(Elizabeth, sister that she was, said it was closer to three, but still, the poor girl had been dangling like a string for years.)
“Books!” Elizabeth announced as they entered the hall. “As promised.”
At her behest, Elizabeth’s mother had borrowed several books from the dowager. Not that Lady Crowland actually read the books. Lady Crowland read very little outside the gossip pages, but returning them was a fine pretext to visit Belgrave, and she was always in favor of anything that placed Amelia in the vicinity of Thomas.
No one had the heart to tell her that Amelia rarely even saw Thomas when she was at Belgrave. Most of the time, she was forced to endure the dowager’s company-company, however, being perhaps too generous a word to describe Augusta Cavendish whilst standing before the young lady who was meant to carry on the Wyndham line.
The dowager was very good at finding fault. One might even call it her greatest talent.
And Amelia was her favorite subject.
But today she had been spared. The dowager was still upstairs, reading her dead son’s Latin conjugations, and so Amelia had ended up sipping tea while Grace and Elizabeth chatted.
Or rather, Elizabeth chatted. It was all Grace could do to nod and murmur in the appropriate moments. One would think her tired mind would go utterly blank, but the opposite was true. She could not stop thinking about the highwayman. And his kiss. And his identity. And his kiss. And if she would meet him again. And that he’d kissed her. And-
And she had to stop thinking about him. It was madness. She looked over at the tea tray, wondering if it would be rude to eat the last biscuit.
“-certain you are well, Grace?” Elizabeth said, reaching forward to clasp her hand. “You look very tired.”
Grace blinked, trying to focus on her dear friend’s face. “I’m sorry,” she said reflexively. “I am quite tired, although that is not an excuse for my inattention.”
Elizabeth grimaced. She knew the dowager. They all did. “Did she keep you up late last night?”
Grace nodded. “Yes, although, truthfully, it was not her fault.”
Elizabeth glanced to the doorway to make sure no one was listening before she replied, “It is always her fault.”
Grace smiled wryly. “No, this time it really wasn’t. We were…” Well, really, was there any reason not to tell Elizabeth? Thomas already knew, and surely it would be all over the district by nightfall. “We were accosted by highwaymen, actually.”
“Oh, my heavens! Grace!” Elizabeth hastily set down her teacup. “No wonder you appear so distracted!”
“Hmmm?” Amelia had been staring off into space, as she frequently did while Grace and Elizabeth were nattering on, but this had clearly got her attention.
“I am quite recovered,” Grace assured her. “Just a bit tired, I’m afraid. I did not sleep well.”
“What happened?” Amelia asked.
Elizabeth actually shoved her. “Grace and the dowager were accosted by highwaymen!”
“Really?”
Grace nodded. “Last night. On the way home from the assembly.” And then she thought-Good Lord, if the highwayman is really the dowager’s grandson, and he is legitimate, what happens to Amelia?
But he wasn’t legitimate. He couldn’t be. He might very well be a Cavendish by blood, but surely not by birth. Sons of dukes did not leave legitimate offspring littering the countryside. It simply did not happen.
“Did they take anything?” Amelia asked.
“How can you be so dispassionate?” Elizabeth demanded. “They pointed a gun at her!” She turned to Grace. “Did they?”
Grace saw it again in her mind-the cold round end of the pistol, the slow, seductive gaze of the highwayman. He wouldn’t have shot her. She knew that now. But still, she murmured, “They did, actually.”
“Were you terrified?” Elizabeth asked breathlessly. “I would have been. I would have swooned.”
“I wouldn’t have swooned,” Amelia remarked.
“Well, of course you wouldn’t,” Elizabeth said irritably. “You didn’t even gasp when Grace told you about it.”
“It sounds rather exciting, actually.” Amelia looked at Grace with great interest. “Was it?”
And Grace-Good heavens, she felt herself blush.
Amelia leaned forward, her eyes lighting up. “Was he handsome, then?”
Elizabeth looked at her sister as if she were mad. “Who?”
“The highwayman, of course.”
Grace stammered something and pretended to drink her tea.
“He was,” Amelia said triumphantly.
“He was wearing a mask,” Grace felt compelled to point out.
“But you could still tell that he was handsome.”
“No!”
“Then his accent was terribly romantic. French? Italian?” Amelia’s eyes grew even wider. “Spanish.”
“You’ve gone mad,” Elizabeth said.
“He didn’t have an accent,” Grace retorted. Then she thought of that lilt, that devilish little lift in his voice that she couldn’t quite place. “Well, not much of one. Scottish, perhaps? Irish? I couldn’t tell, precisely.”
Amelia sat back with a happy sigh. “A highwayman. How romantic.”
“Amelia Willoughby!” Elizabeth scolded. “Grace was just attacked at gunpoint, and you are calling it romantic?”
Amelia opened her mouth to reply, but just then they heard footsteps in the hall.
“The dowager?” Elizabeth whispered to Grace, looking very much as if she’d like to be wrong.