Page 40 of Romancing the Scot
“I know far too little. I know her first name is Grace and that she had no memory of anything else. And she’s been ill, but is recovering. Surely, you have more to share with your friends.”
Too late, but Jo now saw the wisdom in Hugh’s suggestion that they should have sent for an Edinburgh doctor. Not so much for better medical care but to avoid gossip. Dr. Namby was a kindly man, but clearly what he knew had been conveyed to his wife. And now it was fresh on this woman’s tongue. For Grace’s sake, Jo was relieved that the good doctor had no knowledge of the diamond they’d found in her dress. She didn’t want to imagine the feast these two would make out of that information.
“Has there been a change in her condition since the last time Dr. Namby was here? What has she told you of her origins? Her family?” Gossip-mongering had turned into an interrogation.
Just as Jo was about to cave in to a nearly overwhelming desire to tell the woman to mind her own business, the tea arrived.
“Lady Nithsdale,” she said, lowering her voice and gesturing meaningfully toward the servants. “Pray be so kind as to curtail this conversation.”
As a footman and a maid passed trays of brioche with butter and jam, Jo stood and prepared the tea. While they ate, Lady Nithsdale nattered away about the opera and plays she’d attended in London, and Mrs. Douglas sat sipping tea in silence, only occasionally responding when called upon. But Jo knew the conversation would turn the moment the food plates had been cleared.
She was correct. The servants had no sooner left the room when Lady Nithsdale—unable to wait another moment—switched the topic back to Grace.
“Finally. As I was saying, Mrs. Douglas could provide brilliant assistance to you regarding—”
“Would you care for more tea, m’lady?” Jo interrupted, holding up the pot for her.
“No, thank you. Where was I? Oh, yes. She could solve the entire mystery of this stranger for you.”
Jo’s gaze uncontrollably was drawn to the silent guest. Her face was a mask. The same unchanging hint of a smile etched across the woman’s features.
“More tea for you, ma’am?”
“Thank you. No.”
“Mrs. Douglas travels extensively through the Continent,” the countess continued. “She knows everyone who is anyone. She’s told me herself she has several friends she visits in Antwerp. If your guest is of any consequence there, my friend will surely recognize her.”
“And are you to be here for the ball? Or are you too desperately needed by the ladies in Brighton?”
Mrs. Douglas’s cool expression didn’t change, but before she could answer, Lady Nithsdale pushed her tea cup and saucer away from her.
“Really, Lady Josephine. You must allow us to meet with this young woman before we go.”
“Oh, must you go?” Then, smiling as sweetly as she could manage, Jo rose from the table. “But of course you have so many calls to make, I’m sure. Oh, look at the time.”
“No, I didn’t mean that we need to—”
“Of course you didn’t. You’re too kind to hurry your visit, but I’m certain our other neighbors would feel neglected if you were to deprive them of Mrs. Douglas’s company. I wouldn’t feel right, keeping you both to myself. Ladies?”
As Lady Nithsdale reluctantly rose from her seat, Jo glanced at the other guest, who was eyeing her with the same inscrutable expression.
“But about your guest . . .” Lady Nithsdale huffed.
“No, m’lady. I won’t keep you another moment. We’ll save that for another visit, shall we?” Jo ushered them toward the door. “And the next time you call, we can tour the garden. The azaleas are lovely this year.”
Chapter 13
The disaster was well under way before they even left the stables.
Instructions were flying at her from Hugh and the two grooms. The gelding she was now to ride was younger and more energetic and needed a strong hand to stand still while Grace was helped up onto his back. She was nearly tossed before she was even seated.
The situation didn’t improve at all once they started. Grace knew from experience that all horses, even the most docile, try to show their independence when ridden by a stranger. She’d had no chance to befriend the new mount. They’d given her a riding crop to make up for the absence of a leg on the off side; but it was useless. The gelding constantly sprawled about, requiring continual pulling together. She couldn’t lower her hands, positioned as she was. And without the use of her right leg—which was hooked uncomfortably around the saddle’s crutch—she lost an invaluable tool for controlling the animal. Everything she’d been taught before was for nothing. She might as well have been perched atop a camel’s hump.
Clearly, she thought, she’d never given enough respect to those who’d mastered this dangerously awkward method of riding. The few times she’d been offered the chance to try, Grace never accepted. Her father wouldn’t allow it. And as a perfectionist, she’d never liked that “less capable” feeling when she was learning something new.
As their horses walked past a kennel and a number of barns, Grace leaned to the right to keep her balance, but her leg was quickly falling sleep. This wasn’t riding. There was no joy in it. This saddle had obviously been designed to torture women.
She enjoyed riding astride. She always had. To race across a meadow or down a country lane with the wind in your face, to sail through the air over wall or ditch, to move as one with the powerful animal between your legs was a joy unparalleled. Fashion be damned, she’d often worn men’s breeches while doing it. Today, she had no choice in the dress she wore, but she didn’t think it would all go this badly.
