“A visitor has arrived asking to speak with you. I’ve put him in the formal parlor.” Mrs. Milner, the housekeeper at the vicarage, appeared slightly flustered. “He says he’s the Duke of Melborne,” she confided in a whisper.
“He is,” Grace confirmed heavily, having already seen and recognized the ducal seal on the black lacquered horse-drawn carriage when it came to a halt outside the vicarage a few minutes ago.
For a few brief moments, Grace had been elated at the thought of seeing Alaric again. Before she reminded herself of exactly why they had parted so acrimoniously four days earlier. Grace had convinced herself these past four days that she would never set eyes on Alaric again.
An acceptance, knowing she was deeply in love with him, which caused her heart to ache every time she thought of it. Which was often.
Luckily, the two gentleman who had traveled in the carriage with her for much of the journey to Devon had chosen to ignore, as men often did, her silent tears. The lady with two small children who had joined them inside the coach the following day had been far too busy with the antics of her children to concern herself with someone else’s woes.
She had no idea why Alaric was here, only two days after her own arrival, in the vicarage of Grace’s father and asking to see her. Although she could not believe it could be for pleasant reasons.
Certainly not that he returned the love she felt for him.
He had looked his normally aloof and arrogantly ducal self when Grace had watched from the family parlor a short time ago as he alighted from the carriage. Luckily, she had already stepped away from being seen at the window before Alaric had finished placing his hat upon his head and turned in the direction of the vicarage.
“Would you ask my father to join us?” If Grace had to speak to Alaric, and she knew him well enough to know that he would not leave until he had done so when he had stated that was his purpose for being here, then he could do so with her adopted father present. “I believe Papa is in his study writing the sermon for Sunday’s service.” Grace had been back in Barstock for just over a day, but already she had fallen into the day-to-day rhythms here.
The housekeeper shook her head. “The vicar has gone across to the church with the other visitor.”
Grace frowned. “What other visitor?”
“I didn’t catch his name, but it’s that same gentleman that came visiting Christmas before last.”
Grace stilled. “The Earl of Redding?”
“That’s the one.” Mrs. Milner gave a beaming smile.
George was also here?
Grace had not seen the arrival of a second carriage, which must surely mean the two men had arrived in the ducal carriage?
Alaric and George had traveled to Devon together?
What had Alaric done?
The only way Grace could possibly know that was to ask him.
Even so, she paused to check her appearance in the hall mirror before entering the more formal parlor where the haughty Duke of Melborne was waiting to speak to her, no doubt impatiently.
Her reflection showed her cheeks were pale, and her eyes lacked their usual sparkle. She could do nothing about the sparkle, but she gave her cheeks a pinch to bring the color back into them. Her hair was unadorned and pulled neatly back and secured at her crown, as was her custom in Devon. The dark brown gown she wore was also one of the more staid styles she favored when living at the vicarage, being long-sleeved and buttoned up to her throat. It was slightly loose on her too, Grace having lost weight due to not having had an appetite since she left London. She also wore serviceable brown ankle boots, fit for the walking she often did about the parish.
A part of her wished she could go upstairs and change into something more fashionable and becoming, but another part of her said it shouldn’t matter what Alaric thought of her appearance. Not when common sense cautioned that she shouldn’t still be in love with the man who had merely used her as a pawn to elicit information about her brother.
Unfortunately, knowing that did absolutely nothing to lessen the love Grace knew she still felt for Alaric.
Nor did it stop her hands from shaking or her heart racing at the mere thought of seeing and being with him again.
Which she must do, whether she wished to or not. If only so that she could demand to know what he was doing here in the company of her brother.
Something Grace did hesitate to do the moment she entered the formal parlor and saw Alaric standing hatless in front of the window with his back to the room. “Why has George gone to the church with my father?”
Alaric turned quickly at the sound of Grace’s voice, his heart lurching in his chest as he hungrily drank in the sight of her following a four-day dearth, as she stepped into the room.
The first two of those days had been spent dealing with matters in London that would make Alaric’s visit to Devon more amenable.
The past two days of travel had each felt like a month.
Not least because Alaric had traveled in the company of George Harper, a man with whom he had previously only had a nodding acquaintance.
Alaric should, of course, have accepted the other man’s suggestion that he drive to Devon in his own carriage, but at the time, Alaric had only wished to depart for Devon as soon as possible. Bringing Redding with him in the ducal carriage had seemed the most efficient way of accomplishing that.
It had also given the two men time to talk, as well as a chance for Alaric to admit to having suspected Redding of being complicit in Plymouth’s murder. Redding had initially been angered by Alaric’s suspicion, but by the end of the journey, the two men had reached a level of understanding, if not friendship.
A friendship Alaric wished to continue nurturing as much as he wished to see Grace again.
Now that he was standing in the same room with her, he could see that she didn’t look happy. Grace was still beautiful, but it was an ethereal, almost unearthly beauty.
She somehow looked smaller, slighter, and her cheeks were deathly pale. Her green eyes were wary as she looked across at him, containing none of that mischievous and determined sparkle he had so loved and appreciated in the past. Her brown high-necked and long-sleeved gown did little to complement her creamy skin or the darkness of her hair, but instead seemed to add to the fragility of her appearance.
“Are you ill?” He voiced his concern as he crossed the room in two strides to grasp both her hands in his. His fingers tightened about hers as she immediately tried to pull away.
“Release me,” she demanded stiffly.
“You do not look well—” His words were cut off at the sound of her scornful laughter.
“I asked you why George has gone over to the church with my father?” she repeated firmly, continuing her effort to free her hands from his.
Alaric released her even as he winced at her uncompromising tone. “They have gone to collect the register for births and deaths for 1795.”
She looked taken aback. “Why?”
“Because that is the year you were born, and your mother died shortly thereafter.”
She eyed him impatiently. “I am well aware of that. I simply fail to see why it is of such relevance at this moment that George has gone to the church with my father rather than come into the vicarage to greet to me.”
Alaric’s expression softened. “Never fear, your brother still absolutely adores you.” He had listened to the other man waxing lyrical about her for hours during their journey here. Not that Alaric wasn’t happy to do so. He had even done some “waxing lyrical” of his own, with not a care that he had probably sounded like a lovesick fool doing so. “It is only that the register is of paramount importance to our conversation.”
“What conversation?” Her voice rose as her irritation deepened.
“The one where I tell you that, as Melborne suspected might be the case, you were officially registered as Lady Grace Elizabeth Marie Harper,” George announced with satisfaction as he entered the parlor carrying a large tome. He was closely followed by her adoptive father. “A legitimacy which was not disputed during my father’s lifetime and will not be disputed now by the present Earl of Redding. You are now, and have always been, Lady Grace Harper, sister to the Earl of Redding,” he stated cheerfully as he placed the book on the tabletop before turning it to the appropriate page. “The evidence is right there, written and signed by the vicar who would later become your adoptive father, and the mother we share.”
Alaric tensed as, instead of checking the registry, Grace turned to look at him. From the lack of expression on Grace’s face, he was as unsure as he had been before leaving London whether she wished to thank him or berate him for his interference.
“You did this?” she said slowly.
“I did,” he confirmed warily.
“For what reason?”
That was the last reaction Alaric had been expecting. “Surely it is obvious?”
“Not to me.”
“Grace—”
“All is well, Papa.” She soothed her adoptive father’s concern before turning back to Alaric. “I simply wish to know why the Duke of Melborne has bothered to put himself to the trouble of learning who or what I am or am not, and then traveling all the way to Devon to confirm and impart that knowledge to me.”
There were two possible answers to this question, and Alaric had no idea which one Grace would be the least upset about, or if he should just say both of them and hope for the best?
Either way, his own fate was now in Grace’s delicate—and hopefully merciful—hands.