She looked over at him. Of everyone in the room, surely he was the one with the most at stake. He looked exhausted. And bewildered. And furious, and amazingly, about to laugh. “Your grace,” she said hesitantly. She didn’t know what she wanted to say to him. There probably wasn’t anything to say, but the silence was just awful.
He ignored her, but she knew he’d heard, because his body stiffened even more, then shuddered when he let out a breath. And then the dowager-oh why would she never learn to leave well enough alone?-bit off his name as if she were summoning a dog.
“Shut up,” he snapped back.
Grace wanted to reach out to him. Thomas was her friend, but he was-and he always had been-so far above her. And now she was standing here, hating herself because she could not stop thinking about the other man in the room, the one who might very well steal Thomas’s very identity.
And so she did nothing. And hated herself even more for it.
“You should remain,” Thomas said to Mr. Audley. “We will need-”
Grace held her breath as Thomas cleared his throat.
“We will need to get this sorted out.”
They all waited for Mr. Audley’s response. He seemed to be assessing Thomas, taking his measure. Grace prayed he would realize just how difficult it must have been for Thomas to speak to him with such civility. Surely he would respond in kind. She wanted him so badly to be a good person. He’d kissed her. He’d defended her. Was it too much to hope that he was, underneath it all, a white knight?
Chapter Six
Jack had always prided himself on being able to spot the irony in any situation, but as he stood in the Belgrave drawing room-correction, one of the Belgrave drawing rooms, surely there were dozens-he could find nothing but stark, cold reality.
He’d spent six years as an officer in His Majesty’s army, and if he’d learned one thing from his years on the battlefield, it was that life could, and frequently did, turn on a single moment. One wrong turn, one missed clue, and he could lose an entire company of men. But once he returned to Britain, he’d somehow lost sight of that. His life was a series of small decisions and insignificant encounters. It was true that he was living a life of crime, which meant he was always dancing a few steps ahead of the hangman’s noose, but it wasn’t the same. No one’s life depended upon his actions. No one’s livelihood, even.
There was nothing serious about robbing coaches. It was a game, really, played by men with too much education and too little direction. Who would have thought that one of his insignificant decisions-to take the Lincoln road north instead of south-would lead to this? Because one thing was for certain, his carefree life on the road was over. He suspected that Wyndham would be more than happy to watch him ride away without a word, but the dowager would not be so accommodating. Miss Eversleigh’s assurances aside, he was quite certain the old bat would go to extensive lengths to keep him on a leash. Maybe she would not turn him over to the authorities, but she could certainly tell the world that her long-lost grandson was gadding about the countryside robbing coaches. Which would make it damned difficult to continue in his chosen profession.
And if he was truly the Duke of Wyndham…
God help them all.
He was beginning to hope that his aunt had lied. Because no one wanted him in a position of such authority, least of all himself.
“Could someone please explain…” He took a breath and stopped, pressing his fingers against his temples. It felt as if an entire battalion had marched across his forehead. “Could someone explain the family tree?” Because shouldn’t someone have known if his father had been the heir to a dukedom? His aunt? His mother? Himself?
“I had three sons,” the dowager said crisply. “Charles was the eldest; John, the middle; and Reginald the last. Your father left for Ireland just after Reginald married”-her face took on a visible expression of distaste, and she jerked her head toward Wyndham-“his mother.”
“She was a Cit,” Wyndham said, with no expression whatsoever. “Her father owned factories. Piles and piles of them.” One of his brows lifted. Very slightly. “We own them now.”
The dowager’s lips tightened, but she did not acknowledge his interruption. “We were notified of your father’s death in July of 1790.”
Jack nodded tightly. He had been told the same.
“One year after that, my husband and my eldest son died of a fever. I did not contract the ailment. My youngest son was no longer living at Belgrave, so he, too, was spared. Charles had not yet married, and we believed John to have died without issue. Thus Reginald became duke.” She paused, but other than that expressed no emotion. “It was not expected.”
Everyone looked at Wyndham. He said nothing,
“I will remain,” Jack said quietly, because he didn’t see as he had any other choice. And maybe it wouldn’t hurt to learn a thing or two of his father. A man ought to know where he comes from. That was what his uncle had always said. Jack was beginning to wonder if he’d been offering forgiveness-in advance. Just in case he decided one day that he wished to be a Cavendish.
Of course, Uncle William hadn’t met these Cavendishes. If he had, he might’ve revised that statement entirely.
“Most judicious of you,” the dowager said, clapping her hands together. “Now then, we-”
“But first,” Jack cut in, “I must return to the inn to collect my belongings.” He glanced around the drawing room, almost laughing at the opulence. “Meager though they are.”