path of Hannah and her latest dance partner, Mr. Templeton.

  A brief moment of conversation, and Mr. Templeton excused himself with a bow. He’d been meant to return Hannah to the bosom of her family, of course, but probably he, like most everyone else present, would assume that Danny was as good as that.

  And still, Uncle Rafe stood still and tense, as if he had caught a breath between the clench of his teeth and could not let it escape until Danny had proved himself somewhat less than the fool he had most recently contrived to be.

  Grace coughed into her fist and whispered, “I promised him ten quid if he didn’t step on her toes. You’ll pay it for me, of course, won’t you?”

  “Gracie, I’ll pay a hundred if—yes, he’s come up to scratch at last!” It had ended on a bit of a crow as Hannah at last tucked her hand into the crook of Danny’s arm. As if he’d quite forgotten where they were, Uncle Rafe’s palm landed atop Grace’s head and mussed her perfectly-arranged curls in a gesture of absent affection. “You damned miracle worker, you,” he said.