Her eyes lacked their usual hardness, and truth be told, she didn’t look quite enough like a witch to resemble the Augusta Cavendish he knew and didn’t quite love.

“Good heavens,” he said despite himself, “are you all right?”

“Where is Miss Eversleigh?” his grandmother asked, her eyes darting frantically about the room.

“I’m right here,” Grace said, skidding across the room to the other side of her bed.

“Did you get it? Where is the painting? I want to see my son.”

“Ma’am, it’s late,” Grace tried to explain. She edged forward, then looked at the dowager intently as she said it again: “Ma’am.”

“You may instruct a footman to procure it for you in the morning,” Thomas said, wondering why he thought that something unspoken had just passed between the two women. He was fairly certain his grandmother did not take Grace into her confidence, and he knew that Grace did not return the gesture. He cleared his throat. “I will not have Miss Eversleigh undertaking such manual labor, and certainly not in the middle of the night.”

“I need the painting, Thomas,” the dowager said, but it was not her usual brittle snap. There was a catch in her voice, a weakness that was unnerving. And then she said, “Please.”

He closed his eyes. His grandmother never said please.

“Tomorrow,” he said, recomposing himself. “First thing if you wish it.”

“But—”

“No,” he interrupted. “I am sorry you were accosted this evening, and I shall certainly do whatever is necessary—within reason—to facilitate your comfort and health, but this does not include whimsical and ill-timed demands. Do you understand me?”

Her lips pursed, and he saw a flash of her usual, haughty self in her eyes. For some reason, he found this reassuring. It wasn’t that he viewed her usual, haughty self with much fondness, but the world was a more balanced place when everyone behaved as expected.

She stared at him angrily.

He stared back. “Grace,” he said sharply, without turning around, “go to bed.”

There was a long beat of silence, and then he heard Grace depart.

“You have no right to order her about that way,” his grandmother hissed.

“No, you have no right.”

“She is my companion.”

“Not your slave.”

His grandmother’s hands shook. “You don’t understand. You could never understand.”

“For which I am eternally grateful,” he retorted. Good Lord, the day he understood her was the day he ceased to like himself altogether. He’d spent a lifetime trying to please this woman, or if not that, then half a life trying to please her and the next half trying to avoid her. She had never liked him. Thomas could recall his childhood well enough to know that much. It did not bother him now; he’d long since realized she did not like anyone.