Читать книгу Persuasion - Бренда Джойс, Brenda Joyce - Страница 8

CHAPTER ONE

Greystone Manor, Cornwall

April 4, 1794

GRENVILLE’S WIFE WAS DEAD.

Amelia Greystone stared at her brother, not even seeing him, a stack of plates in her hands.

“Did you hear what I said?” Lucas asked, his gray eyes filled with concern. “Lady Grenville died last night giving birth to an infant daughter.”

His wife was dead.

Amelia was paralyzed. There was news every day about the war or the violence in France—all of it awful, all of it shocking. But she had not expected this.

How could Lady Grenville be dead? She was so elegant, so beautiful—and too young to die!

Amelia could barely think. Lady Grenville had never set foot in St. Just Hall since their marriage ten years ago, and neither had her husband. Then she had appeared in January at the earl’s ancestral home with her household and two sons—and a child obviously on the way. St. Just had not been with her.

Cornwall was a godforsaken place in general, but even worse in January. The region was frigidly cold and inhospitable in the midst of winter, when gale winds blew, and vicious storms swept the coast.

Who would come to the farthest end of the country in winter to give birth to a child? Her appearance had been so terribly strange.

Amelia had been as surprised as everyone else in the parish to hear that the countess was in residence, and when she had received an invitation to tea, she hadn’t even considered refusing. She had been very curious to meet Elizabeth Grenville, and not just because they were neighbors. She had wondered what the Countess of St. Just was like.

And she had been exactly what Amelia was expecting—blonde and beautiful, gracious, elegant and so very genteel. She had been perfect for the dark, brooding earl. Elizabeth Grenville was everything that Amelia Greystone was not.

And because Amelia had buried the past so long ago—a decade ago, in fact—she hadn’t once made the comparison. But now, as she stood there reeling in shock, she wondered suddenly if she had wished to inspect and interview the woman Grenville had decided to marry—the woman he had chosen instead of her.

Amelia trembled, holding the plates tightly to her chest. If she wasn’t careful, she would remember the past! She refused to believe that she had really wished to meet Lady Grenville in order to decide what she was like. She was horrified by the comprehension.

She had liked Elizabeth Grenville. And her own affair with Grenville had ended a decade ago.

She had dismissed it from her mind then. She did not want to go back in time now.

But suddenly she felt as if she were sixteen years old, young and beautiful, naive and trusting, and oh so vulnerable. It was as if she were in Simon Grenville’s powerful arms, awaiting his declaration of love and his marriage proposal.

She was stricken, but it was too late. A floodgate in her mind had opened. The heady images flashed—they were on the ground on a picnic blanket, they were in the maze behind the hall, they were in his carriage. He was kissing her wildly and she was kissing him back, and they were both in the throes of a very dangerous, mindless passion...

She inhaled, shaken by the sudden, jarring memory of that long-ago summer. He hadn’t ever been sincere. He hadn’t ever been courting her. She was sensible enough to know that now. Yet she had expected an offer of marriage from him and the betrayal had been devastating.

Why would Lady Grenville’s terrible death cause her to remember a time in her life when she had been so young and so foolish? She hadn’t given that summer a single thought in years, not even when she had been in Lady Grenville’s salon, sipping tea and discussing the war.

But Grenville was a widower now....

Lucas seized the pile of plates she was holding, jerking her back to reality. She simply stared at him, horrified by her last thought and afraid of what it might mean.

“Amelia?” he asked with concern.

She mustn’t think about the past. She did not know why those foolish memories had arisen, but she was a woman of twenty-six years now. That flirtation had to be forgotten. She hadn’t wanted to ever recall that encounter—or any other like it—again. That was why she had dismissed the affair from her mind all those years ago, when he had left Cornwall without a word, upon the heels of the tragic accident that had killed his brother.

It all had to be forgotten.

And it was forgotten! There had been heartache, of course, and grief, but she had moved on with her life. She had turned all of her attention to Momma, who was addled, her brothers and sister and the estate. She had genuinely managed to forget about him and their affair for an entire decade. She was a busy woman, with strained circumstances and onerous responsibilities. He had moved on, as well. He had married and had children.

And there were no regrets. Her family had needed her. It had been her duty to take care of them all, ever since she was a child, when Papa had abandoned them. But then the revolution had come, the war had begun, and everything had changed.

“You were about to drop the plates!” Lucas exclaimed. “Are you ill? You have turned as white as a sheet!”

She shivered. She certainly felt ill. But she was not going to allow the past, which was dead and buried, to affect her now. “This is terrible, a tragedy.”

His golden hair pulled casually back in a queue, Lucas studied her. He had only just walked in the door, having come from London—or so he claimed. He was tall and dashing in his emerald-velvet coat, his fawn breeches and stockings, as he spoke, “Come now, Amelia, why are you upset?”

She managed a tight smile. Why was she upset? This wasn’t about Grenville. A young, beautiful mother had died, leaving behind three small children. “She died giving birth to a third child, Lucas. And there are two small boys. I met her in February. She was as beautiful, as gracious, as elegant as everyone claimed.” It had been obvious from the moment she had walked into the salon why Grenville had chosen her. He was dark and powerful, she was fair and lighthearted. They had made the perfect aristocratic couple. “I was very impressed with her kindness and her hospitality. She was clever, too. We had an amusing conversation. This is a shame.”

“It is a shame. I am very sorry for those children and for St. Just.”

Amelia felt some of her composure returning. And while Grenville’s dark image seemed to haunt her now, her common sense returned. Lady Grenville was dead, leaving behind three small children. Her neighbors needed her condolences now, and possibly her help.

“Those poor boys—that poor infant! I feel so terribly for them!”

“It will be a rough patch,” Lucas agreed. He gave her an odd look. “One never gets accustomed to the young dying.”

She knew he was thinking about the war; she knew all about his wartime activities. But she kept thinking about those poor children now—which felt better, safer, than thinking about Grenville. She took the plates from Lucas and began setting the table grimly. She was so saddened for the children. Grenville was probably grieving, as well, but she did not want to consider him or his feelings, even if he was her neighbor.

She put the last plate down on the rather ancient dining-room table and stared at the highly polished, scarred wood. So much time had gone by. Once, she had been in love, but she certainly didn’t love Grenville now. Surely she could do what was right.

In fact, she hadn’t seen Simon Grenville in ten years. She probably wouldn’t even recognize him now. He was probably overweight. His hair might be graying. He would not be a dashing young rake, capable of making her heart race with a single, heavy look.

And he would hardly recognize her. She was still slender—too slender, in fact—and petite, but her looks had faded as all looks were prone to do. Although older gentlemen still glanced at her occasionally, she was hardly as pretty as she had once been.

She felt some small relief. That terrible attraction which had once raged would not burn now. And she would not be intimidated by him, as she had once been. After all, she was older and wiser now, too. She might be an impoverished gentlewoman, but what she lacked in means she made up for in character. Life had made her a strong and resolute woman.

So when she did see Grenville, she must offer her condolences, just as she would to any neighbor suffering from such a tragedy.

Amelia felt slightly better. There was some small relief. That silly memory had been just that—silly.

“I am sure the family is reeling,” Lucas was saying quietly. “She was certainly too young to die. St. Just must be in shock.”

Amelia looked up carefully. Lucas was right. Grenville had to have loved his beautiful wife very much. She cleared her throat. “You have taken me by surprise, Lucas, as you always do! I was hardly expecting you, and you step in the door, with such stunning news.”

He put his arm around her. “I am sorry. I heard about Lady Grenville when I stopped in Penzance to change carriages.”

“I am very concerned about the children. We must help the family in every way that we can.” She meant her every word. She never turned her back on anyone in need.

He smiled slightly. “Now that is the sister I know and love. Of course you are concerned. I am sure Grenville will make the appropriate arrangements for everyone, once he can think clearly.”

She stared thoughtfully. Grenville was undoubtedly in shock. Now, deliberately, she kept his dark, handsome image at bay—remembering that he was likely fat and gray. “Yes, of course he will.” She surveyed the cheerfully set table. It wasn’t easy making up a table, not when their circumstances were so pinched. The gardens were not yet in bloom, so the centerpiece was a tall silver candelabra, left over from better times. An ancient sideboard was the only piece of furniture in the room, and their best china was displayed there. Their hall was as sparsely furnished. “Luncheon will be ready in a few more minutes. Will you go upstairs and get Momma?”

“Of course. And you did not have to go to this trouble.”

“I am thrilled when you are home. Of course we will dine as if we are an ordinary family.”

His smile was wry. “There are few ordinary families left, Amelia, not in these times.”

Her small smile faded. Lucas had just walked in the door moments ago, and she hadn’t seen him in a month or more. There were shadows under his eyes and a small scar on his cheekbone, which hadn’t been there before. She was afraid to ask how he’d gotten it, and even more afraid to ask where. He was still a dangerously handsome man, but the revolution in France and the war had entirely changed their lives.

Before the French monarchy had fallen, they had all lived simple lives. Lucas had spent his time managing the estate, his biggest concern increasing the productivity of their mine and quarry. Jack, who was a year her junior, had been just another Cornish smuggler, laughing about outracing the Revenue Men. And her younger sister, Julianne, had spent her every spare moment innocently in the library, reading everything she could and honing her Jacobin sympathies. Greystone Manor had been a busy, happy home. Although the small estate depended almost entirely upon an iron quarry and tin mine for its income, they managed well enough. Amelia had an entire family to take care of—including her mother. The only thing that the war hadn’t changed was that Momma remained entirely senile.

John Greystone, her father, had left the family when Amelia was only seven years old, and Momma had begun losing her grip on reality shortly thereafter. Amelia had instinctively stepped into the breach, helping with the household, making shopping lists and planning menus, and even ordering their few servants about. And mostly she had cared for Julianne, then a toddler. Their uncle, Sebastian Warlock, had sent a foreman to manage the estate, but Lucas had taken over those duties before he was even fifteen. Theirs had been an unusual household, but it had been a busy and familial one, filled with love and laughter, no matter the financial strain.

The house was nearly empty now. Julianne had fallen in love with the Earl of Bedford when he had been deposited at the manor by their brothers, while at death’s door. Of course, she hadn’t known who he was—he had seemed to be a French army officer at the time. It had been a very rocky road—he had been a spy for Pitt and she had been a Jacobin sympathizer. It was still rather amazing, but she had recently eloped with Bedford, and she had just given birth to their daughter in London, where they lived. Amelia shook her head, bemused. Her radical sister was now the Countess of Bedford—and madly in love with her Tory husband.

Her brothers’ lives had changed because of the war, as well. Lucas was rarely at Greystone Manor now. Because they were but two years apart in age, and because they had taken over the roles of their parents, they were close. Amelia was his confidante, although he did not tell her every detail of his affairs. Lucas had not been able to sit idly by while the revolution swept over France. Some time ago, Lucas had secretly offered his services up to the War Office. Even before the Terror began sweeping France, there had been a flood of émigrés fleeing the revolutionaries—fleeing for their lives. Lucas had spent the past two years “extracting” émigrés from the shores of France.

It was a dangerous activity. If Lucas were ever caught by the French authorities, he would be instantly arrested and sent to the guillotine. Amelia was proud of him, but she was also so afraid for him.

She worried about Lucas all of the time, of course. He was the anchor of the family—its patriarch. But she worried about Jack even more. Jack was fearless. He was reckless. He acted as if he thought himself to be immortal. Before the war, he had been a simple Cornish smuggler—one of the dozens making such a living, and following in the footsteps of too many of his ancestors to count. Now Jack was making a fortune from the smuggling of various goods between the countries at war. No game could be more dangerous. Jack had been outwitting and outrunning the Royal Navy for years. Before the war, a prison sentence had awaited him if he were ever captured. Now, however, he would be accused of treason if the British authorities caught him defying the blockade of France. Treason was a hanging offense.

And from time to time, Jack aided Lucas in smuggling people across the channel.

Amelia was grateful that, at least, Julianne was comfortably settled and preoccupied with her husband and daughter. She met Lucas’s probing regard. “I worry about you and I worry about Jack. At least I don’t have to worry about Julianne now.”

He smiled. “On that point I agree. She is well cared for and out of all danger.”

“If only the war would end! If only there was good news!” Amelia shook her head, thinking how Lady Grenville had died, leaving behind an innocent newborn daughter and two small boys. “I can’t imagine what it would be like, to live without war.”

“We are fortunate we do not live in France.” He wasn’t smiling now.

“Please, I cannot listen to another horrible story. The rumors are bad enough.”

“I was not going to burden you with one. You do not need to know the details of how the innocent in France suffer. If we are fortunate, our armies will defeat the French this spring. We are poised to invade Flanders, Amelia. We have strong positions from Ypres to the Meuse River, and I think Coburg, the Austrian, is a good general.” He was quiet for a moment. “If we win the war, the Republic will fall. And that will be liberation for us all.”

“I am praying we will win,” she said, but she was still thinking about the Countess of St. Just and the children she had left behind.

Lucas took her elbow. When he spoke, his tone was low, as if he did not want to be overheard, although there was no one except Garrett, the servant, to really overhear them. “I came home because I am worried. Did you hear what happened at Squire Penwaithe’s?”

She met his gaze, tensing. “Of course I did. Everyone heard. Three French sailors—deserters—appeared at his front door, asking for food. The squire gave them a meal. Afterward, they held the family at gunpoint and looted the house.”

“Fortunately they were apprehended the next day and no one was hurt.” Lucas was grim.

Amelia was well aware of what he was thinking. She was living in such isolation with their mother and their one servant. Garrett happened to have been a sergeant in the British infantry, and was adept with weapons. Still, Greystone Manor was at one of the farthest southwestern points of Cornwall. Its isolation was one reason the parish had been such a haven for smugglers over the centuries. It was a very short run from Sennen Cove, which was just below the house, to Brest, in France.

Those deserters could have shown up at her door, Amelia thought.

A headache had begun. Suddenly tired of worrying, Amelia rubbed her temples. At least the gun closet was full—and being a Cornish woman, she knew very well how to load and fire a musket, a carbine and a pistol.

“I think you and Momma should spend the spring in London,” Lucas said flatly. “There is plenty of room at Warlock’s Cavendish Square flat, and you will be able to visit with Julianne frequently.” He smiled, but it did not reach his eyes.

She had just spent a month in London with her sister, after her niece’s birth. They were close, and it had been a wonderful, almost peaceful, interlude. Amelia began to consider leaving her home temporarily. Maybe Lucas was right. “It is not a bad idea, but what about the manor? Will we simply close it up? And what about Farmer Richards? You know he pays me the rents, now that you are always gone.”

“I can make arrangements to have the rents collected. I feel I would be negligent in my familial duty, Amelia, if I did not remove you and Momma to safer ground.”

He was right, Amelia realized. “It will take some time to make the proper arrangements,” she said.

“Try to close up this house as swiftly as possible,” he returned. “I have to go back to London, and I will do so after the funeral. When you are ready to join me, I will either come for you myself, or send Jack or a driver.”

Amelia nodded, but now, all she could think about was the impending funeral. “Lucas, do you know when they will hold the funeral?”

“I heard that they will have a service at the St. Just chapel on Sunday, but she will be buried in the family mausoleum in London.”

She tensed. It was already Friday! And there was Grenville, with his dark eyes and dark hair, assailing her in her mind’s eye another time. She wet her lips. “I have to attend. So do you.”

“Yes. We can go together.”

She looked at him, her heart lurching. She could not stop her thoughts. On Sunday she would see Simon for the first time in ten years.

* * *

AMELIA SAT WITH LUCAS and Momma in their carriage, clutching her gloved hands tightly together. She could not believe the amount of tension within her. She could barely breathe.

It was noon on Sunday. In another half an hour, the service for Elizabeth Grenville would begin.

St. Just Hall was in sight.

It was a huge manor that was entirely out of place in Cornwall. Built of pale stone, the central part of the house was three stories high, with four huge alabaster columns gracing the entrance. A lower, two-story wing was on the landward side, with sloping slate roofs. At the farthest end was the chapel, replete with its own courtyard, columns gracing the facade and corner towers abutting the adjacent entry.

Tall, black leafless trees surrounded the house. The grounds were equally barren from the long winter, but in May, the gardens would start to bloom. By the summer, the grounds would be a canvas of rioting color, the trees lush and green, the maze of hedges behind the house almost impossible to escape.

Amelia knew all of that firsthand.

She must not remember being lost in that maze now. She must not remember being breathless and giddy, and then Simon had turned the corner, sweeping her into his arms...

She shut off her thoughts, shaken, as their carriage moved up the graveled drive, following two dozen other vehicles. The entire parish would turn out for Lady Grenville’s funeral. Farmers would stand side by side with squires.

And in a few more minutes, she would see Grenville again.

“Is it a ball?” Momma asked excitedly. “Oh, darling, are we going to a ball?”

Lucas patted her hand. “Momma, it is I, Lucas, and, no, we are attending the funeral for Lady Grenville.”

Momma was a tiny, gray-haired woman, even smaller than Amelia. She stared blankly at Lucas. Amelia was no longer saddened by her condition. She was so rarely coherent these days. As she often did, Momma thought herself a young debutante again, and that Lucas was either their father or one of her previous beaux.

Amelia stared out of her carriage window as Momma sat between her and Lucas. She had done her best, these past two days, to focus on the tasks at hand. She had a huge list to get through if she were to close up the manor and remove herself and Momma to town. She had already written Julianne, apprising her of the current events. She had begun to pack up linens, store preserves and put away their winter clothing, and organize what they would need for a season in town. Keeping busy had been a relief. From time to time she had worried about Lady Grenville’s children, but she had managed not to think about St. Just, not even once—but his dark, handsome face continually lurked in the back of her mind.

There was no denying her anxiety now. She was riddled with tension and she could barely breathe. Yet it was absurd. So what if they came face-to-face again after all these years? He was not going to recognize her, and if he did, he would not even recall their foolish flirtation—she was certain.

But images from that long-ago affair kept trying to creep into her whirling thoughts as her carriage moved forward. The urge to indulge in those memories had begun the moment she had arisen at dawn.

Amelia knew that she must keep her wits about her. But she had begun to remember how crushed she had truly been when she had learned that he had left Cornwall. Not only hadn’t he said goodbye, he hadn’t even left a note.

She was beginning to remember the weeks of heartache and grief; the nights she had cried herself to sleep.

She had to behave with pride and dignity now. She had to remember that they were neighbors, and nothing more. She hugged herself.

“Are you all right?” Lucas’s grim voice cut into her thoughts.

She didn’t try to force a smile. “I am glad we are here. I hope I have a moment to meet the children before the service begins. They are my most pressing concern.”

“Children do not attend balls,” Momma said firmly.

Amelia smiled at her. “Of course they don’t.” She turned back to Lucas.

He said, “You seem very tense.”

“I have been so preoccupied with getting everything done before we leave for town,” she lied. “I feel as if I am on pins and needles.” She smiled at Momma. “Won’t it be wonderful, to go back to town?”

Momma’s eyes widened. “Are we going to town?” She was delighted.

Amelia took her hand and squeezed it. “Yes, we are, as soon as we can be ready.”

Lucas’s stare seemed skeptical. “You know, if you are thinking about the past, no one would blame you.”

She choked as she released her mother’s hand. “I beg your pardon?”

“It was long ago, but I haven’t forgotten how he played you.” His gaze narrowed. “He broke your heart, Amelia.”

“I was sixteen!” she gasped. Lucas clearly hadn’t forgotten a thing. “That was ten years ago!”

“Yes, it was. And he hasn’t been back in all that time, not even once, so I imagine you might be somewhat nervous. Are you?”

She flushed. Lucas knew her so well, and while she did not keep secrets from him, he hardly had to know that she was foolishly anxious now. “Lucas, I forgot the past a long time ago.”

“Good.” He was firm. “I am glad to hear that!” He added, “I’ve never said anything, but I’ve seen him now and then, in town. It has been cordial. There did not seem a point in holding a grudge, not after so many years.”

She whispered, “You are right—there is no point in holding any kind of grudge. Our lives took different paths.” She hadn’t realized that Lucas had socialized with Grenville, but he was in London often now, so of course their paths would eventually cross. She almost wanted to ask him how Simon was, and how he had changed. But she knew better. She smiled a bit, instead.

He stared for another moment, searching her gaze with his own. “Well, something is keeping him. My understanding is that he has yet to arrive at St. Just Hall.”

Amelia was disbelieving. “That is impossible. Wherever he was when Lady Grenville passed, it has been three days. He would certainly be here by now!”

Lucas looked away as their carriage finally halted, not far from the chapel’s courtyard. “The roads are bad at this time of year, but I would agree, he should be here by now.”

She stared blankly. “Surely they will not hold the funeral without St. Just?”

“Everyone in the parish has turned out.”

Amelia looked out of her window. The grounds were cluttered with coaches and carriages of all descriptions. Grenville had to have arranged for the funeral. Only he could postpone it. But if he were not present, how could he do that?

“My God,” she whispered, distraught, “he might miss his own wife’s funeral!”

“Let us hope he arrives at any moment.” Lucas alighted, then turned to help Momma down. He held out his hand for Amelia. Still shocked, Amelia stepped down carefully. Maybe they would not meet that day after all. Was she relieved? If she did not know better, she would almost think that she almost felt disappointed.

A somberly dressed crowd was streaming into the chapel’s courtyard, on foot. Amelia paused and glanced sharply around. It was a gray, bleak, blustery day and she shivered, in spite of the wool coat she wore. It had been ten years since she had been at the hall, but nothing had changed. The house remained as imposing and stately as ever.

As they left the drive, intending to follow everyone else inside, her low heels sank into the ground. The lawns were thawing and somewhat muddy. Lucas steered her to the stone path leading toward the chapel’s courtyard.

Was the rest of the family already inside? Amelia wondered.

She glanced back toward the palatial front entrance of the house and faltered. A slender man and a plump, gray-haired woman were just coming down the front steps with two small boys.

Those were Grenville’s sons, she thought instantly, oddly shaken.

She did not move. They were both dark-haired, and dressed in dark, somber little jackets, breeches and pale stockings. One boy was about eight, the other perhaps four or five. The smaller boy held his older brother’s hand tightly. Now she realized that the governess carried the infant, bundled in a heavy white blanket.

She hadn’t met the boys the day that she had had tea with their mother. As they came closer, she realized that both boys so resembled their father—they would grow up to be handsome men. Her heart lurched. The younger boy was crying, while his older brother was trying so hard to be stoic. Both children were clearly grief-stricken.

Amelia’s heart broke. “Take Momma inside. I will be right back,” she said, and not waiting for Lucas to answer, she started determinedly toward them.

She hurried toward the two adults and the children, giving the gentleman a firm smile. “I am Miss Amelia Greystone, Lady Grenville’s neighbor. What a tragic day.”

The gentleman had tears in his eyes. Although well dressed, it was obvious he was a servant of some sort and a foreigner. “I am Signor Antonio Barelli, Miss Greystone, the boys’ tutor. And this is Mrs. Murdock, the governess. This is Lord William and Master John.”

Amelia quickly shook hands with the tutor and Mrs. Murdock, who was also near tears. But she did not blame them; she imagined that Lady Grenville had been well loved. And then she smiled at William, the older boy, realizing that Grenville had named his heir after his deceased older brother. “I am very sorry for your loss, William. I met your mother recently and I liked her very much. She was a great lady.”

William nodded solemnly, his mouth downturned. “We saw you when you called, Miss Greystone. Sometimes we watch callers arrive from an upstairs window.”

“That must be amusing,” Amelia said, smiling.

“Yes, it can be. This is my little brother, John.” But William did not smile in return.

She smiled at John and squatted. “And how old are you, John?”

John looked at her, his face wet with tears, but his eyes were wide with curiosity. “Four,” he finally said.

“Four!” she exclaimed. “I thought you were eight, at least!”

“I am eight,” William said seriously. Then his gaze narrowed skeptically. “How old did you think I was?”

“Ten or eleven.” Amelia smiled. “I see you are taking good care of your brother, as you should do. Your mother would be so proud of you.”

He nodded solemnly, and glanced at Mrs. Murdock. “We have a sister now. She doesn’t have a name yet.”

Amelia smiled at him. “That is not unusual.” She laid her hand on his head; his hair was silky soft, like his father’s. She started, removing her hand. “I am here to help, in any way that I can. I am less than an hour away by coach.”

“That is kind of you,” William said, sounding very much like a grown-up.

Amelia smiled at him again, patted John on the shoulder and turned to the governess. The older woman, who was heavyset and gray-haired, was beginning to cry, tears slipping down her ruddy cheeks. Amelia dearly hoped she would discipline herself—the children needed her now. “And how is the baby faring?”

Mrs. Murdock inhaled. “She has been fussing ever since...ever since... I cannot get her to nurse properly, Miss Greystone. I am at a loss!” she cried, clearly panicked.

Amelia stepped closer to look at the sleeping infant. Mrs. Murdock moved an edge of the blanket away, and Amelia saw a fair-haired child, who was clearly the image of her blonde mother. “She is beautiful.”

“Isn’t she the exact image of Lady Grenville? God rest her soul. Oh, dear! I was only recently employed, Miss Greystone. I am entirely new here! We are all at a loss—and we have no housekeeper.”

Amelia started. “What?”

“Mrs. Delaney was with Lady Grenville for many years, but she fell ill and died just after I was hired around Christmastime. Lady Grenville has been managing this household ever since, Miss Greystone. She meant to hire a new housekeeper, but no one met with her approval. Now no one is running this home!”

Amelia realized that the house must be in chaos, indeed. “I am sure his lordship will hire a new housekeeper immediately,” she said.

“But he isn’t even here!” Mrs. Murdock cried, and more tears fell.

“He is never in residence,” Signor Barelli said with some disapproval, a tremor in his tone. “We last saw him in November—briefly. Is he going to come? Why isn’t he here now? Where could he possibly be?”

Amelia was dismayed. She repeated what Lucas had said earlier. “He will be here at any moment. The roads are terrible at this time of year. Is he coming from London?”

“We don’t know where he is. He usually claims he is in the north, at one of his great estates there.”

Amelia wondered at the use of the word claim. What did the tutor mean?

“Father came home for my birthday,” William said gravely, but with some pride. “Even though he is preoccupied with the estate.”

Amelia was certain the boy was parroting his father. She could not absorb such a surprising state of affairs. There was no housekeeper; St. Just was never in residence; no one knew, precisely, where he was now. What did this mean?

John began to cry again. William took his hand. “He is coming home,” William said fiercely and insistently. But he batted back tears with his lashes furiously.

Amelia looked at him and realized he would be exactly like his father—he certainly was in charge now. Before she could reassure him and tell him that St. Just would arrive at any moment and repair the household immediately, she heard the sound of an approaching carriage.

And she had not a doubt as to who it was before William even cried out. Slowly, she turned.

The huge black coach was thundering up the drive. Six magnificent black carriage horses were in the traces. The driver was in St. Just’s royal-blue-and-gold livery, as were the two footmen standing on the rear fender. She realized she was holding her breath. St. Just had returned, after all.

The six-in-hand came around the circular drive at a near gallop. Passing the chapel, the coachman braked, shouting, “Whoa!” As the team came to a halt, not far from where they stood, gravel sprayed.

Amelia’s heart was thundering. Her cheeks felt as if they were on fire. Simon Grenville was home.

Both footmen leaped to the ground and rushed to open Grenville’s door for him. The Earl of St. Just stepped out.

Her mind went blank.

Clad impeccably in a dark brown velvet jacket with some embroidery, black breeches, white stockings and black shoes, he started toward their group. He was tall—perhaps an inch or two over six feet—and broad-shouldered, and he remained small of hip. Amelia glimpsed his high cheekbones, his strong jaw and that chiseled mouth. Her heart slammed.

He hadn’t changed at all.

He was as handsome as she remembered. If he was gray, she wouldn’t know—he wore a dark wig, in a somewhat redder shade than his natural hair, beneath a bicorne hat.

Amelia felt paralyzed. She stared, incapable of looking at anyone other than Grenville, who had eyes only for his sons.

In fact, it was as if he hadn’t seen her. But she had known he wouldn’t remember her. So she could look openly at him. He was even more devastatingly handsome now that he was thirty, she somehow thought, in despair. He was even more commanding in appearance.

And the memories begged to be let loose. She fought them.

Grenville’s strides were long and hard. His gaze unwavering, he reached the boys and pulled them both into his arms. John wept. William clung.

Amelia trembled, aware that she was an intruder. He hadn’t looked at her—acknowledged her—recognized her. She should be relieved—this was the scenario she had envisioned—but she felt dismayed.

Grenville did not move, not for a long moment, as he embraced both of his sons. He kept his head bowed over them so she could not see his face. She wanted to leave, because this was such an intense familial reunion, but she was afraid to attract his attention.

And she heard him inhale, raggedly. Grenville straightened and released the boys, taking both of their hands. She had the oddest sense that he was afraid to let them go.

Finally, the earl nodded at the nurse and tutor. Both murmured, “My lord,” their heads bowed.

Amelia wanted to disappear. He would glance at her at any moment—unless he meant to ignore her. Her heart kept thundering. She hoped he wouldn’t hear it. She desperately hoped he wouldn’t notice her, either.

But Grenville turned and looked directly at her.

She froze as their gazes met.

His dark gaze seemed to widen and then it locked with hers. Time seemed to stop. All noise seemed to vanish. There was only her deafening heartbeat, his surprise and the intense look they shared.

In that moment, Amelia realized that he had recognized her after all.

He didn’t speak. Yet he didn’t have to. Somehow, she felt the pain and anguish coursing through him. It was immense. In that moment, she knew he needed her as never before.

She lifted her hand toward him.

Grenville abruptly glanced at his sons. “It’s too cold to linger outside.” He put an arm around each boy and started forward. They entered the courtyard and vanished.

She inhaled, reeling.

He had recognized her.

And then she realized that he hadn’t looked at his infant daughter a single time.