Mr. Cavendish, I Presume

“We are both unharmed,” she assured him, “although our driver has a nasty bump on his head. I took the liberty of giving him three days to convalesce.”

“Of course,” he said, but inside he was berating himself. He should not have allowed them to travel alone. He should have realized they’d be returning late. And what of the Willoughbys? It was unlikely their carriage would have been accosted; they would have traveled in the opposite direction. But still, this did not sit well with him. “I must offer my apologies,”

he said. “I should have insisted that you take more than one outrider.”

“Don’t be silly,” Grace responded. “It’s not your fault. Who would have—” She shook her head. “We are unhurt. That is all that matters.”

“What did they take?” he asked, because it seemed an obvious question.

“Not very much,” Grace said lightly, sounding as if she was attempting to minimize the situation. “Nothing at all from me. I imagine it was obvious I am not a woman of means.”

“Grandmother must be spitting mad.”

“She is a bit overset,” Grace admitted.

He almost laughed. Inappropriate and unkind, he knew, but he had always adored understatement. “She was wearing her emeralds, wasn’t she?” He shook

his head. “The old bat is ridiculously fond of those stones.”

“She kept the emeralds, actually,” Grace replied, and he knew that she must be exhausted, because she did not scold him for calling his grandmother an old bat.

“She hid them under the seat cushions.”

He was impressed despite himself. “She did?”

“I did,” Grace corrected. “She thrust them at me before they breached the vehicle.”

He smiled at her resourcefulness, and then, after a moment of uncharacteristically awkward silence, he said, “You did not mention why you’re up and about so late. Surely you deserve a rest as well.”

She hemmed and hawed, leaving him to wonder what on earth could have her feeling so embarrassed. Finally she admitted, “Your grandmother has a strange request.”

“All of her requests are strange,” he replied immediately.

“No, this one . . . well . . . ” She let out an exasperated sigh. “I don’t suppose you’d like to help me remove a painting from the gallery.”

Not what he was expecting. “A painting,” he echoed.

She nodded.

“From the gallery.”

She nodded again.

He tried to imagine . . . then gave up. “I don’t suppose she’s asking for one of those modestly sized square ones.”

She looked as if she might smile. “With the bowls of fruit?”

He nodded.

“No.”

Good Lord, his grandmother had finally gone insane.

This was a good thing, really. Perhaps he could have her committed to an asylum. He could not imagine anyone would protest.

“She wants the portrait of your uncle.”

“My uncle? Which one?”

“John.”

Thomas nodded, wondering why he’d even asked.

He’d never known his uncle, of course; John Cavendish perished a year before he was born. But Belgrave Castle had long lived under his shadow. The dowager had always loved her middle son best, and everyone had known it, especially her other sons. “He was always her favorite,” he murmured.

Grace looked at him quizzically. “But you never knew him.”

“No, of course not,” he said brusquely. “He died before I was born. But my father spoke of him.”

Quite often. And never with fondness.

Still, he supposed he should help Grace wrestle the painting from the wall. The poor girl would be unable to manage it herself. He shook his head. “Isn’t that portrait life-sized?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Good Lord. The things his grandmother did . . . No.

No. He wasn’t going to do it.

He looked Grace squarely in the eye. “No,” he said.

“You will not get that for her this evening. If she wants

the bloody painting in her room, she can ask a footman for it in the morning.”

“I assure you, I want nothing more than to retire this very minute, but it is easier just to accommodate her.”

“Absolutely not,” Thomas replied. Good Lord, his grandmother was enough of a terror as it was. He turned and marched up the stairs, intending to give her the tongue-lashing she so sorely deserved, but halfway up he realized he was alone.

What was it with the women of Lincolnshire this evening?

“Grace!” he barked.

And then, when she did not materialize immediately at the foot of the stairs, he ran down and said it louder.

“Grace!”

“I’m right here,” she retorted, hurrying around the corner. “Good gracious, you’ll wake the entire house.”

He ignored that. “Don’t tell me you were going to get the painting by yourself.”

“If I don’t, she will ring for me all night, and then I will never get any sleep.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Watch me.”

She looked alarmed. “Watch you what?”

“Dismantle her bell cord,” he said, heading upstairs with renewed purpose.

“Dismantle her . . . Thomas!”

He didn’t bother to stop. He could hear her scurrying along behind him, almost able to keep up.

“Thomas, you can’t,” she huffed, out of breath from taking the stairs two at a time.

He stopped and turned. Grinned, even, because really, this was almost fun. “I own the house,” he said.