In response to her questioning glance, Anthony nodded.
Aunt Harriet sniffed. ‘Good gel. Going on just as you should be. I’ll look forward to that. Anthony! That dog of yours is lying on my feet. For God’s sake take her away!’
Stunned, Anthony looked under the table. Sure enough, Stella was asleep with her nose on Aunt Harriet’s feet. His lips twitched. By the look of it, Stella had been there for quite some time.
‘I beg your pardon, Aunt,’ he said. ‘She must have thought they were my feet.’
Beside him, Georgie smothered a very strange noise. His heart lurched. How long was it since she had laughed?
Aunt Harriet glared at him. ‘Dog’s senile as well as smelly, blind and deaf!’
Anthony shrugged. ‘That or she likes you, Aunt Harriet. Take your pick.’ He waited, breathless.
This time Georgie burst out laughing openly. A glorious ripple of sound that flooded him with joy and set the whole world to dancing. He could feel his answering smile, spreading right through him as their eyes met.
Cassie’s voice broke the moment. ‘Aunt Harriet’s right,’ she muttered. ‘It must be the water.’
Georgie remained silent as Anthony drove the curricle out of the stable yard. Unbidden, and unwanted, hope had come pouring back, in that moment when he had purposely made her laugh. And she could not forget the gentle look in his eyes when he had apologised. Nor the way he had held her last night. Just held her. Not waking her to demand that she fulfil her duty, but simply holding her. As if he wanted to.
The day seemed all the brighter as they drove through the park and out along the escarpment. And it made what she had to tell him much harder. It would be so easy not to tell him. So very easy. And then she would live with it for the rest of her life. Knowing that she had cheated him in the worst possible way.
The horses were fresh and she watched quietly as he settled them, driving them well up to their bits. She let her mind wander. A fragment of memory from breakfast, a question, teased her. She frowned.
‘Is something bothering you, Georgie?’
She nodded. ‘Yes. Why did Mr Sinclair kick Lady Quinlan? What was she about to say?’
As he had at breakfast, Anthony froze. ‘I’ve no idea,’ he said shortly.
‘But—’
‘Whatever it was, it is none of your concern!’
She could recognise a Keep Out sign when it hit her. Shivering slightly, she took a deep breath. Next subject. Something simple first. ‘About the pearls, Anthony—’
‘I beg your pardon?’ He sounded as though he couldn’t quite believe she would raise the subject. Perhaps he thought she was about to ask for them?
Hurriedly, she went on. ‘I…I quite understand how you must feel, Anthony. And I—’
‘Do you, Georgie? Do you?’
She bit her lip. Better to let him say it. The pearls had been his mother’s wedding gift from his father. Anthony had given them to her the day before their wedding, asking her to wear them. And now he felt, quite understandably, that she had forfeited the right to wear them. Given what she had to confess, she could hardly disagree.
‘It is not the monetary value,’ he continued, ‘although that was considerable, but the loss of something so dear to my mother. That I hoped would be passed down to my son’s bride.’
Confusion hit her. ‘I…I beg your pardon? What are you talking about?’
Anger flashed into his voice. ‘What did you do with them, Georgie? Not that it matters now. They are gone beyond recall! But I should like to know.’
‘Do with them?’
Something swirled at the edge of her understanding. Something she was sure she didn’t want to see. No! She had done enough running away. This truth she would face squarely, no matter how much it hurt. ‘What are you suggesting, Anthony?’ She knew what he was suggesting. It cut to her very soul that he could think of her like this.
He swore. ‘Dammit, Georgie! I accept that my behaviour at the ball was atrocious, that I upset you and frightened you, but couldn’t you have found something else to sell to provide your passage back to England?’
For a moment she couldn’t speak, could barely breathe for the pain of hearing him say it. Knowing to the last twist of the knife how he thought of her. Not only a whore, but a thief.
‘Yes,’ she choked, ‘I did. My mother’s wedding ring.’
For a moment Anthony didn’t understand. Then…He pulled up the horses, set the brake and turned to look at her properly. Her face had blanched, all the delicate colour destroyed.
His gaze dropped to her hand. Her right hand, where she had always worn her mother’s ring. Her small fist was clenched. And bare. If she had sold the pearls, there would have been no need to sell her mother’s wedding ring…ergo, she hadn’t taken the pearls. Then…who?
Hurt fury blazed at him from the hazel eyes. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t come after me just to recover the necklace!’ she said bitterly.
Scorching anger obliterated the apology he’d been about to offer. ‘Come after you?’ he snarled. ‘I’d no idea where to find you! I thought you were dead! Couldn’t you at least have written to tell me you were safe?’
‘But…I said! In my note…that I was going to my godmother in Devon. I gave her name and…direction…’
Note? What note?
‘I thought when you didn’t come, that you didn’t want me, so of course I never wrote! You told me you should never have married me! What did you think I’d do when you didn’t contact me?’
‘You left a note?’
‘Well, of course I left a note!’
He shook his head, words strangling in his throat. He reached for her, needing to hold her, to banish the pain for both of them. Damn the necklace! What in Hades had happened to the note?
She jerked back. ‘Don’t touch me! You have made your feelings about me perfectly plain!’
‘The hell I have!’ he said furiously. The horses sidled, impatient in the breeze. With a muttered curse he untied the ribbons and released the brake. ‘For God’s sake! Listen to me—we have to sort this out! You say you left a note?’
She nodded, biting her lip.
He swore as he gave the horses the office. He had practically taken their lodgings apart searching for some clue to her whereabouts. There had been no note. And no pearl necklace. An appalling suspicion took root. ‘Georgie—William called, didn’t he?’
‘Yes. The…the next morning. He was very much concerned about the gossip—’
‘Gossip? What gossip?’
‘About…about our quarrel—what you said…’
He’d been out of society for too long. He couldn’t quite believe that there had been gossip. With Napoleon over the frontier and marching on Brussels, a battle looming that would decide the fate of all Europe…‘Wait a moment—you say William mentioned gossip?’
‘And Lady Carrington. She called as well.’
Anthony bit off a savage curse. He might have known it. Lady Carrington, supposedly chaperoning Georgie, had been icily disapproving of the match, seeing it as most unequal. Especially when she had her own daughter to establish and had thought his visits to the house were to court Miss Carrington, not the penniless nobody she had taken in at her husband’s insistence.
‘What did she say?’
Georgie flushed and turned away.
‘Tell me.’
‘That I would be lucky if you didn’t divorce me. That I had disgraced myself and your name. That—’
‘Enough. Georgie—didn’t you realise that she was being spiteful? That she was furious at our marriage? And—’
‘It was no worse than what you said!’
‘What I said?’
‘That you would not tolerate being cuckolded, that you would decide what to do about our marriage when you returned. That…that you had been a fool to marry a designing little trollop! That if I had so little understanding of my duty, then I might as well take myself off and save you the trouble! T
hat you would only tolerate my lovers after I had provided your heirs!’
Stunned, Anthony heard those words as they would have been heard by a seventeen-year-old bride of two weeks, in the most public of public places, on top of his stipulation that he wanted a marriage of convenience for an heir. That the question of love did not enter into their union.
God help him, she had believed his angry words. So she had left, assuming that he would not care, would be only too glad to be rid of her. With bitter certainty he knew she had taken nothing. She had sold her mother’s wedding ring to get home. He wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d sold her own.
‘Georgie…’ His voice died in his throat as he saw her face. Shuttered, leached of all colour and expression. As though she could no longer bear to feel anything. ‘Georgie, I—’ Too late. They were drawing into Lynd. The public street was no place for this particular discussion. He’d learnt that lesson at least.
Instead he pulled up outside the inn and yelled for someone to take the horses.
A lad came running out. ‘Morning, Major!’
‘Hold ’em!’ snapped Anthony, softening the harsh command by flicking the boy a shilling. He leapt out of the curricle and strode into the inn.
Georgie watched him go, her mind whirling. He had never found the note. And someone had stolen the pearls. But who? Certainly not Timms. He was devoted to Anthony.
Did Anthony believe her? He had accepted her word about kissing Justin. He had even apologised. But this—all he had done was ask if Mr Lyndhurst-Flint had called…Her racing thoughts faltered, stumbled. No. It couldn’t be true.
William Lyndhurst-Flint. They kept coming back to him. Somehow he had confused the message she had given him for Anthony. Could he have stolen the pearls? And destroyed her note? To create trouble? But why?
The reason for Anthony’s house party crashed in upon her. He had intended to choose an heir. William Lyndhurst-Flint, with no fortune or expectations, had been a possible candidate. Had he always seen himself as Anthony’s heir?
A familiar deep voice jerked her out of the nightmare.
‘Thank you, Harry. Remember—do it quietly. And get word to me the minute you hear anything. Nothing else.’ Anthony had emerged from the inn with a stout florid individual who could only be the innkeeper.
‘Oh, aye, Major. Now let me get this straight. Middling tall. Thin. About forty? And brown hair. Wavy. Brown eyes.’
Anthony cast a very harassed glance at Georgie, and said hurriedly, ‘Yes, yes. That’s all, man. I’ll not keep you any longer.’
‘Not at all, Major,’ the innkeeper assured him. He glanced up at Georgie and touched his forelock. ‘Morning, ma’am.’
She wilted under the blatant curiosity in his eyes, but murmured a greeting, wondering for whom Anthony was searching.
Anthony sighed. ‘Ah, yes. My dear, permit me to present Harry Bamford. Harry—this is Mrs Lyndhurst. My wife.’
Bamford tripped over his own feet. Recovering, he spluttered some sort of apology and stared at her.
Georgie smiled politely. She would have to get used to this.
Anthony intervened. ‘Yes, well. I won’t keep your boy any longer, Harry. Thank you, Davy.’ He tossed the boy another shilling.
The boy grinned. ‘Thank’ee, sir.’
Anthony’s smile flashed out as he ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘Have you been fishing recently, Davy?’
‘No, sir. Me mam says as you might’ve of changed your mind.’
‘Well, you’d better do some. Before you forget how. Tell your mother I haven’t changed my mind. Come in the evening. The trout are jumping then.’
‘Yessir!’
Anthony climbed back into the curricle and they drove out of the village.
‘What was that about?’ asked Georgie.
‘Hmm? Oh. Davy likes to come and fish. His mother was my nanny.’ He grinned reminiscently. ‘You could say I’ve a fellow feeling for the lad.’
Georgie was silent, trying to reconcile the man who offered to find ponies for his young cousins and gave permission for an urchin to fish in his stream, with the man who wanted an heir. Then she caught the careful glance he was giving her and realised his strategy had nearly worked.
‘I meant—who is this man you asked about?’
Anthony’s face hardened. ‘Nothing that you need concern yourself about. A private matter.’
‘I see.’ She kept her voice steady with an effort. Any right she might have had to ask had been forfeited when she left him. Carefully, she said, ‘You don’t consider him dangerous, then?’
‘What?’
‘Surely, if I need not concern myself—’ She glanced at him and saw that his face had gone absolutely white.
‘You are to remain within the house and gardens unless you are with me,’ he said harshly.
‘But—’
‘The house and gardens,’ he repeated. ‘I’ve no intention of losing you again.’
Another Keep Out sign. Very well, she’d have to find out some other way. And whether or not William Lyndhurst-Flint could possibly have stolen the pearls.
Chapter Six
‘Oh, good shot, Amy!’ Sarah, Countess of Mardon, clapped enthusiastically.
Aunt Harriet snorted. ‘Humph! Any gel who could account for Marcus Sinclair, within five minutes of him laying eyes on her again, has to be expert with a bow and arrow. Never seen anything like it!’
She shot a furtive glance at Sarah. ‘In fact, I’m fast coming to the conclusion that the men in this family are all more than capable of choosing the right female, without my advice! And even Cassie has come to her senses!’
Lady Quinlan laughed and set down her lemonade. ‘Mmm. Lovely. Is there any more?’
Georgie looked at the jug. ‘I think you’ve finished it,’ she said smiling. ‘I’ll fetch some more.’ She set off back to the house.
A moment later she heard Lady Quinlan’s voice. ‘Cousin! Wait please!’ Lady Quinlan was hurrying after her.
‘Is there something else?’ asked Georgie.
Lady Quinlan nodded. ‘Aunt Harriet would like a shawl.’
‘Very well. I’ll bring it.’
‘I could fetch the shawl,’ suggested Lady Quinlan.
Georgie looked at her sharply. There were things she needed to know. Things that Lady Quinlan might be able to tell her. ‘Thank you, Lady Quinlan,’ she said politely.
They strolled on, silence awkward between them.
Georgie didn’t think what she was about to ask would improve matters. ‘Lady Quinlan—do you know of a man answering the following description: medium height, thin, fortyish? With wavy brown hair and brown eyes?’
Lady Quinlan looked her surprise. ‘Why would I…oh! That sounds like that horrible man of William’s. Anthony dismissed him before you arrived.’ She flushed. ‘He was…er…behaving…er…inappropriately with my chaperon. She was dismissed as well.’
‘Oh,’ said Georgie. Then Anthony had merely been ensuring that an unsavoury character left the neighbourhood. She could well understand that he would want as few people as possible to know about the inappropriate behaviour. Lady Quinlan’s crimson cheeks were enough to give her the general idea.
They were approaching the terrace.
‘One other thing, Lady Quinlan.’ She took a very deep breath. ‘Why did Mr Sinclair kick you at breakfast?’
Lady Quinlan stopped dead, biting her lip.
‘Lady Quinlan?’
‘Did Anthony say anything about taking you to town?’ she asked eventually.
‘No,’ said Georgie. ‘But you said he couldn’t. Why not? Not that I wish to go, but—’
‘He isn’t received in London,’ said Lady Quinlan, a touch of bitterness in her voice.
Not received? Georgie tried without success to imagine why a well-born, wealthy and charming gentleman would not be received. ‘But—’
‘There was gossip. After Waterloo,’ said Lady Quinlan. ‘People around here know it was
all nonsense, but London is different. People said that he ought to have been cashiered.’
‘But why? It doesn’t make sense…’
‘No?’ asked Lady Quinlan gently. ‘Tell me—would you want to associate with a man you believed had murdered his wife and ensured that her lover died in battle?’
‘No. No.’ What should have been a scream of protest came out as a broken whisper as the ground seemed to shift beneath her.
‘Yes,’ said Lady Quinlan. ‘That is why Marcus is in danger of arrest. Because he defended Anthony’s honour, and then the man he argued with was nearly murdered! So Marcus was accused. Forgive me if you do not like to hear this, but I am very fond of Anthony!’
Blindly Georgie nodded. She took a couple of steps and stopped, waiting for the world to steady.
‘Cousin?’
The suddenly worried note in Lady Quinlan’s voice barely penetrated the daze of horror.
She had ruined his life. No wonder he wouldn’t divorce her. After a scandal like this he couldn’t afford it. And indirectly she was responsible for Mr Sinclair’s predicament. So much unhappiness. All because of her.
‘Cassie!’
‘Oh! It’s Peter, back early from the shooting!’
Georgie looked around. Sure enough, Lord Quinlan was striding towards them. Desperately, she clung to her control. ‘How lovely for you. Why don’t you join him and I will fetch the shawl and lemonade. And…and perhaps something stronger for his lordship.’
Lady Quinlan hesitated. ‘If you are sure…Are you feeling quite the thing?’
Georgie summoned up a smile. ‘Oh, yes. I won’t be long.’
By the time she returned to the archery party with the lemonade and shawl, as well as ale for Lord Quinlan, she had managed to scrub away all traces of tears. To her relief, Lord Quinlan was regaling the other ladies with a highly coloured account of the day’s bag, which included an old boot retrieved by one of Anthony’s younger dogs.
‘If you could but have seen his face!’ chuckled Quinlan. ‘And the dog looked so dashed pleased with himself!’
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