“Mr. Monks,” she said warily. She hadn’t spoken to him since that horrible afternoon when he’d threatened to kill her. She took a shaky step back, ready to flee. “What do you want?”
“His lordship asks to see you.”
She frowned. “I’ve just left Lord Sheene.”
Monks gave a grunt of humor. “Not the pretty marquess. Lord John Lansdowne. And if you’ll take a word of advice for nowt, you won’t keep him waiting.”
In spite of the warning, she stared open-mouthed at him. Salvation arrived just when she gave up hope.
Surely when she told Lord John who she was, he’d let her go. She’d be free, free of this luxurious prison, free of danger, free of temptation.
“Well, take me to him.” She was unable to suppress the lilt of relief in her voice.
Monks glanced at her doubtfully but gestured for her to precede him inside. The unknown Lord John’s influence extended even to lending his unpleasant henchmen manners, it seemed. Grace hurried through to the salon where rescue awaited at last.
Chapter 7
“Here be the wench, your lordship,” Monks said with a bow, then left them.
Grace blinked as her eyes adjusted to the gloom after the bright sunshine. The room with its closed curtains was stuffy. For the first time, a fire burned in the grate, although it was a warm day.
A man sat almost unnaturally straight at the table where she and Lord Sheene took their meals. He wore a heavy brown wool coat. How could he bear the oppressive temperature?
She stepped forward and sank into the sweeping court curtsy she’d been taught as a girl. “My lord.”
He didn’t stand. As she rose, she met eyes of gelid gray in a long face. He bore a strong resemblance to his nephew although his features, while handsome, lacked Lord Sheene’s striking beauty.
From the marquess’s description, she’d expected a villain from a fairy story but this could be any well-to-do gentleman of her acquaintance. He was in his middle years with graying dark hair. Surely such a man couldn’t countenance kidnap, rape, and murder. He seemed to embody respectability. His manner expressed disdain, certainly. She was both a woman and his social inferior so that hardly counted as a mark of irredeemable evil.
She cursed the yellow dress that proclaimed her a whore. If only she’d worn the black bombazine. At least its shabby black supported her story.
“You are the doxy Monks and Filey found in Bristol?” His voice was deep and unexpectedly pleasant.
“My lord, I protest the description.” Instinct told her poised control would gain more headway than pathetic groveling. “My name is Grace Paget and I’m a virtuous widow. There’s been a grievous mistake. I throw myself upon your mercy.”
His eyebrows arched with surprise, she supposed at her cultivated accent. “Madam, this lie is absurd. My men said you were drumming up custom on the docks.”
He spoke as if Grace were lower than dung in the gutter. Her fleeting hope contracted into a hard knot of despair. Did she think he’d remedy the error the moment she identified herself? What made her imagine he’d even believe her? What an idiot she was. She’d find no easy salvation here. Lord John had ordered her abduction. Monks and Filey had told her so. Lord Sheene had told her so.
She struggled to keep her voice steady, although with every second, this quietly spoken man frightened her more than his minions ever had.
“I got lost seeking my cousin who had arranged to meet me off the mail coach.” With repetition, the tale became more threadbare than her widow’s weeds. “I beg you to restore me to my family.”
“This concoction could be an attempt to avoid an uncongenial client. Monks informs me you’ve yet to crawl into my nephew’s bed.”
Color rose in her cheeks at Lord John’s casual, contemptuous reference. “Surely if I were the sort of woman who…” She swallowed and tried again. “Surely, a woman off the streets wouldn’t hesitate to do your bidding.”
“Perhaps.” Frowning, he stared into the distance and tapped his fingers on the polished wood of the table.
The pause extended. And extended.
Eventually he focused on her with a disgruntled expression. “If what you say is correct, your presence is problematic. Monks was right to alert me to the difficulties.” He didn’t sound shocked, he sounded annoyed. He pointed to a chair opposite. “Please sit. Mrs. Paget, is it?”
She remained standing. Ignoring the fear prickling the back of her neck, she spoke with all the firmness she could muster. “I shall go and change into the clothes I arrived in. I’ve been missing nearly a week. My family will be concerned about my whereabouts.”
Lord John’s lips stretched in a humorless smile that reminded her sharply of the marquess at his most difficult. “They must continue to be concerned, my dear lady.”
Surely he knew he had no right to hold her as his nephew’s unwilling plaything. For all her poverty, she was a lady, deserving of his respect, his care. It was heinous enough that he’d planned to abduct a woman of easy virtue. To subject a female born to his own class to this treatment was unthinkable.