Grace smiled back, clapping her hands in delight.
“Well then, my dear, if we are to whip you into shape, there is certainly no time like the present. Pray remember that showing any overt enthusiasm, no matter how fortuitous the information you are receiving, is considered very bad form within theton. That, more than anything else will focus attention on both your background and lack of breeding.
“And Grace, it will make not one jot of difference that your husband is a Duke if thetoncollectively decides to hold you in contempt.”
Grace stared at her new mentor in trepidation. “But surely not everyone would give us the cut direct. Why you yourself Felicity stated not a few moments ago that you personally pay no heed to gossip.”
Miss Beaumont shook her head sadly. “People like me do not count my dear. We are simply invisible to those who set the rules. My advice would be to listen and pay heed to my advice without intimating whence it came.”
Grace frowned. “You are painting a verybleak picture of the members of London’s Fashionable Society. I cannot help but wonder whether it might behove me to simply return to Devonshire and therefore avoid any prospect of irreparably ruining the Sinclair name.”
“Unfortunately, that in itself would be enough to feed the gossipmongers, my dear,” Felicity responded with a rueful smile. “For good or ill, you married into one of England’s highest-ranking families, and thetonwill have their pound of flesh. No Grace, our best course of action is to ensure that you are a success when making your formal bow. Then, and only then should you still wish it, you may return to the wilds of Devonshire with both the Sinclair name and your own reputation intact.”
∞∞∞
Nicholas wondered whether he had been completely beef witted in leaving Grace to form her own opinion of Miss Beaumont. It clearly flew in the face of everything he’d been taught. But therein lay the rub. Nicholas was determined he would not be as his father. Truth be told, his thoughts were turning more and more to his wife. In day to day matters, he found himself wondering what Grace would think in each situation, what she would do. He’d sworn he would never allow himself to get close to another human being after losing both his brother and his son, but despite his efforts to keep his distance, Nicholas feared he was becoming entirely too comfortable with her presence. And even more disconcerting, he found himself wanting to make her happy - and not just in the bedroom.
Frowning, he looked down at the accounts he was working on. His father had left the Sinclair finances in a very healthy position, but the current state of the townhouse indicated just how miserly he had become in his latter years.
The Sinclair London abode had urgent need of improvement. Nicholas had ensured its smooth running by substantially increasing the number of servants under its roof, but the furnishings remained dark and dreary no matter how much they were cleaned and polished. Nicholas had no interest in choosing their replacement apart from removing the overpowering imprint of his father which seemed to permeate everything.
Of a sudden, he wondered whether Grace would consider staying in London beyond the end of the Season to oversee any renovations while he returned to Blackmore. Surely she would enjoy shopping for the latest fripperies. If he could persuade her to do so, he would be killing two birds with one stone in eradicating the uncomfortable presence of the old Duke and distancing himself from his wife’s allure.
Putting his seal on the last document with a flourish, the current Duke of Blackmore did not stop to wonder why his perfect solution didn’t make him feel happier.
∞∞∞
The Reverend Shackleford couldn’t help wondering whether his current troubles had been sent by the Almighty to test him. Frowning into his ale tankard, he shook his head sadly. He had always been on such good terms with God. He worked tirelessly for the good of his congregation and his family. Why the church coffers were healthier than they’d been in a decade, and he had not only secured his eldest daughter an incomparable match but done his utmost to ensure she didn’t make a complete cake of herself and ruin them all in the process.
Sighing, he took a sip of his ale before finally admitting to himself that his plan to kidnap Grace had not been one of his better ideas. Percy, usually his loyal companion,had spent most of the last two weeks on his knees. The Reverend had finally only put his foot down when his curate requested a hair shirt. He would never have believed that Percy would turn out to be such a chucklehead.
The problem was Percy Noon was the Reverend’s sole confidant - apart from his Creator, and there were some things it did not behove a vicar to chat with the Almighty about. Kidnapping and the resulting Devil’s own scrape being one of them. It was clear that his curate was wallowing in the very depths of remorse over their escapade, which was all very well, but Percy’s regret didn’t solve the problem of potential repercussions.
In particular, the fact that they had been spied upon by the little varmint who’d brought the Duke’s original letter to the door. Now the rapscallion was demanding a whole shilling to keep his mouth shut.
If the Good Lord did not frown on murder, the Reverend would be sorely tempted.
As it was, for possibly the first time ever, he was at a loss as to what to do. And without Percy, he had no one with whom to formulate a plan. Gloomily, he stared down into the depths of his ale. There was no getting away from it, he’d made a mull of the whole thing, and now the Almighty was punishing him.
“Now then sir, it’s not often I get to see a man of the cloth in such a fit of the blue-devils. Allow me to procure you another ale, and if you have a mind, partake of some lively conversation to lift your spirits.”
Startled, the Reverend looked up at the large jovial-sounding individual standing in front of him. The candlelight in the Red Lion was only sufficient for him to receive a vague impression, and under more usual circumstances, he would have sent the presumptuous fellow on his way.
However, on this occasion, three things conspired to ensure Augustus Shackleford’s ruin. The first being the fact that he wassorely in need of a sympathetic ear; the second that Freddy, who could spot an ivory tuner from twenty yards away, had unusually remained at home; and thirdly, the Reverend didn’t have enough coin in his pocket for another pint.
Chapter Fifteen
Grace spent the days prior to the Marquis of Blanchford’s ball almost entirely with her new companion. Felicity Beaumont proved to be excellent company, possessing a dry wit that served as a perfect foil for Grace’s more impetuous personality.
They remained for the most part within the townhouse, but on occasion indulged in an early morning stroll in the gardens in the centre of the square opposite. When Grace chafed at their confinement, her companion sternly informed her that a duchess of the realm should under no circumstances be seen out and about dressed as a milkmaid lest she be the object of not only censure but also ridicule. “And,” she informed Grace severely, “thetonare veritable experts at ridicule.”
Since this observation touched on Grace’s very fears, she forbore to mention it again, and swallowing her anxiety, applied herself diligently to absorbing the rules of comportment and propriety drilled into her on a daily basis by Miss Beaumont.
She met with Nicholas every evening for dinner which by the same necessity consisted of only the two of them. For Grace, the time they spent together was bittersweet. While she craved her husband’s company, it was difficult to hold any kind of conversation when they were seated at opposite ends of the dining table. She found herself longing for the sunny breakfast room back at Blackmore.
She was unsure of the Duke’s plans once her official come-out was over. Would he wish to stay longer in London? While it would be nice to finally have the opportunity to give and receive calls, to sample the delights of Vauxhall Gardens, or simply promenade in Hyde Park, Grace couldn’t help but feel an imposter. She would never be all the crack. Apart from anything else, she was far too clumsy. The most she could hope for was that she didn’t embarrass her husband, and the longer she stayed in London, the more likely that event would be. In truth, she hankered after the rolling hills of Devonshire with the distant smell of the sea and the almost constant cawing of seagulls. At her very heart, she was a country girl, and she knew deep down inside that was all she would ever be, no matter what title she wore.
Lost in her thoughts, it was a while before Grace became aware that Nicholas was speaking to her, and she hurriedly put down her spoon, misjudging the angle of her bowl in her haste and watching with dismay as it tumbled to the floor. Colour flooded her face as Bailey laboriously bent down to retrieve the silverware, dabbing carefully at the resulting stain on the floor.
