Page 59 of A Perfect Gentleman

“Naturally. Anything he did at Lydcombe is likely to still be there. I never used his office. Mother couldn’t bear to have it disturbed. There’s so much more room at the Hall, I just turned one of the other rooms into my study. If there is anything to find about the charity, I think we’ll find it there.”

“Then you’re going back to Lydcombe Hall?” James quirked an eyebrow. “I didn’t get the impression your wife was in favor of visiting the estate.”

“Mm. Abigail won’t be inclined to accede to Grandmother’s wishes.” He smiled faintly. “But I think I can persuade her.”

chapter 20

Abby drew in her breath as the double lines of pollarded lime trees opened up, revealing a wide green expanse, with Lydcombe Hall at the top, like the jewel in a crown. From the smile on Graeme’s face, she thought that for him it probably was.

It was easy to see why he loved the house. Large and symmetrical, it was built of brick that must once have been red and had faded through time into almost a deep rose, outlined along the corners and across the top with white stone cornices. Leading from the drive to the front door were shallow, terraced steps built of the same white stone. On either side stood planters boasting a profusion of pansies in a rainbow of hues. The house managed to appear elegant, gracious, and homey, all at the same time.

Graeme turned to her, smiling, and took her hand. “There she is. What do you think?”

“I think it’s wonderful.” Any other answer would have been unthinkable in the face of Graeme’s obvious pleasure, but in truth, the place was beautiful. She had a vision of her child growing up here, happy and healthy and secure, a dark-haired boy or girl—why not both?—and unexpectedly her eyes welled with tears.

She blinked them away. Better not to dream of things that might not ever come to pass. Right now, she must brace herself to meet his mother.

Abby didn’t mind visiting Lydcombe Hall, aside from a brief irritation at the appearance of giving in to Lady Eugenia’s wishes. Hopefully they would find papers relating to Lord Reginald’s charity here. A longer search of the attic in the London house had turned up nothing. More alluring than that, though, was the prospect of getting out from under the gaze of Graeme’s grandmother. The Hall, Graeme assured her, was much larger, and his mother far less intrusive.

Abby remembered Lady Montclair as a sweet-faced, sweet-tempered woman. Though Abby had not spent much time in her company before their wedding, Mirabelle had been pleasant, even kind. Still, no mother could be happy about her son having to marry a woman he did not want. If Graeme had believed Abby was cut from the same cloth as her father, doubtless his mother did, as well.

Ten years of Abby’s absence would not have made the woman like her any better. No doubt she resented Abby for showing up again, just as Graeme had. Graeme now seemed content with their arrangement, even pleased with it—at least in the bedroom. But there was no reason for his mother to have changed her mind.

Abby’s stomach knotted as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the house. The double front doors opened, framing a rotund man in formal black and white. His face was wreathed in smiles in a most un-butler-like fashion.

“Master Graeme.” He hurried down the steps to open the carriage door and put down the step. “Welcome home.”

“Master Graeme?” Abigail murmured, her eyes twinkling.

“Difficult to maintain one’s stature when the man’s known me since I was in leading strings,” he told her before he left the carriage. “Fletcher. It’s good to be home. You’re looking well.”

“Good of you to say so, sir.”

Graeme reached back to give Abigail his hand as she left the carriage. “Allow me to introduce my wife.”

“Lady Montclair.” Fletcher honored her with a gracious bow. “I hope you will find everything in order.”

“Thank you, Fletcher. I am sure I will.”

The servants had formed a line to the door, and Abby was introduced to a dizzying array of names and faces, from the housekeeper to the second upstairs maid. Abby hoped that Molly would find herself more at home among this group than she had with the servants in the London house. The housekeeper, Mrs. Sinclair, had a touch of Scottish burr in her tone.

They walked into an enormous entry hall open to the second floor. Abby drew in a breath of admiration at seeing the graceful double staircase. “Graeme. How lovely.”

A woman clad in brilliant purple hurried down the stairs toward them. Abby recognized Graeme’s mother at once. Slightly plumper, with more gray threaded through her hair and more lines in her face than ten years ago, still she looked much the same. Like her more flamboyant sister Tessa, Lady Montclair had dark hair and gray eyes, and Abby was sure that she had probably had dozens of admirers when she was young.

“It’s so wonderful to have you home again!” Mirabelle exclaimed, holding out her arms to Graeme.

“Hello, Mother.” Graeme embraced her and bent to kiss her cheek, affection clear upon his face. “You remember Abigail.”

“Of course.” Graeme’s mother turned to her with no diminution of her happy glow. “Welcome to Lydcombe Hall, my dear.”

To Abby’s surprise, Mirabelle kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you, Lady Montclair. I am happy to see you again.”

“Oh, please don’t be so formal with me. You must call me Mirabelle, or perhaps Mother, as Graeme does?” She lifted her brows in a hopeful way. “You are, after all, my daughter now. Not, of course, that I would dare to replace your own mother, so I perfectly understand if you don’t wish to.”

“No, I mean, yes, of course, if you would like it. My own mother died many years ago.”

“My dear! I am so sorry. I had forgotten. It must have been hard growing up without a mother.”