Grace,” the coachman said, bowing. “Lady Maeve.”
Tom suppressed a grimace. Wrong, he wanted to shout. My father is His Grace, not me.
His whole life, he had known that one day he’d assume the title. But that had been a purely intellectual exercise and easy to dismiss. Yet to finally be the Duke of Northfield felt like trying to breathe underwater.
I’m not ready, damn it. Not for any of this.
“You know where we are headed?” Tom asked the driver as the footman helped Maeve into the carriage.
“Broom House Farm, Your Grace. In Fulham.”
“And?” Tom prompted.
“And Her Grace isn’t to know of it,” John recited.
“No one is to know of this excursion. Make sure your grooms keep their silence. You’ll all see yourselves handsomely rewarded for your discretion and punished for any indiscretion.”
It was a fact of life that servants and staff gossiped, and if word ever got out that Tom helped Maeve break her mourning to see Lord Stacey, she would be the one suffering the harm to her reputation. Lord Stacey and Tom might receive sidelong glances of disapproval, but they’d still be admitted into drawing rooms and dining chambers throughout London.
A carriage kitted out in mourning might attract moderate interest, but Tom could move about the world freely without consequence. If someone recognized the vehicle, it would be a simple enough matter to explain that Tom was attending to his newfound responsibilities—alone.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Grand.” For good measure, Tom slipped a guinea into John’s hand before he climbed into the carriage.
Once the door had been closed, and the curtains in the windows secured, Tom rapped on the roof to signal they were ready to depart. The vehicle jolted slightly as it surged into motion, but it was excellently sprung, and as they drove down the mews and onto the street, he hardly felt the movement. The sound of the wheels was dampened by the straw that had been laid out along the street during the late duke’s illness. Soon, though, they had driven past Northfield House, and the rumble of the wheels and the clop of the horses’ hooves formed the background noise of their journey.
Fulham was some four miles away from Mayfair, a journey that took them through Belgravia and Chelsea. At a decent pace, he and Maeve would reach their destination in three quarters of an hour.
“Don’t peep through the curtains,” Tom warned Maeve as she attempted to do exactly that.
She flopped back against the seat, making a sound of frustration. “I wish I could look outside and see the world again.”
“It will still be there when you’re out of mourning.”
“Months from now.” She sighed regretfully, then clicked her tongue. “You think me a callous chit for thinking of my own comfort and amusement at such a time.”
“I think,” he said, his voice gentle, “that you can mourn whilst also longing to live your life. It’s a hard burden to be locked away from all company, and doubly so if one is a girl barely into her second season.”
“A young woman, not a girl.”
“My apologies.” He pressed a hand to his chest and gave a slight bow. “And if you are a young woman with an ardent suitor, six months of deep mourning might seem like an eon.”
“So it does.” Maeve leaned forward, reaching out and taking Tom’s hand in hers. “Hugh and I haven’t seen each other since Father took ill. Your kindness in facilitating this is remarkable.”
His brows lifted. “Shall I be a cad, and stand in the way of my sister’s happiness?”
“Don’t be flippant, Tommy. This is a risk for both of us.”
“A moderate one for me, but an extraordinary one for you.”
“One I have to take.” Urgency and youthful conviction throbbed in her words. “Hugh is everything to me.”
What would that be like, to believe in something so strongly? To have faith and purpose?
In the whole of his thirty-two years, Tom had never experienced that. It shamed him to feel a pulse of envy for the girl—young woman—that had once gazed upon him with pure idolization.
He shouldn’t, couldn’t, begrudge Maeve her happiness. But out of all the experiences he’d had in his life, never had he known what it was to care deeply for anything or anyone not related to him. Somehow, the little sister who had tried to run after him on her stubby toddler legs had grown into a woman who loved, and was loved in return.
Her brother could not say the same.
“You are certain that Lord Stacey will be waiting for us in Fulham?” Tom asked.
She nodded. “His last letter spoke of nothing else.” She patted her heart, and Tom could only guess that was where she carried Lord Stacey’s missive. “He’s made all the arrangements that we might see each other, if only briefly.”
Foolish, romantic girl. How he coveted that for himself.
“We’ll be unable to stay long,” he cautioned.
“Any time with him is a gift.”
He snorted. “Now you sound like one of Shelley’s poems.”
She made a soft scoffing noise. “As though I would attempt to emulate that histrionic, overwrought scribbler. Everyone knows that Keats is far superior.”
Tom didn’t hide his grin. It was never difficult to solicit an opinion from his sister, a fact which bedeviled their mother but delighted him.
“I’m partial to Byron, myself,” he said. “Except for that bit about sleeping with his sister.”
“Half sister. But still, that does tend to color one’s enthusiasm for his work.”
The constriction around his chest eased. For all that she was thirteen years his junior, he never felt the divide of their years. They could always talk and jest freely, and while he never detailed his dissolute exploits to her, she was one of the few people that accepted him as he was.
I’d kill for her.
The words formed in his mind as firmly as if he’d spoken them aloud. It was an oath he swore to himself.
“Talk to me of anything but the past six weeks,” Maeve pled. “What was the last play you saw?”
“An excellent work by the most esteemed Viscountess Marwood. It involved a kidnapping and three assumed identities.” Riveted by what he saw on the stage, Tom had barely stirred in his seat, not even to flirt with a few daring widows.
Maeve clapped her hands together. “Ah, splendid! And was there a swordfight?”
“Between
