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.
CHAPTER TWO
SIMON STARED BLINDLY AHEAD. He was seated in the first row of the chapel with his sons, but he was in a state of disbelief. Was he really back in Cornwall? Was he actually attending his wife’s funeral?
Simon realized that his fists were clenched. He was staring at the reverend, who droned on and on about Elizabeth, but he hardly saw him and he did not hear him. Three days ago he had been in Paris, posing as Henri Jourdan, a Jacobin; three days ago he had been standing amongst the bloodthirsty crowd at La Place de la Révolution, witnessing dozens of executions. The very last one had been his friend, Danton, who had become a voice of moderation amongst the insane. Watching him lose his head had been a test of his loyalty. Lafleur had been with him. So he had applauded each beheading, and somehow, he hadn’t become physically sick.
He wasn’t in
