Thomas nodded, wondering why he’d even asked. He’d never known his uncle, of course; John Cavendish perished a year before he was born. But Belgrave Castle had long lived under his shadow. The dowager had always loved her middle son best, and everyone had known it, especially her other sons. “He was always her favorite,” he murmured.

Grace looked at him quizzically. “But you never knew him.”

“No, of course not,” he said brusquely. “He died before I was born. But my father spoke of him.”

Quite often. And never with fondness.

Still, he supposed he should help Grace wrestle the painting from the wall. The poor girl would be unable to manage it herself. He shook his head. “Isn’t that portrait life-sized?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Good Lord. The things his grandmother did…No.

No. He wasn’t going to do it.

He looked Grace squarely in the eye. “No,” he said. “You will not get that for her this evening. If she wants the bloody painting in her room, she can ask a footman for it in the morning.”

“I assure you, I want nothing more than to retire this very minute, but it is easier just to accommodate her.”

“Absolutely not,” Thomas replied. Good Lord, his grandmother was enough of a terror as it was. He turned and marched up the stairs, intending to give her the tongue-lashing she so sorely deserved, but halfway up he realized he was alone.

What was it with the women of Lincolnshire this evening?

“Grace!” he barked.

And then, when she did not materialize immediately at the foot of the stairs, he ran down and said it louder.

“Grace!”

“I’m right here,” she retorted, hurrying around the corner. “Good gracious, you’ll wake the entire house.”

He ignored that. “Don’t tell me you were going to get the painting by yourself.”

“If I don’t, she will ring for me all night, and then I will never get any sleep.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Watch me.”

She looked alarmed. “Watch you what?”

“Dismantle her bell cord,” he said, heading upstairs with renewed purpose.

“Dismantle her…Thomas!”

He didn’t bother to stop. He could hear her scurrying along behind him, almost able to keep up.

“Thomas, you can’t,” she huffed, out of breath from taking the stairs two at a time.

He stopped and turned. Grinned, even, because really, this was almost fun. “I own the house,” he said. “I can do anything I want.”

His feet ate up the carpet with long strides, barely pausing when he reached his grandmother’s door, which was conveniently ajar for easy entry.

“What,” he snapped, when he’d made his way to the side of her bed, “do you think you’re doing?”

But his grandmother looked…

Wrong.