Then he gave a delighted laugh as though her visit presented the greatest treat and held his arms wide. “Come here and say hello properly!”
She?
??d expected any reaction from wary curiosity to immediate banishment. Open and unhesitating welcome hadn’t been on her list.
Fighting tears, Grace threw herself into his embrace. She’d always adored her godfather. Throughout her girlhood, he’d descended upon her at irregular intervals, bringing extravagant gifts and laughter. He’d always treated her as a cherished daughter. His wife had died young and childless and he’d never remarried.
“Oh, Uncle Francis! I’ve missed you so much,” she eventually stammered in a choked voice, drawing away.
He bombarded her with questions, questions she answered as well as she could without long explanations. Any delay extended Matthew’s ordeal. Was he even alive? The harrowing memory of how ill he’d been when she left gnawed at her like hungry rats. More hung on this meeting than a reunion. Although she couldn’t help asking the one thing that had haunted her. “How are my parents, Uncle Francis?”
Vere had told her what he knew once he’d stopped apologizing for the carriage accident which had prevented him reaching Bristol. So banal a cause for all that had befallen her. But Vere hadn’t seen her mother or father for years. The duke had been her father’s friend since Eton.
By now, she and her godfather were seated on a leather couch near tall glass doors opening onto the magnificent garden.
“You know about your brother, of course.” Kermonde’s narrow face was somber. With his long nose and tawny hair and sharp pale blue eyes, he’d always reminded her of a fox.
“Yes. I saw it in the news sheets.” She took a shaky breath. Talking about Philip always filled her with a crippling mixture of shame and sorrow. Her own criminally irresponsible behavior had hurt her family so much. Then they’d endured the loss of their only son in circumstances that brought humiliation to a proud name.
“Things haven’t been…good. Your mother gave up her social engagements and retired to her room as an invalid. Your father throws himself into parliamentary work in a way that worries me. I sincerely believe they’d love to see you, Grace.”
She remembered her father’s final, unequivocal dismissal. “No, they wouldn’t. Although I can’t help but wonder about them.”
“Since Philip’s death, your father has reconsidered many things, not least his treatment of you.”
Vere spoke, interrupting the heavy silence that fell. “Sir, Grace has brought an urgent matter to my attention which I believe only you can resolve.”
“Do you need help, Grace?” Kermonde looked at her curiously. “My coffers are at your disposal.”
She shook her head, wishing her requirements were so simple. She asked for more than gold. For Matthew’s sake, she wanted Kermonde to pledge his name, his influence, perhaps his very reputation. “The help isn’t for me but for a man who suffers injustice of the worst kind.”
“Go on.” Suddenly, her godfather didn’t sound like her indulgent Uncle Francis but like the great Duke of Kermonde. Good. It was the duke she needed. Lord John was a powerful man and his crimes were hanging offenses. Perhaps her long-lost Marlow connections could save her lover.
Although not for her. Never for her.
“I have papers here, Your Grace.” Vere tapped the document case. “The story they tell beggars belief. That’s why I brought Grace to you. Although after all she’s been through, she needs rest to recover.”
“I don’t need rest. I need justice,” she said sharply. Vere showed an unfortunate tendency to coddle her. He was only six years her senior, but he already acted like a fussy old man. She wondered, not for the first time, how she could bear to live with him and his managing wife and noisy brood. And what could she do with Wolfram? Vere’s wife Sarah already complained vociferously about having the huge hound running tame in her house.
She had nowhere else to go.
She dismissed the troubling thought. Her future wasn’t important here. Matthew’s was.
“Tell me,” Kermonde said. “I’m intrigued.”
Her godfather heard her out with few comments, then turned to the documents she’d stolen to prove Matthew’s sanity. Drafts of articles for scientific journals. Letters in several languages to botanical experts across Europe. Correspondence from Lord John. His lordship had been careful not to confess any wrongdoing in writing. Nonetheless, the letters were a stinging indictment of greed and cruelty. They also set out names of doctors, treatments Matthew had undergone, other details that confirmed her outlandish tale.
When he finished, Kermonde looked up from his desk with a dazed expression. Afternoon drew toward evening. Grace waited nervously on the edge of the sofa.
Dear God, just let Matthew still be alive.
Vere had left on parish business after luncheon but he’d returned a short while ago. He now stood at the doors watching the light fade over the formal gardens.
“I can hardly credit it.” Her uncle removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. She’d been surprised when he’d taken them from his pocket. She remembered him as fit and vital. His weakening eyesight was an unwelcome reminder that he was now over sixty.
“It’s true,” she said shortly.
He smiled at her. “I don’t doubt it. I know Lord John’s handwriting from parliamentary business. He’s made himself a big noise in the world since he became his nephew’s keeper. I’d always thought he was a sound chap. Now I find the fellow should be horsewhipped then hanged.”