by Isobel Carr
George gathered him up, pulling him into her lap. He burrowed into her, rubbing his face against her like a puppy.
Mr Astley returned to invite them to join him for a tour. The boys were allowed to pet the zebras, while Bennett and Alençon flirted with their riders. Hayden flashed her a cheeky smile. No doubt his nemesis, Ned Arden, would be hearing all about this on the morrow.
Chapter Fourteen
The Marquess of T— is reported to have stormed out of a recent performance of Hamlet. Can it be that there is something rotten in more places than Denmark?
Tête-à-Tête, 11 December 1788
A footman let down the steps of George’s well-sprung traveling coach, the thunk as each step unfolded loud in the quiet morning street. He handed George up into the coach and helped her new maid, Ellen, in after her. Caesar leapt in after them and immediately disposed his bulk across the entire back-facing seat.
Ellen smiled indulgently and squeezed in beside him, allowing the dog to rest his head in her lap.
It had been raining, sometimes snowing, on and off overnight. The molten sky seemed to threaten a renewed attack. There was a loud, echoing boom as her final trunk was strapped to the boot and the coach lurched into motion.
George tucked the fur carriage rug more tightly about her and set her feet on the hot brick that had been provided. Across from her, the dog began to snore.
George let down the folding table from the side of the coach and played patience while they rolled through the intermittent storm. When she finally grew tired of the game she put the cards away and began reading Raspe’s Baron Munchausen’s Narrative of His Marvellous Travels and Campaigns in Russia. Ellen worked slowly at her tambour frame, steadily making progress on a white-work fichu which she kept carefully away from the Mastiff’s drooling maw.
The light thrown out by the candles burning behind glass was barely enough to read by. George couldn’t imagine doing needlework. But then George couldn’t imagine doing needlework under the best of circumstances. She’d simply never had the patience for anything more than a bit of plain sewing.
The sound of a shot cracked the night.
The coach rocked to a sudden halt, sending George sliding across the seat.
Caesar snorted and raised his head, ears cocked up attentively. Ellen’s eyes were wide, clearly visible even in the dark coach. George tensed beneath the thick fur of the carriage rug, hands and feet going cold, every nerve alive.
Outside there was shouting—her coachman’s voice, sharply overridden by another.
They were being held up.
There was no other possibility.
In the sudden quiet, George could hear the jangling of the harness as the horses fretted. The creak of wood and metal as the coach shifted. The thump of feet hitting the ground. Clearly James had been ordered down from the box. Where was Thomas? Had they shot him, or had that simply been a warning shot?
Heart fluttering up into her throat, George released the panel behind her head and removed the double-barrelled pistol hidden inside. Why hadn’t she brought outriders? Lord Exley was going to be furious if she lived to confess her foolishness. Brimstone would flay her alive. She’d never be allowed to travel without an escort again.
The shadow of a man moved past the small window, a deeper point of darkness in the inky night. The muddy roads had made for slow going. They should have reached the Three Greyhounds—and safety—hours ago.
George motioned Ellen to get behind her. The girl climbed past Caesar, one hand pressed over her mouth. She gave a muffled sob as George shoved her into the corner.
Caesar crouched on the floor, hackles raised, muscles tensed beneath his fur, two hundred and fifty pounds of sinew and bone poised for destruction.
George cocked one side of the gun and waited, kneeling on the seat, out of the dog’s way.
The man who opened that door was in for a nasty surprise. Two, really. George could almost feel sorry for him. And if she, and all her servants, survived, she might even be inclined to pity…to mercy.
But not at this exact moment. Now was not the time.
An eternity passed before the handle turned and the door was thrown open. George held her shot as Caesar sprang, his weight bearing the startled highwayman down.
The man screamed, scrabbling to escape. Curses filled the night, skittering about like bats erupting from a cave at dusk. The dog’s baritone snarls, nasty and brutish, made George’s hair stand on end.
Another shot rang out and the window of the coach shattered, showering the far seat with glass. Ellen screamed, breaking into loud, hiccupping sobs.
Anger bubbled up, cutting off reason and fear. If they shot her dog, she’d murder them slowly. Slowly and painfully. George leapt down, took aim, and fired. Powder flashed and the resulting explosion bloomed in the darkness. The nearest highwayman gave a muffled cry and fell from his saddle.
The familiar scent of sulphur perfumed the air, deadly and almost frightening for the first time in her life. George filled her lungs, drinking it in, reaching within herself for the courage of Boudicca.
The first man was pinned beneath Caesar, either dead or limp with terror. George couldn’t have cared less which. He deserved whatever happened to him. Wrath welled up within her, filling her to her fingertips. It warmed her, reassuring as an army at her back.
The third highwayman sat upon his horse, still as a statue, seeming to stare right through her. Daring her to shoot him.
George cocked the remaining hammer, the sound alarmingly loud in the dead quiet of the night. The highwayman flung his spent pistol to the ground, spun his horse round, and sped into the night, greatcoat flapping behind him.
George swallowed hard as her knees gave out and she sank to the ground. Mud flooded her skirts, soaking through the fabric until she was wet to the skin.
Merde.
Not only was the bitch a better shot than any woman had a right to be, but the bumbling peasants he’d hired had so fouled things up that she was now the only one of them armed.
Philippe flung his spent pistol to the ground and yanked hard on the reins, bringing his mount about. The nag swung its head towards his knee, teeth bared. Philippe kicked it in the face as hard as he could. It turned away, ears flattened to its skull, but it did as it was told.
God, how he hated riding. The manifold discomforts. Saddles that rubbed. Exposure to the elements. The stink of horse working its way into your clothes. Into your skin. And he hated this particular horse more than most, bony, ill-tempered beast that it was. Even its gaits were uncomfortable.
He’d spent a small fortune arranging this. And what had it gotten him?
Nothing.
At best? Two dead henchmen, each with fifty pounds in his pocket. At worst? Two wounded men who, while they didn’t know his name, did know that this had been no mere robbery.
A branch whipped across his face, cutting the skin. Philippe cursed and bent lower in the saddle, flailing at his mount with his crop.
What were the odds that either she or one of her legion of lovers wouldn’t put this together with her maid’s death and come to the correct conclusion?
It was all that damn dog’s fault. How could he have known that she’d drag that monster along with her? That had been the tipping point. When the dog had taken Black Charlie down as though he’d been a stag, there’d been no hope of recovery after that.
Merde. Merde. Merde.
George curled into a ball, tucked into the bed the innkeeper’s wife had warmed with a copper pan filled with glowing coals. She shut her eyes and willed herself to sleep.
Caesar’s tail thumped softly on the bed and George reached out to pet him, running her hand down his shoulder and side, taking comfort in the solid feel of the dog there beside her. There weren’t enough roasts, feather beds, and roaring fires in the world for him.
Ellen had finally stopped crying after they’d reached the inn. The innkeeper had sent one of his grooms off for the surgeon, who’d c
ome and cleaned up Thomas’s arm where the attacker’s first shot had left a deep furrow, filled with bits of shredded livery that had had to be carefully picked out.
She was as clean as a pitcher of hot water and a sponge could get her, which meant she wasn’t nearly as clean as she’d like to be. She wanted to wash the whole night away, climb into a large tub of steaming water and scrub until her skin was raw. But there had been no chance of a bath at the late hour they’d arrived at the Three Greyhounds.
They’d promised her one in the morning. After which she’d need to meet with the local constable to explain the two dead bodies they’d arrived with, slung over a single swaybacked mare.
Her shot had been as true as she could ever have hoped, and Caesar had proved why the Romans called mastiffs the dogs of war. Whoever the man who’d opened the coach door had been, he hadn’t had a chance.
It had been a robbery. Nothing more. Just a robbery.
Highwaymen were a common hazard.
But George couldn’t shake the ominous feeling that had come over her when she’d faced down the third man. There had been something wrong. Something very wrong about the way he’d been looking at her.
Chapter Fifteen
Lord S— now appears to be the party most worthy of our pity. A man without bride or mistress. Turned away by both his family and the butler of No. 5.
Tête-à-Tête, 14 December 1788
‘Georgianna!’ Lady Glendower practically ran across the great expanse of marble floor, her hair in wild disorder, cap askew. ‘We’ve been worried about you, darling. You were due two days ago.’
‘The roads are a quagmire,’ George replied, hugging her. The honeysuckle scent her mother-in-law favoured enveloped her, welcoming her home. ‘And I had a few misadventures that I’ll tell you about later.’
The countess gave her a searching look, fine brows drawn together over the bridge of her nose. ‘There’s a fire all made up, and Mrs Stubbs is already heating some wine.’
George shed her pelisse and hat and stood huddled by the fire, warming her frozen fingers, listening with half an ear to Lady Glendower gush about the preparations, the early arrivals, and the profound chaos that had taken over her house.
‘I can’t even get into my dressing room,’ she declared with a note of triumph. ‘It’s filled to the ceiling with presents. Poor Martha has to contort herself terribly to retrieve so much as a shoe.’
‘You’re always like this.’ George moved away from the fire as one of the logs snapped, sending a shower of sparks and cinders towards her. ‘I can’t remember a Christmas that wasn’t something of a romp. Just wait until the children all arrive. Perhaps we can convince Hay to ride his pony through the Great Hall again? Or maybe Sydney can oversee a hurling match in the courtyard? I don’t think anyone’s been brave enough to do that since Lyon shattered part of the roof.’
‘Perhaps just this once we could get through the season without sending Glendower into fits.’
‘But what fun would that be?’ Gabriel appeared in the doorway and lounged over to sink down onto a settee placed facing the hearth. He extended one hand and drew George down beside him. ‘Griggs had your bags taken up to your room. And little Simone Staunton is clamouring to see you. Why so subdued, love?’
George flinched. Trust Gabriel to notice she wasn’t herself. ‘I’ll tell you later. After dinner.’ He looked at her very much as her mother-in-law had, mobile brows frowning. ‘Honestly. I’ll tell you everything, just let me change and eat first.’
‘I don’t like the sound of everything.’ He took one of her hands and chafed it between his.
‘And you won’t like it any better after dinner, but leave it till then all the same.’ George leaned in, resting her head on his shoulder, taking comfort in the familiar solidity. The shadow of stubble that shadowed his jaw. The sheer physicality of the way he touched her. He was sure of his welcome.
The one person she could always count on.
After she’d drunk the hot wine sent up by Mrs Stubbs, Lady Glendower sent them both off to their rooms to dress for dinner. As she shooed them off she suddenly brightened. ‘Perhaps Simone would like to join the adults for dinner? None of the other children have arrived yet, and I hate to think of her eating all alone.’
George smiled at her mother-in-law and shook her head. ‘And you say I indulge Hayden. You’re shameless with that child.’
‘Well, I never had any daughters of my own, and you were one of the boys through and through. So I’m making do.’ The countess linked her arm with George’s and walked with her up the stairs, their petticoats fighting for dominance with every step. ‘I quite enjoy her visits, and I most sincerely hope you’ve made it clear to the colonel that he’s not so much reclaiming a daughter as joining the family.’
‘I think he’s quite clear on that point,’ George assured her, parting from her as they reached the door to her room. ‘Quite frankly, I think he’s too shy to deny you anything you asked him. The poor man has absolutely no idea how to deal with women. And mothering of any sort completely routs him. You’ll have him wrapped around your little finger in no time.’
George quickly washed and changed into a simple gown of striped tobine. She collected Simone from the nursery and escorted her down to the family dining room.
Simone skipped happily along, obviously excited by her invitation to join the adults. She was wearing the coral necklet her father had brought her, and she spent the entire meal showing it off to anyone who would look.
When the meal was over, the ladies excused themselves and left the men to their port. George rose and left with them, wanting to spend the first night cosily with the countess and the dowager. As she exited the room, Gabriel raised one brow. George scrunched up her nose at him.
Provoking man!
She followed the other ladies down the hall to the blue salon, where a roaring fire and wine awaited them. The gentlemen joined them shortly, tonight being really almost a family affair, and George found herself repressing a laugh as Simone gravitated immediately to Gabriel and set about practicing her girlish wiles upon him. He bore it all in good stride, but sagged back into the couch with relief when Miss Nutley came to collect her.
‘Now that the infantry has left us,’ he said, ‘I think it high time you explained exactly what detained you.’
Chapter Sixteen
All the world has deserted Town for country hearth and home…the truly interesting question is for whose hearth and home?
Tête-à-Tête, 14 December 1788
Ivo folded up the collar of his greatcoat and adjusted his muffler. The mist had begun to turn to snow. Flakes melted against his skin, sending icy rivulets down his neck. Bennett swung up into the saddle and brought his mount under control with a firm grip on the reins.
Ivo’s mount danced across the cobbles, iron-shod hooves ringing loudly against the stone. He gripped the saddle with his thighs, flexed his calves, pushing his heels down. His godmother, whom they were escorting, was already safely ensconced within her carriage, dry and eager to be on her way.
They’d be lucky if the roads weren’t impassable.
Resigned to a long, wet day, he signalled to the coachman. With a snap of the reins and a sharp whistle, the coach lumbered forward, its wheels clacking loudly as the coach rolled down the street.
He and Bennett rode just in front of the coach, neither of them talking as they concentrated on controlling their grain-high mounts. Ivo’s horse shied about, prancing, nimbly cross-stepping in its exuberance.
Ivo grimaced behind his collar and stepped up the pace as they reached the edge of the city. Snow flew past him in flurries. It stuck to his coat, melted, and soaked into the exposed leather of his breeches. His toes were already numb.
He’d eagerly accepted an invitation from George’s brother-in-law to join them all for the Christmas holidays. He’d been looking forward to the weeks of close confinement with George, until his godmother and Alençon had dashed his hopes
of a quick reunion over breakfast.
They’d been discussing the yearly Glendower house party, explaining who would be there, reminiscing about past events and scandals, when Lady Bev had let slip how delighted she and the dowager countess were with Colonel Staunton. Alençon leapt in with the fact that he and Cardross were convinced they just might make a match of it.
When Ivo had uttered ‘Who?’ in horrified tones, Alençon had replied, ‘George and the colonel, of course,’ causing Ivo to choke on his tea.
It wasn’t bad enough that he had to fight his way past her adoring hordes. That her bulldogs circled and snapped at his heels. Now everyone was scenting bridals, and the groom they’d settled on was someone else.
Two days after George’s arrival, the house had begun to fill. George strolled downstairs on Charles’s arm, trying not to laugh as he regaled her with a detailed description of his most recent foray to Bond Street. Charles simply wasn’t inclined to put as much thought and effort into his wardrobe as seemed to be required.
‘I don’t want to become a damned caper merchant. I just want to buy a coat. Bloody tailors make it out to be a life or death decision. As if it matters if I choose superfine or Bath coating, velvet or damask.’
George lost the battle, mirth bubbling over as they reached the bottom of the stairs. An exhausted-looking Lady Beverly stood in the hall, flanked by two men in dripping greatcoats. Griggs assisted Lady Bev with her cloak, while several footmen stood ready to take the gentlemen’s coats and hats.
The nearest man tossed his hat aside and shrugged out of his coat, revealing Bennett. He smiled widely at George when he spotted her.
The other man had his back to them as he gave the footmen directions for their luggage. Dauntry. She didn’t need to see his face to know it was him. The way he stood. The way he moved. The simple act of handing over his coat. Every motion spoke to her.