by Jo Beverley
Perry delayed things by going to kiss Jane’s cheek. “As pretty as ever, and even more useful.”
Despite her thirty-five years, Jane Nunn blushed. “Go on with you, sir. And if you want your sustenance you’d best let me be about my work.”
“I could sustain myself on you,” he declared, but he let her go.
“You tease her,” Georgia complained.
“She likes it,” he replied, and of course it was true.
Georgia sat, unable to stop beaming at him. “Is any woman safe from you?”
“All of them,” he said, settling in the armchair, “for I’ve no mind to marry and I only dally with those who don’t care about that.”
“Wives,” she said.
“Often, thus benefiting both them and their husbands, who are free to play elsewhere. Turning Puritan, love?”
“Lud, don’t suggest such a thing! It must be the corroding effect of Herne.”
“I don’t suppose it’s permanent.”
Georgia turned serious, however. “You do know that I was a virtuous wife, don’t you, Perry? I might have flirted—”
He held up a hand. “Of course I do, love. But I have bad news for you on that front.”
He’d turned serious too, and Georgia gathered her shawl closer. She should have known only necessity could bring Perry so far from Town in winter.
“What?” she asked.
“Your scandal is raging again.”
“Six months on? Why? How?”
“The dowager.”
Georgia gaped at him. “But she’s dead and buried!”
“And left poison behind. She took a week or so to die, making all decent arrangements, but also receiving visitors. She told everyone that she was dying of a broken heart. A heart broken by the wicked, barren trull her son had married.”
Georgia grimaced, but said, “There’s nothing new in that.”
“Yes, there is,” he said, and she heard the warning. “She claimed to have recently received the coup de grâce in the form of a letter Charnley Vance wrote to his second, Jellicoe, complaining that you’d seduced him into killing your husband by protesting love and promising to flee with him into exile.”
“What?” Georgia shot to her feet. “Who would believe that? I seldom even met Charnley Vance, and I’d slit my own throat before I’d run off with a man like him!”
He rose too. “I know, I know, but enough heard about the letter from the lips of a dying woman…”
“Why?” Georgia wailed. “Why? She must have invented it to torment me from the grave. Oh, Perry, what can I do?”
He took her hands. “Nothing at the moment, love. Of course we’re seeking the letter so we can prove it false.”
“But if it never existed…This is so cruel. I’m innocent. I did nothing. Nothing!”
He took her into his arms. “I know, love. Everyone who truly knows you understands that you could never have dallied with Vance.”
She pulled away to look at him. “But with others? Do people believe I could have dallied with other men?”
“Not those who truly know you, but…you made no effort to appear demure, Georgie.”
“And for that I’m a harlot!”
“Flirtation? Wagering for kisses? Assignations in the garden during balls?”
“All in fun! Was I to be allowed no fun? Dickon didn’t mind.” She moved away. “I never thought you’d reproach me, Perry.”
“I’m not reproaching. I’m laying out the truth of your situation. It’s difficult, Georgie, and you’re going to have to step carefully to survive.”
“I’m here, aren’t I? Moldering away at Herne in deepest mourning. I’ve remained here to mourn the dowager and all the reward I get is more hate. What more must I do?”
“Stay here longer,” he said bluntly. “Out of sight, out of mind. The dowager’s dead and that must be the end of her effect. That spurious letter will fade from memory, and in the spring you’ll be able to emerge back into society.”
“The beau monde will have forgotten?” she asked cynically.
“No, but your story won’t be at the front of every mind, and other scandals will have occurred. Your friends will remind the world of your virtues, and you’ll reappear in half mourning, reminding them of the truth. That you are a lady and a widow—the tragically young Dowager Countess of Maybury.”
Georgia gaped at him. “No! I can’t be.”
“The death of Dickon’s mother makes you the senior widow.”
“At twenty? Oh, devil take it, that’s cruelly unfair.”
“Tush, tush.”
“It’s worthy of a curse.”
“Remember, it might play to your advantage.”
“Then I’ll attempt to be grateful, but there’s nothing for it. I must soon marry and shed the word ‘dowager.’”
“As soon as you emerge, suitors will gather like drones around a queen bee when she flies from the hive.”
She gave him a look. “Don’t they all die?”
“A minor flaw in my simile, but trust you to pounce on it.” He smiled at her. “If you remember to use your wits, Georgie, this will all turn out well.”
Perry was a master of social wisdom. She had to believe him.
“I wish I knew where Charnley Vance was,” she said. “I’d string him up by his thumbs until he confessed the truth about us!”
“I’d be alongside you with the hot pincers. Damnable that he fled abroad before the inquest and hasn’t been heard of since.”
Georgia turned to gaze out at the estate, which was a monochrome study in frost and black skeleton trees. “It’s as if some malevolent fate seeks to destroy me. Why could that be? I truly can’t think of anything I’ve done to deserve it.”
“Of course you don’t deserve this. You have a truly kind heart. You’re victim of an unkind twist of fate, that’s all, exacerbated by your mother-in-law’s bitter nature.”
“And by my behavior,” she said, turning to face him.
“Honest to a fault. Yes, a prim-and-proper countess would never be fertile ground for such nonsense, but…Ah, my sustenance.”
Jane came in, followed by a footman carrying a tray loaded with soup, bread, and tea. “Dinner’ll be up in a few minutes, milady.”
Georgia directed the footman to put the tray on the small table she used for dining, and sat on one of the chairs there as Perry took the other and set to the soup.
“Thank you for coming, Perry. You could have written.”
“It seemed worthy of a message in person.”
“I do appreciate the sacrifice.”
She poured tea for both of them and took a piece of bread from the plate.
“What are you finding to do with yourself here?” he asked. “You’ve never been at ease with idleness.”
“In the better weather I meddled in the gardens, much to the annoyance of the gardeners, but now I’m pestering old Brownholme instead.”
“Brownholme?”
“The archivist. You must remember him. He’s been here almost as long as the dusty records.”
“Oh, yes. It’s not as if he’s often seen. What have you been doing to upset him?”
“He’s not exactly upset,” Georgia said. “In fact, I believe I’m enlivening his dusty life a little. I’m writing an account of the adventures of our great-grandmother during the civil war.”
“The beautiful Lady Hernescroft who persuaded a number of Roundhead officers to spare Herne?”
Georgia sipped her tea, smiling at him. “The beautiful Lady Hernescroft who slept her way through a number of Roundhead officers to persuade them to spare Herne.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“The implications are clear in her letters and journals.”
“’Struth!”
“Perhaps I shall publish my account.…” She laughed at his expression. “I won’t, but I’ll bury it in the family records and hope someone finds it a hundred years from now.”
He laugh
ed. “The beau monde has been the Slough of Despond without Lady May. Please say you’ll let me read your account.”
Georgia put down her cup. “Only if you suffer Christmas here with me.”
“What? Outrageous.”
“That’s my price.”
“You’re a wicked wench. Oh, very well, but the adventures of the second countess had better be worth it.”
“I think you’ll find they are. Here’s your dinner, and it looks very sustaining.” Georgia smiled at the footman. “Thank the cook for me.”
When the man had left, she watched Perry attack a beefsteak and fried potatoes. She’d enjoyed watching Dickon eat too. Men did it with such appreciation, and she’d planned the meals to please him.
“Why so sad?” Perry asked.
She slid from the truth. “I had hoped to spend Christmas with the Torrismondes.”
“You still could.”
“No, I’ll not bring a scandal to their feast. Christmas has never been jolly here, has it?”
“Neither Father nor Mother enjoys the traditions.”
“They arrive from Town on Christmas Eve, go to church on Christmas Day, dispense largesse, then return to celebrate the New Year at court.” But Georgia smiled. “Which meant we could enjoy the rest of the twelve days, and especially Twelfth Night, without their interference. Will you stay for Twelfth Night?”
“Georgie, you know I can’t. My place then is at court.”
She sighed. Twelfth Night at court…
“Ah well, I’ll make merry with the servants in the kitchens.”
“You’re angling for me to encourage you to return with me, but it won’t do. The dowager’s stories are too fresh. Wait until after Easter.”
Georgia picked a fried potato off his plate and ate it, considering.
“No. If I must wait, I’ll wait my full term. I won’t return as the sober widow. I’ll return when my mourning’s over, as Lady May in full, glorious plumage.”
Perry smiled. “You can probably carry that off.” He put aside his empty plate and drank some wine. “Behave with discretion even then, though. Avoid behavior likely to upset the censorious.”
She pulled a face at him. “Spoilsport.”
“You want to find a good husband. Good husbands will shy off a scandalous widow.”
“Only the most boring ones.” When he raised his brows at her, she said, “Oh, very well. I’ll try to be good.”
“You will be good, or you’re likely to be a dowager all your life.” When she stuck out her tongue at him, he grinned. “Do you have a victim in mind?
“No, but I do have requirements.” She counted on her fingers. “One, rich, so he can be, two, a man of fashion and elegance, plus he will be, three, generous with his wealth and delight in Town life. Four, an earl, marquess, or duke.”
“No viscount or baron need apply?”
“Who would willingly step down the social scale? In any case, I’m looking upward. Don’t you think I’d make a splendid duchess?”
She saw Perry make a quick assessment of the possibilities. “Beaufort?”
Georgia didn’t reply, except with a smile.
Chapter 2
May 1765
Herne, Worcestershire
“You’ve a cooler head than I,” Tom Knowlton said. “I’m sweating on your behalf.”
Lord Dracy didn’t take his eyes off the two horses being walked nearby. “Comes from facing enemy shot while standing on a burning deck.”
“Good God, did you really?”
“Once or twice.”
“That sort of thing develops insanity?”
Dracy shot him a humorous look. “Undoubtedly.”
He knew they were an unlikely pair. He was lean and solid from an active navy life, often on tight rations. His neighbor, Sir Tom Knowlton, had never known want, liked his comforts, and was prosperously round. Tom also avoided risk. He didn’t ride spirited horses or travel in fast vehicles.
Dracy liked his comforts when he had the chance of them, but avoid risk? Risk added spice to life, and in that respect life had been bland since he’d inherited his cousin’s barony and left the navy. Perhaps that was why he’d accepted this mad challenge.
He and Knowlton were standing in the shade of an elm tree on the estate of the Earl of Hernescroft, where a private thoroughbred race would soon take place. The earl’s famous bay mare, Fancy Free, was to race against the Dracy black, Cartagena, winner take all. If Fancy Free won, the earl would own both horses, which would be a pleasant addition to his famous string of racehorses. If Carta won, Dracy would own two fine thoroughbred mares instead of just one, which might be the beginning of the revival of the Dracy stud. If he lost, he lost all and would have no option other than return to the navy.
The unusual stakes had drawn some lions of the racing world to join the local spectators. The Dukes of Portland, Beaufort, and Grafton were here, plus the Earls of Rockingham, Harthorne, and Waveney.
Going on the betting, none of them expected Cartagena to win, but that was to the good. If—when—Carta won, Dracy’s cash winnings would pay for the essential repairs to his stable block.
Cartagena was a four-year-old new to the racing world, but she’d scored two startling triumphs at recent meetings. After the second, Lord Hernescroft had scoffed to Dracy’s face that she wouldn’t beat Fancy Free if they met.
There’d been no easy escape, but Dracy hadn’t wanted one. The do or die was irresistible.
“I grant you Cartagena’s successes,” Knowlton said, still fretting, “but devil only knows why you couldn’t be satisfied with ’em. Handsome prize money and more to come. Why risk everything this way?”
“Because Carta alone can’t restore the Dracy fortunes,” Dracy said, adding, “as you know,” for Knowlton had trampled over these arguments for days.
“You’ll have the place in shape in time.”
“A decade or so.”
“Took years for your cousin to run it down.”
“I’m not that patient a man.”
“No, you’re a rash one. What’s to gain that’s worth the risk?”
Tired of the debate, Dracy glanced around to be sure no one was in earshot.
The spectators—on foot, on horse, and a few on the seats of open carriages—had arranged themselves on either side of the beginning of the race, which would also be the end.
No one was too close, but Dracy spoke quietly anyway. “My inquiries tell me Hernescroft is particularly fond of Fancy Free. Born in his own stud and named by one of his daughters. The daughter’s particularly fond of the horse as well. When he’s recovered from losing the race, he’ll negotiate.”
“Stap me! You’re playing for money? Now, that makes sense.”
“I’m playing for a stud. Herne can keep Fancy Free in exchange for Gosling-go.”
“What?” Knowlton exclaimed, attracting attention just as Dracy had feared. But then, flushing, he dropped his voice. “He might do it, mightn’t he? He has two prime stallions and Gosling-go’s the older.”
“And a vicious devil, I hear, but it’s not in the blood.”
“You’ve checked his get?”
“I always plot a course carefully.”
“Stap me,” Knowlton muttered. “No wonder you draped yourself in glory in the navy.”
“No more than most men, and none of it was careful navigation. Just blood and guts on the day.”
Knowlton shuddered. “Why not buy…But a stud like Gosling-go would be pricey, even if Hernescroft was willing to sell. Sired some winners. Eight hundred at the least. All the same, you’ve only the one mare. Why not just pay stud fees?”
“I’d rather get stud fees, and there are three older thoroughbred mares at Dracy that Ceddie hadn’t bothered to sell. They might be able to drop a foal or two. None’s produced offspring of quality, but it’s always a gamble. Remarkable horses have come out of indifferent dams.”
“It’s still a mad chance.”
“Life
’s all about the mad chance, Tom—at least for those of us born to make our own way in the world.”
“Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Because you’re an open-faced fellow and Hernescroft might have sniffed a rat.”