Chapter 11

London

Abby

This has got to be one of the most beautiful cities in the world. I stare out the window from the backseat of the black BMW as it passes through Westminster Bridge, taking in the views of the Thames, Westminster Palace, and the famous Big Ben against the windswept clouds of the blue London sky, the London Eye peeking in the rearview mirror.

I still can’t believe that I’m in London. I’ve always wanted to go, seduced by the Victorian romance novels I read late into the night as a teenager, by the city’s history, its music icons, its royal allure and, of course, by the magic of West End.

Now that I’m here, I can’t wait to catch a show or two, to visit the museums, to explore the palaces, watch the Changing of the Guard, stroll through Hyde Park, go shopping in Harrods and Covent Garden, ride the Eye, cruise along the Thames, eat Yorkshire pudding. Ah, there’s just so much I want to do with Grant in this grand and beautiful city.

Before we can get a chance to do any of the items on my list, though, Grant and I have to do what we came to do – visit his grandfather.

Leaning on the backseat, I glance at Grant, who’s also looking out the window. Unlike me, though, he doesn’t look the least bit thrilled. Rather, he seems deep in thought. Reminiscing, maybe? Or is he worried about his grandfather? Of course, he is. As much as he may hate his grandfather, they are family.

I place my hand over his. “Don’t worry. I’m sure your grandfather is all right.”

He turns to me. “What gave you the idea that I was thinking about him?”

“He is why we’re here,” I point out. “How much longer until we get to your house?”

“It’s not my house,” Grant answers. He glances at his watch. “We should be there in less than fifteen minutes.”

I nod. “Okay.”

The moment we pass through the black gates, I realize that it’s not just a house. It’s a mansion, more so than the one back in New York. Indeed, the structure looks three times bigger and decades older, an imposing relic of the past.

“Wow,” I say as I get out of the car, staring at the façade. “You didn’t tell me you lived in a castle, Grant.”

“Technically, it’s not a castle,” Grant corrects. “But I think it’s as old as one.”

“Welcome back, Master Ainsworth,” the butler, a man in his fifties with gray hair and a faint mustache, greets him with a polite bow at the front steps. “I trust your trip was well.”

Of course, there’d be a butler.

“How many times have I told you not to call me master, Oliver? You don’t work for me,” Grant tells him. “Also, my surname is Herbert, not Ainsworth. Surely you remember.”

“Beg your pardon.” Oliver gives another bow. “Old habits do die hard.” He turns to me with a smile. “You must be Miss Gomez. Roger told me we should expect you. I’ve had a room prepared—”

“She sleeps with me,” Grant interrupts, placing his arm around me. “Where is Grandfather?”

“In his chambers, of course,” Oliver answers. “Your grandmother is there, too.”

“Good. We’ll go there. No need to escort us.”

Grant leads me up the steps and into the mansion. “I never did like him.”

“It’s obvious.”

“Don’t be fooled by his politeness,” Grant tells me, holding my hand. “He’s a snake, completely devoted to my grandfather.”

“Don’t worry. I don’t trust him one bit. I don’t trust men with mustaches, remember?”

As we go from room to room, I forget all about the butler, the furniture and the décor grabbing my attention and taking my breath away. The interior is twice as opulent as that of the New York mansion, and I swear some of the furniture is made of real gold. So it’s true. Grant is descended from nobility, and I’m sure this mansion was handed down from them.

“This place is magnificent,” I gasp, pausing to admire the chandeliers.

Grant pauses as well. “It’s a gilded cage. That’s what it is.”

Of course. The mansion must hold many unpleasant memories for him.

“If you hate this place so much, then why is the New York mansion so much like it?” I ask as we continue walking, coming to a grand, imperial staircase that reminds me of the entrance to a theater.

“Because my mother was the one who bought that house and had it decorated,” Grant answers. He pauses on a step, his eyebrows creasing. “I never told you?”

“No.”

Although that explains the portrait of his mother over the mantel.

“As she lay dying, my grandfather finally granted her request and gave her some of his fortune to spend as she wished,” Grant explains, going up the steps. “And she bought a house with it.”

“I see.” I place my arm in his.

“Cruel, isn’t it? The fortune was rightfully hers, yet she had to beg for it. And then she only managed to have it when she could no longer enjoy it all because of one single mistake she made – me. That’s how cruel my grandfather is.”

I frown, going the rest of the way quietly. If Grant’s grandfather truly is a monster, I’m not sure I want to meet him. Part of me fears him, and another part fears I might push him down these stairs for all the suffering he’s put Grant through.

He’s sick, remember?

Right. At any rate, I shouldn’t be thinking such thoughts. I’ll behave like a proper lady, I promise.

Speaking of a proper lady, as we go around a corner to a short hallway, I see a woman near a door, a maid beside her. My guess is she’s in her late sixties. She looks like she’s in perfect health, though; fit to carry a horse. She has an air of confidence about her that seems to teeter toward superiority. Her wavy hair and long-sleeved dress with the funnel neckline and the puffed sleeves look seemingly straight out of a Victorian novel. All she’s missing is a jeweled fan and a hat... and something tells me she has several of each.

“Grant.” She extends her arm and Grant kisses her hand. “Finally, you’re here.”

“Abby, this is my grandmother, Matilda Ainsworth,” Grant introduces us. “Grandmother, this is Abby.”

I resist the urge to perform a curtsy.

“And who is she?” Mrs. Ainsworth lifts her eyebrows.

“My girlfriend,” Grant says.

The label takes me by surprise, never having been used before. At the same time, it makes me blush.

The gaze of Grant’s grandmother sweeps me from head to toe. “I see.”

I wait for her to extend her arm to me and when she doesn’t, I just give a slight bow and a weak smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

She doesn’t answer, obviously not feeling any sort of pleasure to meet me.

“How is Grandfather?” Grant asks.

“He’s feeling better now. You can see it for yourself.”

“I will.”

Grant reaches for my hand and heads to the door. I follow him but his grandmother’s arm gets in my way like the clearance bar to a parking lot.

“I don’t think my husband is well enough to receive guests right now, especially not strangers,” Mrs. Ainsworth says. “Shall we go have some tea in the parlor downstairs?”

Grant frowns as he tugs on my arm. “Abby’s coming with me, Grandmother.”

“She is not.” Mrs. Ainsworth’s arm does not move, her chin held high.

“Grandmother…”

“It’s fine.” I reluctantly let go of Grant’s hand, not wanting to start a fight outside his sick grandfather’s bedroom. “I was thirsty anyway. I’ll wait for you downstairs.”

Grant’s eyes narrow in concern. “Are you sure?”

I nod. “Go and see your grandfather then tell me about him later.”

Of course I don’t want him to leave me alone, but Grant seeing his grandfather is what’s more important. It’s what he came to London to do.

He seems to have come to the same conclusion because he turns his back on me, opening the door.

“Come with me,” Mrs. Ainsworth orders.

I follow. I have a feeling that, in this mansion, Mrs. Ainsworth’s words are law. And here I thought it was Grant’s grandfather who was scary.

Well, maybe that’s why he’s mean, because his wife is so… cold.

As I follow her in silence, the song “Prima Donna” from Phantom of the Opera starts playing in my mind.

“Your name is Abby?” Mrs. Ainsworth’s question disrupts my silent solo.

“Yes.”

I feel like I should use a polite form of address, but I’m not sure which one’s appropriate.

“That’s your real name?”

“It’s short for Abigail.”

“Why not use Abigail?”

Why does it matter?

“My mother called me Abby,” I answer as we go down the stairs.

“And where is your mother?”

What is this? An interrogation?

“She’s gone now.”

“Ah.”

No sorry. Just ah.

“You’re American?” she asks after a few seconds.

“I grew up in the US,” I answer. “But I was born in the Philippines.”

She snorts.

How rude. And I should be used to this kind of treatment by now, but coming from Grant’s grandmother, it seems more offensive.

“What do you do?” she asks. “Do you have a job?”

“I’m a personal assistant,” I tell her.

“A servant?”

I frown. “No. More like a secretary but with—”

“A glorified maid,” she says.

I have to admit, she’s starting to get on my nerves.

“I assist Grant in administrative matters,” I explain.

“So you work for him?”

“Yes.”

“And yet you slept with him.” She stops and turns to me. “Have you no shame?”

Her words feel like a slap in the face, stopping me in my tracks. I want to retaliate but I’m not sure I should, plus I can’t seem to think of anything to say.

She gives another snort.

Why the…?

Then she continues walking. I follow her reluctantly, more slowly, taking deep breaths to calm myself down.

She’s an old woman, Abby, even though she is a bitch.

As we pass by a room, I catch a glimpse of some maids looking in my direction. As soon as our gazes meet, though, they look away, some of them even scurrying off like rats.

I wish I could scurry off right now.

“How many men have you been with?” Mrs. Ainsworth asks, not done with her questioning. “Have you ever been with child?”

This is not an interrogation. It’s an inquisition. And I’m done.

“I would rather not discuss such insignificant matters,” I tell her. “After all, we are strangers. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Suit yourself.”

Finally, we reach the parlor room, a spacious room that has nothing but chairs of all shapes and sizes, floor-to-ceiling windows, and glass doors leading to the garden. Mrs. Ainsworth sits on the divan, and I sit on the curved wooden stool with the velvet cushion. Shortly after, a maid enters with a silver tea cart.

And here I thought they didn’t make such things anymore.

The maid pours Mrs. Ainsworth a cup of tea from the pot then as she is about to pour another, Mrs. Ainsworth stops her.

“Abby will not have tea,” she says. “Get her a glass of water. After all, she’s thirsty.”

I stand up. “Actually, I’m not thirsty. I’d rather have some fresh air. Would you mind if I take a walk in your garden?”

To my relief, Mrs. Ainsworth shakes her head. “Not at all. Please enjoy.”

Pushing the glass door open, I step into the garden. I follow the stone path and heave a sigh of relief as soon as I’m far from the house. I swear Grant’s grandmother is suffocating. The farther away I am from her, the better.

I sit on a bench, breathing in the fresh air and enjoying its caress on my face, willing it to soothe Mrs. Ainsworth’s slapping comments and erase her snorts from my mind. After just a few minutes, I feel better.

I may have had a rough morning, but I’m still in London and a whole magical adventure still awaits me.

Suddenly, I hear a twig break. I turn my head, smiling as I see Grant.

“Ah, there you are.” He smiles back, planting a kiss on my hair before sitting beside me. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

“I thought you were with your grandfather. What happened?”

“He was his usual charming self.” He places his arm around me. “He said he wasn’t dying or anything close to that, and that I should just leave.”

“Wow.”

“What about you? I thought you were with my grandmother.”

I place my hand on his lap. “She’s her usual charming self, too. Very charming.”

“That’s her all right.” Grant chuckles then reaches for my hand. “Let’s forget about them, shall we? Let’s leave this miserable place and go have fun.”

I nod. “I’d love that.”

I place my arm in his once more as we get off the bench, a wide smile on my face as we walk down the stone path. That smile vanishes, though, after a few steps, when a maid is standing in our way.

A maid with a villainous expression and a knife in her hand.

What the hell is wrong with this place?

“Easy,” Grant warns her, standing in front of me. “You might hurt yourself with that thing.”

“No, I won’t.” She lifts the knife. “But I’ll kill you with this thing.”

She must be mad. This place must have driven her mad. And the thing is, I don’t blame her.

“Listen,” I tell her. “We don’t mean you any harm. If there’s anything we can do to help you, we—”

“Quiet!” she scolds me, pointing her knife at me. “This is not about you. It’s about him.”

“Me?” Grant’s eyebrows crease.

“You’re Grant Ainsworth, right?”

“Grant Herbert,” he corrects. “But I think you have the same person.”

“You slept with my mother,” the maid accuses. “She was a maid here, too, long ago. Her name was Emily.”

“I’m sorry.” Grant shakes his head. “I don’t remember.”

The maid points the knife at him. “You seduced her and you slept with her and because of that, my father left us.”

I blink. Grant did all that?

“Put down the knife,” Grant tells her, his hands raised. “And we’ll talk.”

“I don’t want any talk. I’ve waited a long time for this. Now, you die.”

She lifts the knife and starts rushing toward Grant and me. Out of nowhere, Roger jumps out, pinning her to the ground before she can reach us. Quickly, he disarms her, tossing the knife aside.

Wow. I knew Roger was skilled, but seeing it with my own eyes sure is something.

“I’ll take care of her,” Roger promises, pulling the maid to her feet. “Or, rather, Oliver will.”

The maid, however, isn’t done. She struggles, and when she realizes it’s to no avail, she shouts at Grant.

“You’ll pay for what you’ve done! And as for you…” She turns to me. “You better run away from this man while you can. He has a heart of stone like his grandfather. He’s just using you, and he’ll ruin your life, too.”

“All right, that’s enough.” Roger hauls the maid away. “I don’t usually hit women but don’t tempt me.”

They leave. I heave a sigh of relief.

“Are you all right?” Grant places a hand on my back.

“Yeah.” I nod, placing my hand over his. “It’s a good thing Roger’s around. Is it true, though? Did you really seduce her mother?”

Grant shrugs. “I did seduce a handful of maids, though. It was the only way for me to be able to do things without my grandparents’ knowledge.” He touches my cheek. “I’m not proud of it, though, and I definitely promise that it will not happen again.”

I nod, believing him. And I’m not mad at him. After all, when I decided to accept him, I decided to accept all of him, including his past and his mistakes.

Something else bothers me – the fact that that maid, whatever her name was, and Lindsey said the same thing. They both said Grant was just using me.

I glance at Grant. I can tell that he cares about me. Even so, my deeply rooted fears can’t help but rear their ugly heads, my instinct kicking in.

What if he is just using me?