She glanced at Lady Annica and answered before it was asked. “Consummated, no issue. Mr. Huffington’s lands were not entailed, nor his fortune. He had no other close heirs and left me quite comfortable.”
“And...and you wonder if these unfortunate incidents were entirely natural?” Lady Sarah repeated.
“It seems rather odd to me that neither of my marriages have lasted longer than a day or two. It could be a tragic coincidence.” Georgiana hesitated. The final story was shorter, and even more tragic. “But last fall, before Aunt Caroline and I left town so quickly, I was betrothed to another man. He was killed barely a day after signing our contracts and before any announcements had been made.”
Even Gina’s eyebrows went up at this. “Who was it, Georgiana?”
“Mr. Booth. Mr. Adam Booth.”
“I was at the Argyle Rooms that night! I recall the incident—in the street outside Argyle House.”
Georgiana nodded. She still did not know the particulars of that event, except that she had been assured it had nothing to do with her. But still...
“Too much for mere coincidence,” Lady Annica mused. “Do you have any particular reason, aside from the untimely nature of the deaths, for suspecting foul play, Mrs. Huffington?”
“I have been over it in my mind endlessly. I did not know of anyone who wished them ill, nor can I think of anyone who would wish me ill. There is simply neither rhyme nor reason to it all, and that, I think, is the reason it took me so long to see the unlikelihood of mere coincidence.”
Grace Hawthorne put her teacup aside. “Has there been a threat to you personally, Mrs. Huffington? A note or a warning? A near call, an unaccountable accident, odd occurrence?”
“Nothing. I vow, each time it came without warning. One moment, all was well, and the next...”
“Disaster,” Gina finished for her.
“The most troubling was my betrothal to Mr. Booth. Our engagement had not even been announced, and he was dead. We—Aunt Caroline and I—were assured that the matter was quite unrelated to our betrothal, but...”
“But?”
“The facts speak for themselves. And, to be blunt, I would almost rather think there is something or someone else behind these things than to think of myself as being cursed. I’ve heard it whispered in the ton that only a madman would propose to me now. And I’ve heard there are some who are speculating that I hastened my husbands’ ends.”
“Do you want to be married again?” Lady Sarah asked with a note of wonder in her voice.
Georgiana shuddered. “I’ve had quite enough marriage and mourning, thank you.” Not again. Never again. Marriage and men were not for her.
Lady Sarah sat a little straighter. “Then the worst that could happen is that we are unable to get to the bottom of this and that the rumors persist. But if you do not wish to marry again, those consequences are not so very dire.”
“No,” Lady Annica corrected. “The worst that could happen is that we stir the pot and it somehow comes to a boil and implicates Mrs. Huffington and she is arrested.”
Arrested? If she was found guilty, she would hang. Dare she risk that?
“Is there anything—anything at all—that you have not told us, Mrs. Huffington?”
Georgiana shifted in her chair. Should she mention the little items recently gone missing? The occasional uneasy feeling that she was being watched or followed? Or that something was not quite...right? No. She needed these women to help her, not think she was confused or mad. Clara, her maid, had said it was merely her imagination, brought on by the circumstances of her husbands’ deaths. Even Aunt Caroline had told her she was seeing things that were not there.
“I can think of nothing important. Truly. Nothing.”
“Were you terribly in love, my dear?” Lady Charity asked.
“Love? I... Lady Caroline assured me that love follows marriage. She approved of my husbands and was as distressed as I over their deaths—perhaps more so. She desperately wanted to see me settled.”
Gina filled the gap for her. “Lady Caroline expired just before Christmas.”
“Then you are quite alone in the world, are you not?” Mrs. Hawthorne asked. “Such tragedy in your short life.”
Georgiana waved one hand in dismissal of the unwanted sympathy. “I only want to clear my name and reputation. And if my husbands were murdered, I want to find out who is behind it and obtain justice for them. That is the least I can do.”
Lady Annica clapped her hands. “Justice. The very thing we stand for, Mrs. Huffington—Georgiana, if I may? We are all on first names here.”
“We must ask you to think carefully about our next question, Georgiana,” Lady Sarah warned. “How closely do you want to be involved in the investigation?”
“Very closely, indeed,” she vowed. If someone was singling out the men she married, she wanted to know why.
“Excellent. I shall make all the arrangements and send you notice of where and when we shall meet next. Leave your schedule open, dear. We shall likely begin tomorrow.”
* * *
His hand raised, Charles was about to knock on his sister’s door when it opened and nearly caused him to stumble. Thank God he’d arrived in time.
“Charles! Heavens, you nearly frightened us to death.”
He looked over his sister’s shoulder to see her usual collection of friends—Lady Annica, Grace Hawthorne, Lady Charity MacGregor, Eugenia and, yes, the infamous Widow of Kent. His first love, his deepest cut and now his quarry.
Sarah followed the direction of his attention and smiled. “Charles, have you met Mrs. Huffington?”
“I believe I had that pleasure some years ago,” he said, removing his hat. “Refresh my memory?” He was rewarded by Mrs. Huffington’s little flinch at the slight.
Sarah stood aside to allow Mrs. Huffington to come forward. “Georgiana, may I present my woefully wicked brother, Mr. Charles Hunter? Charles, may I present Mrs. Georgiana Huffington?”
The beguiling creature performed a polite curtsy, her eyes downcast. Was she remembering the single extraordinary kiss they had stolen in a garden seven years ago? He took her hand and bowed. “Charmed again, Mrs. Huffington. How long have you been in town?”
“Not long, sir,” she said as she looked up from their joined hands. “I’ve only just returned from Kent.”
He took a moment to absorb her remarkably green eyes. Not emerald. Not greenish-gray or sea-green. Hers were more...olive. And every bit as captivating as they’d been years ago. His memory had not failed him. Nor had hers, indicated by the subtle blush on her cheeks. Yes, she was remembering that single astonishing kiss, too. Ah, but she was no longer girlishly coy. No, this Georgiana was now a woman of considerable experience. One he would have no qualms about seducing.
“Is Kent your home?” he asked to break the silence.
“It was until my marriage...s. And is again now.”
Quite interesting, the way she included her deceased husbands in one group. He wondered, perversely, if he should offer condolences or congratulations.
Before he could say anything, she tucked a stray wisp of dark blond hair back into her bonnet and continued a little breathlessly. “I have come to town to meet with my aunt’s factor and solicitor to settle matters regarding her estate.”
He noted a quick flash of pain in her eyes, just as quickly hidden—genuine grief for her aunt, then, but only scraps for her husbands. And Adam Booth? What had she felt for him? “I am sorry for your loss...es, Mrs. Huffington.”
A sudden spark in her eyes told him she’d caught his deliberate mocking.
He became aware of the other ladies watching them with interest, and that he was still holding Mrs. Huffington’s warm, delicate hand. He released it and gave her his best devil-may-care grin as he bowed and stood
aside to let them pass. A fair beginning. Having been reintroduced by his sister, Mrs. Huffington was unlikely to suspect the real reason he was about to show a singular interest in her again.
But he’d been surprised by the sudden flash of anger that surfaced at his memory of that kiss—a kiss so remarkable he’d been about to propose. A kiss he still remembered seven years later. A kiss, as it turned out, that had been nothing but deceitful.
Chapter Two
Georgiana looked down at the darkened city street outside her window. There were a few trees in the small square across the way, two or three benches and a grassy patch for children to play. A little piece of the country in London. The thought made her a bit melancholy. She’d lived most her life in Kent, shut away with her guardian. Lady Caroline’s tragic disfigurement had isolated her from the world but for her brief and successful husband-hunting forays for Georgiana. But she could not regret those quiet, idyllic days. In fact, she yearned for them. A life in the countryside free of the controversy and scandal of her circumstances seemed the most desirable of all goals. The moment she could conclude her business, she’d hasten back to Kent and retire there.
London was too unsettling. Too demanding. Too dangerous.
She leaned against the window casement and pulled the lace curtain aside to watch the flicker of the lamppost below and try to organize her mind for the days ahead. But all that came to her was Charles Hunter. Her first love. Her greatest shame.
She’d met him years ago, in her come-out season, and she’d thought him terribly handsome and quite amusing. She’d made the mistake of allowing him to kiss her in a garden one summer night, and that had been her undoing. That kiss had been deeply stirring and had led to more than she intended.
Upon their reintroduction this afternoon, she’d confirmed he was quite the best-looking man she’d ever met. But now there was nothing of his youthful openness left. He was still tall and dark, like his brothers, and he had the same startling violet eyes as his sister, but he seemed more guarded, more...dangerous. What had happened to him during the intervening years?
Back then, he’d been her favorite, and she’d thought she was his. But after that kiss he’d turned moody and began to avoid her. She wondered if she’d done something wrong, commited some gaucherie, or somehow offended him. When she’d complained, Aunt Caroline informed her that some men were fickle, and lost interest when a woman came too easily. Charles Hunter, she was told, was a rake—the sort who liked the chase more than the capture. Had the kiss been his capture? Humiliated, she’d begun to avoid him, too.
Now? Well, he was Lady Sarah’s brother, and she would likely be encountering him on occasion. But she was seven years older and wiser. She could hold her own with a man like Mr. Hunter. His subtle challenge and the ever-so-slight insult this afternoon aside, she could be as polite as he. Yes, warm and polite on the surface, cool and distant beneath—that was the way to deal with a man of his mettle. Surely ignoring his little barbs would be easy for her now that she had some measure of sophistication and experience.
The mantel clock struck the hour of eleven just as a knock sounded on her door. Sanders, her footman, entered carrying a small silver tray bearing two letters. “Mr.
Hathaway said these came for you a bit ago, madam. I think one is from that solicitor fellow.”
Her solicitor? Oh, pray he had found time for her in his schedule. “Why did he not bring it to me when it arrived?”
“Mr. Hathaway was on his way out to fetch blacking for the stove and andirons, madam. He left them in the foyer and Clara told me to bring them up.” Sanders placed the little tray on her night table.
Blacking? Where would her butler find blacking so late at night? Georgiana sighed as she realized her household had become used to functioning by itself during her mourning. It might take her a while to get matters back in hand.
Sanders added wood to the fireplace and turned to Georgiana. “Will that be all for tonight, madam?”
“Yes, thank you. Please send Clara up.”
He gave a crisp bow before leaving her alone in her room. She looked around and sighed. In London three days, and they’d just managed to settle in. She hadn’t thought to send servants ahead to prepare for her arrival. Aunt Caroline had always tended to such matters. The house had needed airing, the linens washing, the furniture dusting and the floors polishing. But now she was ready for her stay, no matter how long. The only room they hadn’t opened was Aunt Caroline’s. She was not quite ready for that yet.
How odd, she thought as she turned to the four-poster bed and removed her apron. She and Aunt Caroline had talked endlessly about everything in the world, but they’d never talked about this—about the small details of her aunt’s final wishes.
The threat of tears burned the backs of her eyes and she blinked rapidly to hold them at bay—she had promised herself that she was done with them. She’d cried oceans of tears in the past seven years, but her deepest sorrow was for Aunt Caroline.
She removed her lace cap, tossed it on her dressing table and pulled the pins from her tidy bun. The weight of her hair tumbled down her back and she ran her fingers through it to remove any remaining hairpins as her maid bustled in.
“Ready for bed, madam?”
“Yes, Clara. I think we are all exhausted. Please tell everyone to sleep late.”
The plump woman smiled. “Aye, madam. Won’t have to tell them twice, I vow.”
Georgiana laughed. Sleeping late was a treat Aunt Caroline had always offered after an unusually long day of work. “If you will just help me with my stays, I shall do the rest myself.” She undid her tapes, lifted her work dress over her head and turned her back to the maid.
Clara went to work loosening the laces of her corset until it fell away, leaving Georgiana only in her chemise. “Aye, madam. I think we’re all settled in, like. Everyone is excited to be back in town. Why, even Mr. Hathaway has a spring in his step.”
Her staid butler? Imagining Hathaway excited about anything was nearly impossible.
“Cook and me think he has a sweetheart.” Clara giggled. “He was sad to leave last fall and he perked up the minute we got here.”
And now he was going out at night to buy blacking. Georgiana smiled. She wondered if she’d have to hire a new upstairs maid soon. She hoped Hathaway’s sweetheart was not a cook, because Mrs. Brady was truly gifted in the kitchen.
Clara picked up the brush but Georgiana took it from her and sat at the dressing table. “Go on to bed, Clara. I’ll finish up. And mind you, lie abed in the morning.”
Clara bobbed a curtsy and practically ran for the door before Georgiana could retract the offer. She began to pull her brush through her hair and then set it aside to open her little jewelry case.
Silly to look again, she knew. It hadn’t been there yesterday and wouldn’t have magically appeared today. But she’d have sworn she’d left the little opal ring here last fall. Aunt Caroline had given it to her on her sixteenth birthday and it was precious to her. Even more precious now that Auntie was gone.
She closed her jewelry case with a sigh and turned to the letters on her tray. She broke the unfamiliar seal on the first one—not from her solicitor but from Grace Hawthorne. She and her husband, a diplomat, were hosting a reception for the American ambassador tomorrow evening and requested her attendance—a very proper and sedate way to reenter society after her most recent mourning. She would send her acceptance in the morning.
The next letter was, indeed, from her solicitor. He would see her Friday morning and hinted that he had news for her. Whatever it was, she could not be surprised. She and her aunt had shared every detail of their lives. Well, every detail but for those in her will.
Georgiana went to her escritoire and opened her appointment book. She scratched the Hawthorne reception tomorrow night and her appointment with the solicitor
the day after into the book, then blew the candles out, dimming the bedroom to the indistinct glow of the fireplace.
After she shed her chemise and donned her nightgown, she went back to her window to open it to the soft breeze. A movement in the shadows across the street set her heart to racing. The overwhelming sensation of being watched sent a shiver though her and she rubbed her arms to banish the sudden gooseflesh that rose there. Someone walking over her grave, her aunt used to say. The edge of the curtain drifted back into place as she backed away from the window. Had it been her imagination or a foreshadowing of things to come?
* * *
Charles shifted in the darkness. He hadn’t meant to let the sight of Mrs. Huffington in the window draw him closer to the light, but he’d forgotten himself in his study of her. She was so bloody beautiful that he could well understand men getting lost in those soulful green eyes and proposing in the face of almost certain death.
But was she a victim or a villainess? That was the question Wycliffe wanted answered. And he needed to know if she’d been the cause of Adam Booth’s death and his wound. He rubbed his shoulder absently, the muscles still stiff from the injury.
Georgiana Huffington’s entire future depended upon what he uncovered. And, as heart-stopping as she was, he could not afford to allow his baser instincts to interfere. He’d never compromised an assignment before, and he wouldn’t start now. Seduce her, perhaps, but be drawn in by her supposed innocence? Never. He knew better.
Ah, but anticipation of tomorrow night at the Hawthorne reception made him smile to himself. Mrs. Huffington’s dismay should be quite amusing when she realized he would not be so easy to avoid as he’d been years ago.
A cold shiver worked its way up his spine. Someone walking over his grave? He glanced around and strained to hear any sound, no matter how faint. Damn Gibbons and his cutthroats. Charles hadn’t been able to relax for months, but this was different. His every instinct warned him danger was in the wind. Breathlessly, he waited. Moments passed before he breathed again. A falling leaf? A stray cat?
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