In the last hour she had brought the dowager (who would not leave her bed) a collection of letters, tucked at the bottom of a locked drawer; a glass of warm milk; a glass of brandy; another miniature of her long-dead son John; a handkerchief that clearly possessed some sort of sentimental value; and another glass of brandy, to replace the one the dowager had knocked over while anxiously directing Grace to fetch the handkerchief.

It had been about ten minutes since the last summons. Ten minutes to do nothing but sit and wait in the chair, thinking, thinking…

Of the highwayman.

Of his kiss.

Of Thomas, the current Duke of Wyndham. Whom she considered a friend.

Of the dowager’s long-dead middle son, and the man who apparently bore his likeness. And his name.

His name. Grace took a long, uneasy breath. His name.

Good God.

She had not told the dowager this. She had stood motionless in the middle of the road, watching the highwayman ride off in the light of the partial moon. And then, finally, when she thought her legs might actually function, she set about getting them home. There was the footman to untie, and the coachman to tend to, and as for the dowager-she was so clearly upset that she did not even whisper a complaint when Grace put the injured coachman inside the carriage with her.

And then she joined the footman atop the driver’s seat and drove them home. She wasn’t a particularly experienced hand with the reins, but she could manage.

And she’d had to manage. There was no one else to do it. But that was something she was good at.

Managing. Making do.

She’d got them home, found someone to tend to the coachman, and then tended to the dowager, and all the while she’d thought-

Who was he?

The highwayman. He’d said his name had once been Cavendish. Could he be the dowager’s grandson? She had been told that John Cavendish died without issue, but he wouldn’t have been the first young nobleman to litter the countryside with illegitimate children.