"We tried to talk with her," Wexcombe replied with a growl. "Asked her to come and live in the dower house. Demmed stubborn woman won't see reason."
The marquess folded his arms over his chest. "You mean she won't accede to your demands. Devil take it, I told you-"
The duke cut him off. "I've had enough of this, Bainbridge! She should be at home with her family, not gadding about like a giddy schoolgirl."
"Wexcombe, you're about as subtle as a hammer to the head," the marquess said with a sigh. "You cannot use your rank and position to bully your own grandmother. Let me talk to her."
"I doubt you'll be able to do any better," snapped the duke. "You know what she's like once she has set her mind to something."
"I just hope you haven't made a mull of it. After all, you want to persuade her to enjoy your company, not escape it."
Wexcombe scowled. "I tried, Cousin, but I've never known anyone to be so willful."
"You haven't been going about it the right way. Persuasion is the key, not force. I'll see what I can do." With a nod to the duke, Bainbridge started up the stairs.
He knocked at the door to her room. "Great-Aunt Josephine? Are you in? It's Bainbridge."
The door opened a crack; the dowager's maid regarded him with distrustful eyes. "Her Grace is resting, my lord."
The marquess presented her with his most dazzling smile. "Please tell Her Grace that I would like to see her."
"A moment, my lord." The abigail closed the door.
A few heartbeats later, Bainbridge was ushered into the dowager duchess's sitting room. The dowager reclined on the chaise before the fireplace, a blanket over her knees. The marquess's heart sank. Lord, she looked so drawn, so tired, so… old. She stared into the fire, her complexion ashen.
"Hello, Aunt," he said softly.
Her dark gaze swiveled to his face. A spark of interest glittered there for a moment, then disappeared. She turned back to the fire. "Hmph. Are you here to take a turn at me, as well?"
"Not at all. May I sit down?"
The dowager made a vague gesture toward the Chippendale chair across the hearth from her; Bainbridge lowered himself into it and leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees.
"Well, what is it, then?" the dowager asked, her wrinkled lips still pursed in a frown.
"I'm sorry, Aunt Jo," he said. "I had no idea they planned to do this."
"I should hope not," she snapped. "I should hate to have to disinherit you, as well."
"You don't want to do that. They meant well; truly they did."
The duchess rose to a sitting position, her eyes flashing. "Oh, they did, did they? Cow-handed idiots, the lot of them! Think they can put me out to pasture like some broken-down nag. Balderdash. I won't stand for it. This is my life, and I'll be damned if I let that popinjay grandson of mine dictate to me!"
A smile curled at the corner of Bainbridge's mouth. "None of your die-away airs now, ma'am," he drawled.
The dowager squinted at him, then guffawed. "Oh, Nicholas, they have me in such a pet. Pour me a glass of brandy-for medicinal purposes, of course."
"Of course." With a grin, Bainbridge rose and crossed to the washstand, where the dowager kept a bottle of smuggled French brandy and a glass in the small cupboard beneath it. That he kept her provided with the contraband liquor was their secret; if smuggled brandy kept her happy, all the better. He poured a small amount into the glass, then handed it to her.
"You're a good lad, Nicholas," sighed the dowager. The rings on her fingers flashed in the firelight as she took a sip. "I am relieved to see that someone in the family inherited my intelligence."
He folded himself into his chair. "But I am only your great-nephew by marriage," he pointed out.
The dowager harrumphed. "Then that explains it. A pity one cannot choose one's blood relations." She peered at her glass, then at him. "And how is Kit?"
His pulse leaped at the mere mention of Mrs. Mallory's name. His pulse and… other portions of his anatomy. He shifted on his chair. "I believe she is much improved, ma'am."
"Good. What do you think of the girl?"
One corner of his mouth twitched. He was sure the dowager didn't want to hear his salacious thoughts. "Girl? She is a bit old to be called that, don't you think?"
"Oh, bosh. At my age, everyone younger than fifty is a mere babe. Besides, she's only five-and-twenty. Hardly long in the tooth."
He raised an eyebrow. "And why are you telling me this, ma'am?"
"Well, because I want your estimate of her character," she blustered.
"She seems a pleasant enough lady," he hedged. "Then again, I must admit that I hardly know her." Though I find myself particularly eager to make her most… intimate acquaintance.
She took another sip of brandy, coughed, and fanned her face with her kerchief. "No, no, stay there; I am quite all right. I met her onboard the Daphne, bound from Calcutta. She nursed me through that most dreadful passage; most of the time I was ill with horrible bouts of mal de mer. Eh… I do not wish to remember it too closely.
"Kit is a delight, Nicholas, and not only because she sees me as a person, not as a doddering eccentric whose presence is to be tolerated. She treats me with respect and genuine affection, which is more than what I've received from my own family of late. Now, what do you think of that?"
"Such a friendship is commendable, Your Grace."
The dowager fixed him with a pointed stare. "Then why does no one else in this house seem to agree with you?"
"Your Grace?"
"Oh, come now, Bainbridge, it's as obvious as this beaky nose of mine. Do you think me blind as well as deaf?"
"Neither, ma'am," the marquess was quick to reply.
"Well, my grandson apparently does. And I think I know the reason."
"And what would that be?"
The dowager snorted. "They think she's after my money."
"And you do not?" he inquired with great caution.
"You must believe Wexcombe's absurd prating if you think me so dicked in the nob, Bainbridge. Kit is not after my money; her late husband left her flush in the pocket. Do you think I don't realize what all this is about? This sudden push to get me to give up my independence, and the reprehensible treatment of my young friend?"
"You cannot blame Their Graces for being concerned for your welfare," Bainbridge gently replied.
"Perhaps, but I will not let them ramrod me into giving up my independence. After forty years of marriage to a man I loathed, I am entitled to enjoy a measure of freedom, and I intend to do just that."
"But at what cost, ma'am? You will be seventy-four on your next birthday. You have to slow down eventually."
"Why? I feel right as rain. Oh, I get a little slower each year, I will agree, but other than that I am in prime twig." She set her glass on the end table and glowered at him. "Where do you stand in all this, Nicholas? No, do not bother to give me that innocent look. It won't fadge. You rarely come to these family house parties, and yet this year, here you are. Has my grandson enlisted you in this nefarious plot of his?"
"What plot is that?"
"Do not insult my intelligence, boy. He called you here to persuade me to retire to the dower house at Wexcombe Hall, and to stop embarrassing him."
He raised his hands in protest. "I do not ascribe to those motives, I assure you. But I do fear for your safety, ma'am. Despite your protests, you are not as spry as you used to be, yet you insist on racketing around the world without apparent care for your health or your welfare. At times I wonder if you are trying to prove something to us."
"I?" she blurted. "I am not trying to prove a thing. What an absurd notion."
"We only want what is best for you."
"What is best for me, Bainbridge," the dowager sniffed, "is for all of you to trust my judgment. I will decide when to settle down, and that is that."
"You are uncommonly stubborn, Your Grace."
She shrugged. "I do not wish to hear another word on the matter from you, Nicholas. Do you understand?"