“Little upstart!” he snarled, taking two steps toward her. “You are marrying to spite my suit, are you not? If you go through with this, I could petition to have your marriage to Mr. Hunter set aside as fraudulent.”
She stood and moved behind the settee, wanting to keep a distance from this man. “You could, but you’d never prove it. I am offering you money to drop your suit, sir, which is more than you deserve. My only reason for doing so is to preserve the peace and avoid the scandal of a public proceeding and not because I think your suit has merit. My future husband, however, will not care about that. I’d advise you to take my proposal now and go away before he can intercede.”
The clock in the foyer chimed three times and Georgiana realized that Charles’s coach would be here soon to take her to Lockwood’s.
Mr. Foxworthy’s hands fisted at his sides as he advanced. “You will pay for your insolence, Mrs. Huffington. I will see to it that you do not forget it once I am in control.”
Suddenly marriage seemed like an excellent idea. “You will never be in control, sir. I am marrying Mr. Hunter this afternoon. You should have taken my offer. Now you are too late.”
Foxworthy’s eyes bulged and his complexion deepened to a hue that Georgiana feared indicated apoplexy. “Why, you little—”
“Finn!”
The door opened before his name had faded from her lips.
“Show Mr. Foxworthy out, please.”
In three long strides, Finn had seized Mr. Foxworthy by the back of his jacket and lifted him so that only his toes touched the floor. Foxworthy in one arm, and the little trunk still under the other, he strode to the garden door, gave the man a shove and closed the door. “Didn’t think you’d want him on the front stoop, Mrs. Huffington.”
She resisted the impulse to give the man a hug. “Thank you, Finn. Now, if you will watch for the coach, I must go change. I am getting married this afternoon, you know.”
He gave her a wide grin. “As you say, ma’am.”
“Put that little trunk with my other things, please. Must we tell Mr. Hunter about this unfortunate meeting?”
“’Fraid so, Mrs. Huffington.”
* * *
Charles waited impatiently in the small family chapel in Lockwood’s back garden. He hadn’t seen Georgiana since last night and, to admit the truth, he was more than a little uncertain if she would go through with the marriage. According to Finn, however, he would have Walter Foxworthy to thank if she did.
Yes, he’d thank him, and right after he’d thrash the man to within an inch of his life. Richardson had warned him that the elder Foxworthy was an unpleasant person, and it was appalling that he would stoop to threaten a woman.
Restless and impatient, he started forward. If Georgiana would not come, he would go fetch her. Lockwood clamped a hand over his shoulder and whispered in his ear.
“Patience, Charlie. They’ll be along in a moment. Elise said she wanted to pin some flowers in Mrs. Huffington’s hair.”
His brothers, along with Ethan Travis and Devlin Farrell, grinned at him. All of them had been down this path, and they knew his anxiety. At the sound of soft female voices, they turned toward the chapel door. His sisters-in-law entered and came to stand beside their husbands, and then his own sister, Sarah, entered arm-in-arm with his bride.
Georgiana was stunning in a pale blush-colored creation with a sheer white organza overdress. Fresh soft pink roses set off the glints of sunlight in her hair and she carried a posy of the same innocent flowers. As she came forward, he could read the doubt in her luminous green eyes. Her lips parted and she began to say something, but he gave her a slight shake of his head.
Too late for doubts now. He would erase them all tonight. When they were alone. He gave her a reassuring smile and was rewarded with her quick response.
Sarah brought Georgiana to his side and then stepped back beside her husband. He and Georgiana turned toward the minister, and the ceremony began. He held Georgiana’s gaze steadily and barely listened to the words. He did not need to. He’d have vowed anything to have this done with and Georgiana his forever. And Georgiana did not need to listen. She’d heard the words often enough.
He was so lost in her that Lockwood had to nudge him when the minister called for his consent. “I will,” he murmured.
A moment later Georgiana’s faint agreement followed his and they recited the vows after the minister—he in a clear, steady voice, and Georgiana in a soft whisper that seemed to caress him. When the minister asked for the ring, Charles slipped the gold band studded with diamonds and emeralds, which he’d purchased at Rundel and Bridge’s this morning, from his little finger and placed it on the minister’s prayer book to be passed back to him to slip on Georgiana’s finger.
Repeating after the minister, he gave his solemn vow, still surprised that he could mean every word when just a week ago he’d mistrusted her every word. “With this ring I thee wed, with my body I thee worship, and with all my worldly goods I thee endow...”
As they knelt for the prayers, Georgiana’s shoulder touched his and deep satisfaction spread through him. She was his wife. His. For as long as he lived. Even if that was only until tomorrow. The seductive scent of roses wafted up to him, and his next reflection was far from godly. The rest of the ceremony became a blur as he indulged in salacious thoughts that were sure to damn him to Hell.
Then it was done and, though it was not a part of the ceremony, Charles lifted Georgiana’s chin and planted a proprietary kiss on her lips. They turned to the family to find broad smiles and teary eyes. Lockwood and Andrew went with them to sign the clerk’s book and finish the business.
The sun was setting as they strolled across the lawns to the house. “Welcome to the family, Mrs. Hunter,” Lockwood said.
Georgiana looked bewildered for a moment until she realized that she was the Mrs. Hunter to whom Lockwood referred. Then she sighed—a sound that spoke more of melancholy than of contentment. Was she wondering if she would be attending his funeral tomorrow? He squeezed her hand and she looked up at him. He gave her a reassuring wink and was rewarded with a smile that warmed her face. Charles vowed to give her all the reassurance she’d ever need tonight.
* * *
The moment they arrived home, Charles’s butler bowed and assumed an apologetic smile. “Lord Wycliffe and Sir Henry Richardson are waiting in the library, sir. They say it is urgent.”
“Thank you, Crosley.” Charles turned to her with a pained expression. “I may have neglected to mention that this was my wedding day. I apologize, Georgiana. I will see what they want and send them on their way. I shall be with you presently.”
Clara, who had been waiting for her arrival, took her arm to lead her up a curved central staircase. Every detail of the house spoke of good taste and elegance. She had not suspected that Charles’s home would be so charming.
“We’ve been unpacking all day, madam. Soon as we have everything set out, you’ll be quite at home. Your room is lovely. Why, it’s twice the size of your old one. And twice the room for your gowns and such.”
Georgiana followed her maid down a passageway to a door at the end. When Clara threw it open with a flourish, she blinked. Hers was a corner room, which would admit light in both the morning and evening. And it was, indeed, large. High ceilings, mahogany wainscoting and restful colors soothed her, and she dropped her reticule and shawl on a side table to explore. Deep Persian carpets padded her footsteps as she went forward. The dressing table was twice the size of hers and the bed was enormous. She noted that the headboard had been carved with intricate intertwined vines that spiraled up the posts to the green velvet canopy, and the mattress looked as soft as a cloud. It was the most beautiful bed she’d ever seen.
Clara went to a side door and threw it open. “And your dressing room adjoins Mr. Hunter’s. But look! That ot
her door in between? ’Tis a bathing room.” She threw the door in question open and gestured proudly. “Have you ever seen such a thing, missus? A whole private room for bathing just for the mister and missus. And just look at that tub. Why, it’s big enough for two people. And there’s even a coal stove to keep the room warm and to heat the water.”
The high-backed tub stood on four sturdy legs and was longer and wider than any Georgiana had ever seen. But this one wouldn’t have to be carried up the stairs and filled from the kitchen below. Clean towels were draped over the side, ready at a moment’s notice. She trailed her fingers along the smooth side, longing for a bath even though she’d bathed only a few hours ago. A washstand with a large mirror above stood along one wall and she noted a shaving mug and razor on the surface by the washbowl.
The familiar scent of Charles’s soap evoked the memory of his kisses, and the mug and razor were a very personal reminder that now she would have no secrets from him. They would share all the most intimate details of their lives. She swallowed to clear the constriction that tightened her throat. She turned away and went back to her bedroom to find that Clara had draped her best nightgown across the bed. Heavens! Her wedding night.
Clara giggled. “You blush like a schoolgirl again, madam. A certain kind of man can take you that way, I hear. And don’t you worry. I warrant our Mr. Hunter will last.”
Last? Longer than her previous husbands? A cold so deep it chilled her clear through settled in her stomach. Had she condemned Charles to an early grave? Had she married him because doing so was easier than telling him the truth of her birth? Because she could not even tell him who her father was? Because she had been frightened by Mr. Foxworthy? Because she felt so safe in his arms? As if no one could hurt her now?
Desperate to be alone, she gave her maid the bouquet she still carried. “Find a vase for these, will you, Clara?”
“Aye, madam. Then I’ll come back and make you ready to receive your husband.” Another giggle and her maid was gone.
She went to a bureau and opened the drawers one at a time to find her belongings, arranged just as they’d always been at her town house and at the estate in Kent. The simple sameness gave her comfort that not everything had changed.
A corner of the little trunk holding her mother’s journals peeked from under the foot of her bed. She knelt and opened the lid. The journal she’d been reading when Mr. Foxworthy arrived lay atop the others and she took it, along with another, to her bedside table and put them in the small drawer. Sooner or later, she’d find something she could share with Lord Carlington.
She gazed down at the wedding ring on her finger. The golden circle embedded with emeralds and twinkling diamonds in a pattern of a never-ending vine suited her more than her others. Gower Huffington’s ostentatious inky sapphire and Allenby’s plain golden band rested at the bottom of her jewelry box and would remain there forever. This was the one she would wear until the day she died. She slipped it off and looked at the inside surface to see if he’d had it engraved. Always and Only You, it said in a faint script.
Tears welled up in her eyes. Always and only her—until he learned the truth of her parentage. Until he faced the reality of his ill-advised marriage.
Until he was killed?
Chapter Sixteen
Charles went to the library sideboard and glanced over his shoulder. “Brandy?” A quick drink and he’d send them on their way. He was rather anxious to join Georgiana upstairs.
Richardson closed the library door and turned the lock. “Whiskey, if you have it. I need something strong.”
“You, Wycliffe?”
“Make mine a whiskey, too.”
Charles turned up three glasses and poured. “I gather you are fresh back from Cornwall and have come to tell me what you’ve learned, but it could have waited until tomorrow.”
“Crosley said you were getting married,” Richardson said as he took his glass and went to look out the front window. “Say it isn’t so, Hunter. Who will I carouse with?”
“Sorry. ’Tis done. Mrs. Huffington is now Mrs. Hunter.”
Richardson looked back at him as if he’d lost his mind. “You’re a walking target, Hunter.”
“I’ve been a walking target since Gibbons decided he wanted me dead. Mrs. Huffington has nothing to do with that.”
Wycliffe took his glass and sat in a chair in front of the fireplace. He stretched his legs toward the fire and sighed. “We will get to Gibbons next. But let Harry give his report so he can get some much deserved sleep.”
“Aye. I’m looking for my bed. Something that does not move when I close my eyes.”
Charles gave Richardson a long look. The man did look exhausted. He steered them back to the subject at hand. “Did you learn anything new?”
Richardson looked down at his scuffed boots and sighed. “I did. And a few more questions, too. You’re not going to like it, Hunter. Especially now.”
“Now?”
“Now that you’ve married the girl.”
Charles took a deep breath followed by a swallow of whiskey. “Out with it, then.”
“Mousehole is a closemouthed village. They sure as hell do not trust strangers. Took a bit of convincing to get anyone to talk, but I eventually put the pieces together after visiting the parish pastor, a washerwoman, the foundling home and the local banker in Penzance.”
Charles gave in to restless pacing. “You’ve been busy.”
Richardson laughed. “Somewhat of an understatement, that. Everyone remembered Georgiana—they called her Jane then. Her circumstances were quite different from the usual. She was not local, but arrived by private coach at the church attended by a wet nurse and a servant. According to the pastor, she was not a toddler. She was barely more than a few days old. A small parcel was delivered with her, which included a letter, a few items of clothing for the child and twenty pounds to pay for her keep for the coming year—an unheard of amount in those parts.”
Quite unheard of, Charles thought. He glanced at Wycliffe and detected a hint of surprise. The suspicion that had been growing in him for the last few days was taking on an ominous form.
“The only woman in the village who had enough milk to spare was a washerwoman. The pastor handed the baby off to her for the next two years. And each year another twenty pounds arrived.
“When Jane was two and a half, the washerwoman took her to a foundling home in St. Ives. They refused her. Said they were full. So she took Jane back to the parson. He admits that he only paid the washerwoman five pounds a year for the child’s care and kept the rest for the ‘poor.’”
“The poor parson, most likely,” Wycliffe muttered.
Richardson snorted in agreement. “This time the parson left Jane with an impoverished family who could benefit from the five pounds. They already had six children, so Jane was just one of a neglected brood. She was bright, the woman says, quiet and withdrawn most of the time, and she learned quickly to stay out of her husband’s way.”
“No one recalls a story about a captain and his heartbroken wife?” Charles knew the answer, but he needed confirmation.
“Quite bewildered when I asked them about it. Pure fabrication, I’d say. Or the best kept secret in Mousehole.”
“How long did she stay with that family?”
“Something less than a year, I gather. The woman said that the following summer, a coach arrived and, after asking around, came to their squalid little cottage and a servant got out and asked for Jane. She said her husband did not want to give the girl up because of the money that came with her. After consulting someone within the coach, Jane was purchased for thirty pounds. She was taken into the coach as she was, and they drove away. The woman says she never saw Jane again.”
Wycliffe stood and poured himself another whiskey. “Is there anything to confirm that this
little Jane is Georgiana?”
Richardson squirmed and glanced at Charles for one telling moment, then back at Wycliffe. “There was a coat of arms on the coach, and a woman within who wore a black veil. Both of those things were unprecedented in Mousehole. By description, the child was fair, had dark green eyes and had arrived with more cash than most of them had seen altogether at one time.”
Charles knew the logical conclusion. And from their uncomfortable silence, so did Richardson and Wycliffe. “Jane was very likely Georgiana,” he said. “And Caroline was most likely her mother.”
“Do you think she had second thoughts about giving the child up?”
“The trip to bring her back from Mousehole would have happened after Lord Betman’s death. Lady Caroline may not have wanted to give Georgiana up, but her father would have insisted because of the scandal it would cause.”
Richardson glanced out the window again. “You do not looked surprised, Hunter.”
“Not much. It is not unheard of for a peeress to be caught in an indiscretion and have to ‘visit the continent’ for a while. Nor is it particularly unusual for her to maintain an interest in that child afterward. When we dined with Lord Carlington, he showed us a miniature of Lady Caroline. Georgiana’s hair and eyes are remarkably similar.”
“Then Georgiana is a—”
“Don’t say it, Richardson. Not if you are my friend.”
Harry nodded, all trace of his usual mockery gone.
“Blast it all! None of this helps us at all,” Wycliffe concluded. “Georgiana’s past, while tragic, cannot have a bearing on what has happened to her husbands. Considering her circumstances, her marriages were...quite good.”
Above her? And her marriage to him would be considered the same. “I’ve learned that Lady Caroline arranged those marriages. I have been trying to think what her criteria were. What did Arthur Allenby and Gower Huffington have in common?”
Harlequin Historical February 2013 - Bundle 1 of 2: Never Trust a RakeDicing With the Dangerous LordA Daring Liaison Page 67