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Hunt for Grace

By Tammy F. Kirby

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1


London 1865
Duncan Connor, Viscount Weston, lifted his brandy and took a sip before setting the cut glass crystal tumbler beside the mass of correspondence he was wading through. He reread the last sentence the Scottish solicitor had written. I will arrive with your ward on the twenty-seventh.
His hand fell, clenching the paper in his fist.
Ward! What am I to do with a ward?
He glanced at the calendar on his desk. The black numbers in flowing script mocked him. The date read March twenty-seventh.
At that moment, Bradley tapped on the door. “Lady Allison Mcleod and Mr Grant to see you, milord.” His stentorian tone denied the curiosity marked by his elevated brow.
Duncan stood as a non-descript man, wearing a brown sack suit, entered, clutching the hand of a small girl with sable-coloured ringlets reaching to her waist. Cerulean blue eyes in an elfin face studied him. An infinitesimal awareness that he had been labeled as wanting pricked him. He dragged his eyes away from the child to find the man striding forward, a sheaf of papers in one hand.
He bowed before Duncan and smiled. “Eustace Grant, milord. I have brought Lady Allison to ye.” The man shoved the papers into Duncan’s hand. “Ye will find everything in order. Lord Huntington was very precise in his instructions. I have taken the liberty to explain everything for ye in writing. Yer pardon, but I am afraid I canna’ stay longer, as I am off to the colonies.” He pulled a gold watch from his vest pocket. “Aye, I must depart straightaway or miss me ship. If ye will excuse me?” The man gave another bow and strode from the room.
“Wait! Grant, you cannot just drop off a child and take your leave.”
The door slammed on his words. Uncomfortable quiet filled the room. Duncan spat out a colourful epithet regarding Mr Grant’s parentage.
“I do not think it is proper for you to say that word in front of me.”
Startled, Duncan found the child’s solemn stare trained upon him. Heat rose from his collar to fire his face. He cleared his throat and bowed to his diminutive houseguest. “Your pardon, my lady. You are quite right to reproach me. I am afraid it has been some time since I have been in the company of genteel young ladies. Might I offer you some refreshment?”
Lady Allison walked with measured steps to one of the leather chairs facing his desk and climbed upon it without assistance. She settled a porcelain-faced doll on her lap. “I like lemonade and biscuits.”
Duncan rotated his neck and ran a finger around his collar.
Blasted neckcloth is strangling me.
He reached for the bellpull behind him. The door whispered across the carpet as Bradley opened it, the humour crinkling the corners of his eyes stopping short of his lips. Duncan narrowed his gaze. “Lemonade and biscuits, Bradley. Lady Allison is a bit peckish.”
The butler retreated, and Duncan slumped into his chair. Without conscious thought, he reached for the tumbler on his desk and tossed the remainder of the amber liquid down his throat.
Blue eyes bored into him. “You should not drink that vile stuff. It will rot your innards.”
Duncan gave a bark of laughter. “Where did you hear such slang, young lady?”
Lady Allison shrugged one shoulder and spoke with indifference. “Sally, our parlour maid, said that to Jensen when he nicked Papa’s good brandy.”
“Who, pray tell, is Jensen?”
“One of our footmen she’s sweet on.”
A maid entered and laid a tray with lemonade and biscuits, as well as a pot of tea on a side table. She served the child, then set a cup of steaming tea before him. Duncan’s mouth twisted in a distasteful grimace. Lady Allison settled the doll beside her and ate with perfect manners, offering the doll a bite at regular intervals.
Duncan smiled. How often had he seen his sister, Piper, do the same thing when she was a child? He glanced through the thick sheaf of papers Mr Grant had given him. His widowed uncle had made him heir to a Scottish earldom and guardian to his child when he expired in a curricle accident. Her mother had perished two years previously from a fall.
He lost track of time while he read. After finishing, he dropped the legal papers on his desk and rubbed a hand over his face.
What am I to do with a five-year-old girl child?
His gaze rested upon her, and a slight smile curved his lips. Her empty glass balanced on the edge of the chair while she lay curled around her doll. Thick black lashes touched her round cheeks in fringed half-moons. Soft snores reached him.
Poor tyke, all the traveling must have tired her.
He rose and set the cup aside to lift her in his arms.
Bradley opened the door as he approached. “I had Lady Blackwell’s room made ready, milord.”
Duncan held the child close to his chest, her head resting against his shoulder. She was so tiny. It was hard to believe she was five years. Was that a proper age to send a child away to school? He would have Piper check into it. First, he would need to get her a nanny or governess.
He laid his pint-size house guest on the canopied bed and slipped her boots off before pulling the covers over her. In her slumber, her small hand patted the mattress as if searching for something.
Drat it all, I forgot her doll.
Spying his sister’s old companion, Mr Floppy, a well-loved stuffed rabbit, he tucked it into her arms. She cuddled it close, and her restless movements abated. Duncan strode from the room. He needed a drink.
~
“Duncan, I came as soon as I could. What is so emergent? Is it Aunt Etta?” Piper Rutherford, Marchioness of Blackwell, rested her hands above her increasing belly.
Duncan held her shoulders and pulled her forward to press a kiss on her cheek. “Sorry, sis, I did not propose to frighten you. Aunt Etta is fine. I’ve had a letter from her just this morning. She’s bankrupting me with yarns and linens. I swear Blackwell’s heir will need nothing when he arrives at the rate she is sewing and knitting.”
Piper laughed. “She is such a dear. So, what is the emergency?”
He escorted her into his study and seated her before the fire before taking the matching chair for himself. Unbuttoning his jacket, he settled against the plush cushion. “I have had a letter from Huntington’s barrister. I am afraid he was killed in a curricle accident.”
Piper’s hands flew to her mouth, and tears sparkled on her dark lashes. “Oh, dear. What happened to Allison? Please tell me she was not with him.”
“No, no. As a matter of fact, she is above stairs ensconced in your old room. I didn’t know where else to put her.”
Piper’s eyes widened. “Oh, my. Duncan, with Hunt’s death that makes you the new Earl of Huntington.”
Duncan inclined his head. “And guardian to his daughter, the Lady Allison Nicole.”
Piper bit her lips together, trying to hide amusement. “And you had just begun to enjoy your bachelorhood without me underfoot. Congratulations?”
Duncan shot her a dark look. “What am I to do with a clever five-year-old girl? Can you recommend an excellent finishing school?”
Piper sat forward. “Finishing school? Duncan, you cannot be serious. She is but a baby.”
“I am not well versed in raising babies, Pip.”
She held her arms wide. “You raised me, brother.”
“You were a good deal older than Hunt’s daughter when Mum and Dad died, and I had Aunt Etta. At her age, I doubt she wishes to take on the responsibility of raising another child. I will have to leave for Scotland soon to take up Huntington’s responsibilities. I have no time to play guardian.”
“What happened to her nurse?”
Duncan referred to a note in the stack of papers. “It would appear that she fled with a stable hand from a posting inn a day into their journey. Mr Grant was unable to find a suitable replacement for the remainder of the trip.”
“The solution is quite simple, dear. You must choose a governess and nursemaid to care for her. I have the perfect ladies in mind. They will be delighted to go with you to Scotland.”
“Couldn’t you and Blackwell take her?”
Piper shook her head. “I do not think so. It is my belief that God has put Lady Allison where He wants her.” She patted his knee and winked. “You will make an excellent father.”
Duncan frowned, his voice a low growl. “Fine. I leave it to you to find the staff I require to take charge of her.”
“I will be delighted to assist you.” Piper rose and pulled on her gloves. “You could just get married, and then your wife would be available to tend her.”
“That, my dear, is not an option. You well know how I feel about the state of matrimony.”
“It has been two years since Susie died, Duncan. You must release her and find happiness. She would not want you to isolate yourself from the world. And besides, Huntington needs a male heir.”
Piper kissed his cheek and turned away.
“I could name your son, my successor!”
His sister shook her head and lifted her arm, calling over her shoulder. “Blackwell’s heir will be a marquess. He has no need for another title.” She paused at the doorway and tossed him a saucy look. “And besides, I could discompose both you and my husband by birthing a girl. You are on your own, Huntington.”
~
Duncan’s head fell against the cushioned back of his chair. If his sister but knew, it wasn’t the late Susie Rutherford’s memory that turned him off marriage. The love of his youth had been murdered before he could ask for her hand. He had spiraled into the depths of hell and degradation for a long while, unable to face life without her.
But with the death of her assailant at his own hands, he had been able to release Susie and their love, making peace with himself. No. It wasn’t Susie that plagued him, but another he had wronged.
He was not worthy of marrying. And certainly not to a well-bred young lady of the ton. No one deserved to be saddled with a depraved specimen, such as himself. The title could go to his sister’s son, for he would never ask a woman to bear his name or his children.

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