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across town. Stopped at a public inn where he was not familiar with the cli-entele and had a pint. Rather enjoyed it, actually—the solitude, that was. The solitude and the blessed peace of not a single person approaching him with a query or a favor or, God help him, a compliment.
    He’d nursed his pint for a good hour, doing nothing but watching the people around him, and then, noticing that the hour had grown preposterously late, he went home.

    Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
    41
    He yawned. His bed was extremely comfortable, and he planned to make good use of it. Possibly until noon.
    Belgrave was quiet when he let himself in. The servants had long since gone to bed, and so, apparently, had his grandmother.
    Thank God.
    He supposed he loved her. It was a theoretical thing, really, because he certainly did not like her. But then again, no one did. He supposed he owed her some fealty.
    She had borne a son who had then married a woman who had borne him. One had to appreciate one’s own existence, if nothing else.
    But beyond that, he couldn’t think of any reason to hold her in any affection whatsoever. Augusta Elizabeth Candida Debenham Cavendish was, to put it politely, not a very nice person.
    He’d heard stories from people who’d known her long ago, that even if she’d never been friendly, at least she had once been perhaps not so un friendly. But this was well before he’d been born, before two of her three sons died, the eldest of the same fever that took her husband, and the next in a shipwreck off the coast of Ireland.
    Thomas’s father had never expected to become the duke, not with two perfectly healthy older brothers.
    Fate was a fickle thing, really.
    Thomas yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth, and moved quietly across the hall toward the stairs.
    And then, to his great surprise, he saw—
    “Grace?”

    42 Julia
    Quinn
    She let out a little squeak of surprise and stumbled off the last step. Reflexively, he sprang forward to steady her, his hands grasping her upper arms until she found her footing.
    “Your grace,” she said, sounding impossibly tired.
    He stepped back, eyeing her curiously. They had long since dispensed with the formalities of titles while at home. She was, in fact, one of the few people who used his given name. “What the devil are you doing awake?”
    he asked. “It’s got to be after two.”
    “After three, actually,” she sighed.
    Thomas watched her for a moment, trying to imagine what his grandmother could possibly have done that might require her companion to be up and about at this time of night. He was almost afraid even to ponder it; the devil only knew what she might have come up with.
    “Grace?” he asked gently, because the poor girl looked truly exhausted.
    She blinked, giving her head a little shake. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
    “Why are you wandering the halls?”
    “Your grandmother is not feeling well,” she said with a rueful smile. And then she abruptly added, “You’re home late.”
    “I had business in Stamford,” he said brusquely. He considered Grace one of his only true friends, but she was still every inch a lady, and he would never insult her by mentioning Celeste in her presence.
    Besides, he was still rather annoyed with himself for his indecisiveness. Why the devil had he driven all the way to Stamford just to turn around?

    Mr. Cavendish, I Presume
    43
    Grace cleared her throat. “We had an . . . exciting evening,” she said, adding almost reluctantly, “We were accosted by highwaymen.”
    “Good God,” he exclaimed, looking at her more closely. “Are you all right? Is my grandmother well?”
    “We are both unharmed,” she assured him, “although our driver has a nasty bump on his head. I took the liberty of giving him three days to convalesce.”
    “Of course,” he said, but inside he was berating himself. He should not have allowed them to travel alone. He should have realized they’d be returning late. And what of the