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Grace had no idea whether Thomas had returned the night before, but if he hadn’t…well, she wouldn’t blame him.

“More chocolate, Miss Eversleigh.”

Grace stood and refilled the dowager’s cup from the pot she’d left on the bedside table.

“What did you talk about last night?”

Grace decided to feign obtuseness. “I retired early.” She tilted the pot back, careful not to drip. “With your very kind permission.”

The dowager scowled. Grace avoided the expression by returning the chocolate pot to its spot on the table. It took her an impressively long time to get it just so.

“Did he speak of me?” the dowager asked.

“Er, not so very much,” Grace hedged.

“Not very much or not at all?”

Grace turned. There was only so much interrogation she could avoid before the dowager lost her temper. “I’m certain he mentioned you.”

“What did he say?”

Good heavens. How was she meant to say that he’d called her an old bat? And if he hadn’t called her that, then he’d probably called her something worse. “I don’t recall precisely, ma’am,” Grace said. “I’m terribly sorry. I was not aware you wished for me to take note of his words.”

“Well, next time, do so,” the dowager muttered. She turned to her newspaper, then looked up toward the window, her mouth in a straight, recalcitrant line. Grace stood still, her hands clasped in front of her, and waited patiently while the dowager fussed and turned and sipped and ground her teeth, and then—it was hard to believe, but Grace thought she might actually feel sorry for the older woman.

“He reminds me of you,” she said, before she could think the better of it.

The dowager turned to her with delighted eyes. “He does? How?”

Grace felt her stomach drop, although she was not certain if this was due to the uncharacteristic happiness on the dowager’s face or the fact that she had no idea what to say. “Well, not completely, of course,” she stalled, “but there is something in the expression.”

But after about ten seconds of smiling blandly, it became apparent to Grace that the dowager was waiting for more. “His eyebrow,” she said, in what she thought was a stroke of genius. “He lifts it like you do.”

“Like this?” The dowager’s left brow shot up so fast Grace was surprised it did not fly off her face.

“Er, yes. Somewhat like that. His are…” Grace made awkward motions near her own brows.

“Bushier?”

“Yes.”

“Well, he is a man.”

“Yes.” Oh, yes.

“Can he do both?”

Grace stared at her blankly. “Both, ma’am?”

The dowager began lifting and dropping her brows in alternation. Left, right, left, right. It was a singularly bizarre spectacle.

“I do not know,” Grace said. Quickly. To cut her off.

“Very strange,” the dowager said, returning both of her brows back to where Grace hoped she’d keep them. “My John could not do it.”

“Heredity is very mysterious,” Grace agreed. “My father could not do this”—she took her thumb and bent it back until it touched her forearm—“but he said his father could.”

“Aah!” The dowager turned aside in disgust. “Put it back! Put it back!”