“Do you find my hair amusing?” the dowager asked sharply.

And Jack, because he had absolutely nothing to lose, just shrugged and said, “A bit.”

The dowager let out an indignant huff, and Grace positively glared at him.

“Women’s hair always amuses me,” he clarified. “So much work, when all anyone really wants is to see it down.”

They both seemed to relax a bit. His comment may have been risqué, but it took the personal edge off the insult. The dowager tossed one last irritated look in his direction, then turned to Grace to continue their previous conversation. “You may spend the morning with Maria,” she directed. “She will show you what to do. It can’t be that difficult. Pull one of the scullery maids up from the kitchen and practice upon her. She’ll be grateful for the opportunity, I’m sure.”

Grace looked not at all enthused, but she nodded and murmured, “Of course.”

“See to it that the kitchen work does not suffer,” the dowager said, finishing the last of her stewed apples. “An elegant coiffure is compensation enough.”

“For what?” Jack asked.

The dowager turned to him, her nose somehow looking pointier than usual.

“Compensation for what?” he restated, since he felt like being contrary.

The dowager stared at him a moment longer, then must have decided he was best ignored, because she turned back to Grace. “You may commence packing my things once you are done with Maria. And after that, see to it that a suitable story is set about for our absence.” She waved her hand in the air as if it were a trifle. “A hunting cottage in Scotland will do nicely. The Borders, I should think. No one will believe it if you say I went to the Highlands.”

Grace nodded silently.

“Somewhere off the well-trod path, however,” the dowager continued, looking as if she were enjoying herself. “The last thing I need is for one of my friends to attempt to see me.”

“Do you have many friends?” Jack asked, his tone so perfectly polite that she’d be wondering all day if she’d been insulted.

“The dowager is much admired,” Grace said quickly, perfect little companion that she was.

Jack decided not to comment.

“Have you ever been to Ireland?” Grace asked the dowager. But Jack caught the angry look she shot him before turning to her employer.

“Of course not.” The dowager’s face pinched. “Why on earth would I have done so?”

“It is said to have a soothing effect on one’s temperament,” Jack said.

“Thus far,” the dowager retorted, “I am not much impressed with its influences upon one’s manners.”

He smiled. “You find me impolite?”

“I find you impertinent.”

Jack turned to Grace with a sad sigh. “And here I thought I was meant to be the prodigal grandson, able to do no wrong.”

“Everyone does wrong,” the dowager said sharply. “The question is how little wrong one does.”

“I would think,” Jack said quietly, “that it is more important what one does to rectify the wrong.”

“Or perhaps,” the dowager snapped angrily, “one could manage not to make the mistake in the first place.”

Jack leaned forward, interested now. “What did my father do that was so very very wrong?”

“He died,” she said, and her voice was so bitter and full of chill that Jack heard Grace suck in her breath from across the table.

“Surely you cannot blame him for that,” Jack murmured. “A freak storm, a leaky boat…”

“He should never have stayed so long in Ireland,” the dowager hissed. “He should never have gone in the first place. He was needed here.”

“By you,” Jack said softly.

The dowager’s face lost some of its usual stiffness, and for a moment he thought he saw her eyes grow moist. But whatever emotion came over her, it was swiftly tamped down, and she stabbed at her bacon and bit off, “He was needed here. By all of us.”

Grace suddenly stood. “I will go find Maria now, your grace, if that is amenable.”

Jack rose along with her. There was no way she was leaving him alone with the dowager. “I believe you promised me a tour of the castle,” he murmured.

Grace looked from the dowager to him and back again. Finally the dowager flicked her hand in the air and said, “Oh, take him about. He should see his birthright before we leave. You may have your session with Maria later. I will remain and await Wyndham.”

But as they reached the doorway, they heard her add softly, “If that is indeed still his name.”

Grace was too angry to wait politely outside the doorway, and indeed, she was already halfway down the hall before Mr. Audley caught up with her.

“Is this a tour or a race?” he asked, his lips forming that now familiar smile. But this time it did nothing but raise her ire.

“Why did you bait her?” she burst out. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“The comment about her hair, do you mean?” he asked, and he gave her one of those annoying innocent whatever-could-I-have-done-wrong looks. When of course he had to have known, perfectly well.

“Everything,” she replied hotly. “We were having a perfectly lovely breakfast, and then you-”

“You might have been having a perfectly lovely breakfast,” he cut in, and his voice held a newly sharp edge. “I was conversing with Medusa.”

“Yes, but you didn’t have to make things worse by provoking her.”

“Isn’t that what his holiness does?”

Grace stared at him in angry confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Sorry.” He shrugged. “The duke. I’ve not noticed that he holds his tongue in her presence. I thought to emulate.”

“Mr. Aud-”

“Ah, but I misspoke. He’s not holy, is he? Merely perfect.”

She could do nothing but stare. What had Thomas done to earn such contempt? By all rights Thomas should be the one in a blackened mood. He probably was, to be fair, but at least he’d taken himself off to be furious elsewhere.

“His grace, it is, isn’t it?” Mr. Audley continued, his voice losing none of his derision. “I’m not so uneducated that I don’t know the correct forms of address.”

“I never said you were. Neither, I might add, did the dowager.” Grace let out an irritated exhale. “She shall be difficult all day now.”

“She isn’t normally difficult?”

Good heavens, she wanted to hit him. Of course the dowager was normally difficult. He knew that. What could he possibly have to gain by remarking upon it other than the enhancement of his oh so dry and wry persona?

“She shall be worse,” she ground out. “And I shall be the one to pay for it.”

“My apologies, then,” he said, and he offered a contrite bow.

Grace felt suddenly uncomfortable. Not because she thought he was mocking her, but rather because she was quite sure he was not. “It was nothing,” she mumbled. “It is not your place to worry over my situation.”

“Does Wyndham?”

Grace looked up at him, somehow captured by the directness of his gaze. “No,” she said softly. “Yes, he does, but no…”

No, he didn’t. Thomas did look out for her, and had, on more than one occasion, interceded when he felt she was being treated unfairly, but he never held his tongue with his grandmother just to keep the peace. And Grace would never dream of asking him to. Or scold him for not doing so.

He was the duke. She could not speak to him that way, no matter their friendship.

But Mr. Audley was…

She closed her eyes for a moment, turning away so he could not see the turmoil on her face. He was just Mr. Audley for now, not so very far above her. But the dowager’s voice, soft and menacing, still rang in her ears-

If that is indeed still his name.

She was speaking of Thomas, of course. But the counterpart was true as well. If Thomas was not Wyndham, then Mr. Audley was.

And this man…this man who had kissed her twice and made her dream of something beyond the walls of this castle-he would be this castle. The dukedom wasn’t just a few words appended to the end of one’s name. It was lands, it was money, it was the very history of England placed upon one man’s shoulders. And if there was one thing she had learned during her five years at Belgrave, it was that the aristocracy were different from the rest of humanity. They were mortals, true, and they bled and cried just like everyone else, but they carried within them something that set them apart.

It didn’t make them better. No matter the dowager’s lectures on the subject, Grace would never believe that. But they were different. And they were shaped by the knowledge of their history and their roles.

If Mr. Audley’s birth had been legitimate, then he was the Duke of Wyndham, and she was an overreaching spinster for even dreaming of his face.

Grace took a deep, restorative breath, and then, once her nerves were sufficiently calmed, turned back to him. “Which part of the castle would you like to see, Mr. Audley?”

He must have recognized that this was not the time to press her, and so he answered cheerfully, “Why, all of it, of course, but I imagine that is not feasible for a single morning. Where do you suggest we begin?”

“The gallery?” He had been so interested in the paintings in his room the night before. It seemed a logical place to start.

“And gaze upon the friendly faces of my supposed ancestors?” His nostrils flared, and for a moment he almost looked as if he’d swallowed something distasteful. “I think not. I’ve had enough of my ancestors for one morning, thank you very much.”

“These are dead ancestors,” Grace murmured, hardly able to believe her cheek.

“Which is how I prefer them, but not this morning.”

She glanced across the hall to where she could see sunlight dappling in through a window. “I could show you the gardens.”

“I’m not dressed for it.”

“The conservatory?”