by Jo Beverley
“What?”
“Trying out men.”
“Of course not!”
“’Struth, you’re a poor liar. You mustn’t do that, Georgia.”
“Don’t ‘must’ me!” she snapped and turned to pace away from the bed. “No one understands.…”
“No one? You discuss this all around London?”
She whirled on him. “Of course not. Only Lizzie—Lady Torrismonde. And it’s not what you think.” She spread her hands. “I would hate to disappoint, you see.”
“Disappoint? I promise you, Georgia, that’s not possible.”
“You can’t be sure. No one can until it’s too late. Oh!” She ran to the window. “My parents are back. I’ll go down to tell them about the attack on you.”
She ran out, fleeing discovery, but also temptation accompanied by an aching sense of might-have-been. All the time they’d been talking she’d been fighting a pull back to the bed, a pull so strong that he might as well have been drawing on a rope.
If her parents hadn’t returned, she might have succumbed, might have tried out a man in completely the wrong way.
Dracy lay back against the pillow, fighting to calm his body. He wasn’t sure if he’d been most tormented by the vision in white linen and green silk, by the caring conversation, or by her enthusiastically inexperienced kiss.
A sin against all that was holy that such a woman had been shackled to an uncaring dolt. Or perhaps he should pity Dickon Maybury a little. Married young, and raised by an overprotective mother, the earl had certainly not had the benefit of the education he’d enjoyed around the world.
He heard footsteps and got himself under the covers.
Lady Hernescroft came in, also swathed in green—a dark green cloak over a fine dress of deep gold, emeralds glittering on an overexposed bosom. The contrast was almost amusing.
“A shocking thing, Dracy. You have all the care you need?”
“Yes, thank you, ma’am.”
“A lesson to you not to wander the night streets alone.”
He was growing weary of that advice, but it was inarguable.
“I will station a footman outside your door,” she said. “If you require anything in the night, you need only call.”
“That’s not necessary—”
“You are my guest, Dracy.”
She swept out and her husband entered. “Scandalous,” Hernescroft said, perhaps a little unsteady with drink himself. “Any chance of catching the caitiffs?”
“None, I’d think. Common thieves.”
Hernescroft nodded. “Wish we could round up the lot of ’em and sweep ’em into the sea. My wife’s right, Dracy. Don’t wander the night streets alone.”
Dracy was finally left in peace, and he savored it, in an empty-headed sort of way. He was drifting off to sleep when he remembered something.
He climbed out of the bed, still having to favor his arm. He checked his side but saw no sign of blood. He opened the door.
A footman sat in the corridor. At least they’d provided him with a chair.
The young man shot to his feet. “You require something, your lordship?”
Probably the task had gone to the most junior, and he looked as if he’d been hauled out of bed for it.
“Yes. Come inside.”
The footman did.
“Is there a truckle bed beneath this one?”
The footman bent down to look. “Yes, sir.”
“Pull it out and use it.”
“Sir?”
He was probably about seventeen and terrified of making a mistake.
“You’re instructed to be alert for my needs, yes?”
“Yes, your lordship.”
“I prefer you to be closer than the corridor. I might turn weak and unable to bellow. Close the door, pull out the truckle, and at the least spend your vigil lying down. I won’t take offense if you nod off, as I’m sure you’ll awake if I fall into a fit, start choking, or run around naked and witless.”
The lad’s lips twitched, but he managed to control it. “As you say, your lordship.”
Dracy nodded, extinguished the candle, and arranged himself carefully in bed with the least discomfort.
Don’t walk the night streets of London alone.
He wouldn’t forget that, but he intended to spend as little time as possible in the foul place. Only Georgia and her cause kept him here.
But could he bear to leave if she didn’t accompany him?
Chapter 21
Georgia was wakened out of a deep sleep by Jane with her morning chocolate and a letter. “Said to be urgent, milady.”
Georgia grabbed it. Was it from Dracy, saying he was shaking the dust of London from his shoes after the attack last night? She broke the seal and unfolded it.
Alas, no. It was from Portia Malloren. Georgia had completely forgotten her excuse for moving into Town. She scanned it quickly.
“Oh, my. There’s some problem with the water supply at Danae House, and Portia is about to leave Town. I must go. A simple dress, Jane. A water problem sounds messy.”
“As if you’d have to muck around in it, milady. And you need to have a final fitting for your costume. The masquerade is tonight.”
Georgia put a hand to her head. “There’s time for both. Hurry, Jane, one of my Herne dresses. We brought at least one, didn’t we?”
“Those dull things?”
Georgia hesitated, for she might be seen. “One of those dull things,” she asserted.
She sat to write a reply to Portia and dispatched it so the Mallorens could be on their way, then put on the country stays that fastened at the front.
“I can dress myself in this,” she said. “Go and ask how Lord Dracy is. If he needs a doctor. Ask specifically about his temperature. And order a chair for me.”
A part of her wanted to go to see for herself. Another part wasn’t sure she could ever face him again. She heated at the memory of that kiss. It had been memorably magnificent, but she shouldn’t have allowed it for a dozen reasons. Shouldn’t, in all truth, have gone back to his room, or if she had, should have dressed beforehand. She could have put on this gown.
She sat to brush out her hair, and Jane returned to take over the arranging. “Just put it in a knot,” Georgia said. “How is he?”
“Well, milady. No ill effects other than a sore arm, or so Jem the footman said.”
No excuse to visit.
Not even for conversation. They’d talked so easily in the intimacy of dim candlelight, but such easy talk was dangerous. He’d shown how little he understood her or her world, and she feared the more he learned of her, the less he’d like her. She shouldn’t have admitted knowledge of Mirabelle’s, or that she’d hired living statues for an entertainment, but without honesty, all was dust.
She pulled on her light gloves and was checking her appearance when there was a rap on her door.
Dracy?
No, he wouldn’t come here.
Jane opened the door a few inches and a footman said, “Lord Sellerby has called to see her ladyship.”
Georgia pulled a face at her own reflection. She could deny herself and then linger until he left and was well away, but she couldn’t always avoid him. He was behaving in a foolish way, but the only correction was her continual, firm denials.
“Come down with me, Jane, but then you must go to Mary’s to assist her, and to tell her I’ll go later for the final fitting.”
“You’ll go off with just the chairmen, milady?”
“And what could you do if they attacked me? They’re my father’s servants and completely reliable. Come.”
She went down, pleased to be in hat and pelisse, ready to leave, and that her chair was waiting.
“Sellerby,” she said as she went into the reception room, smiling. “How kind of you to call, but this is the day of the masquerade, you know, and I’m very busy.”
He kissed her hand, looking sane, thank heavens. “I understand perfectly and won’
t delay you, my dear. Can I tease a hint as to your costume?”
“Now, you know better than that!”
“I do, but I had to try. Does Lord Dracy attend?”
“I believe so, but we can’t expect him to match our standards of costume.”
That pleased him, but she remembered she wasn’t supposed to please him. How difficult it was to be cold to an old friend.
“I have heard strange rumors, Georgia, my dear.”
She tensed. What new disaster?
“You aren’t in truth considering Dracy as husband, are you?”
Ah, only that. “Is there some reason I should not?”
He chuckled. “My dear, my dear. Is there any reason you should?”
“He’s a naval hero, wounded in the service of us all.”
“There are a thousand such, some more grievously harmed. Marriage is not a reward for service. You have nothing in common with such a man, and it is not well-done of you to use him in one of your games.”
“I’m not using him,” she protested. “How could you think that of me?”
He stared at her. “You are in fact considering him?”
She hated to lie. “My father favors him, so there are discussions.…”
“They share an interest in horse racing, but you can’t be traded like a horse yourself. You would never suit. His fortune, his appearance…”
“I think it vastly unbecoming to sneer at his scar, Sellerby!”
“What? No, of course I never meant such a thing. I refer to his style of dress.”
“He can dress well enough when called for. This is becoming tedious. I admire Lord Dracy and enjoy his company, and that is not nothing. If there is any consideration of a match, it’s in the early stages, and as you say, there are considerable counts against it. So be at ease that I will not decide rashly. Now I must be away.”
She went into the hall, and he came with her to hand her into her chair. He retained it. “Consider me, Georgia. You know we would suit.”
“I will consider all my suitors, Sellerby, but only when the masquerade is over.”
Would he try to escort her, and how would she deal with that?
He took his leave in decent form, however.
“Don’t leave yet,” she said to the chairmen in case Sellerby was lingering outside. It felt silly, but he was being silly, and she’d not handled that well. Why hadn’t she simply said no? It was so hard to be cruel.
“You’re going out, Georgia?”
She poked her head out of the window to look behind. “Dracy? Should you be out of your bed?”
He smiled as he came alongside. “I’m tougher stuff than that. I was hoping for your guided tour of Town.”
He did look hale and hearty.
“I can give you a tour if you truly are fit,” she said, “but it won’t be the usual sort of attraction.”
“You intrigue me. Where are you off to?”
“Come along and see.”
“Very well.” He sent a footman for his hat, gloves, and sword.
“Jane, you see I’m adequately defended,” Georgia said. “Off now to Mary’s, but send word if there’s a disaster.”
As soon as Dracy was ready, she gave the chairmen the order to go, suppressing a wide smile. What had felt like a burdensome duty now promised pleasure.
The men picked up their poles and carried her out into the street. She left the window half down to let in some air, and so as to be able to talk to Dracy.
“Not even a hint as to our destination?” he said.
“Not even a hint.”
She realized that they’d met and last night hadn’t spoiled everything. A perfect day.
“We’re going toward Bloomsbury Square, I believe,” he said.
“You know your geography.”
“Maps and charts are the sailor’s blood.”
“Do you truly not miss the sea?”
“I suspect we all miss aspects of our pasts, but it would be folly to dwell on them.”
The men carried her chair into a quiet, tree-lined street not far from Bloomsbury Square and came to a halt outside Danae House. She climbed out, suddenly nervous about her responsibility. She was a patroness, apparently the only one in Town, but she knew nothing of water supply.
“Danae House,” he said, reading the words etched in stone above the door. “Who is Danae?”
“Was,” she said as one of the chairmen rapped the knocker. “The mother of Perseus. A prophet warned her father that her son would kill him, so he had her imprisoned in a high tower. But Zeus took on the form of a shower of gold and thus gained entrance.”
The door opened cautiously and a round-faced, round-bellied young woman peered out. “Yes, ma’am? Sir?”
Of course she wouldn’t be recognized. By the very nature of Danae House, no one stayed here for a year.
“I’m Lady Maybury, one of the patronesses, and this is Lord Dracy.”
The girl opened the door wide, dipping a curtsy. “Beggin’ yer pardon, your ladyship. Your lordship.”
A West Country accent. What was her story?
Mistress Ossington, the manager of the house, came rushing from the back, gray hair and manner flustered. “Oh, Lady Maybury! So kind…I did hope…”
Hoped for Diana Rothgar, or one of the other older patronesses, not the young, flighty, scandalous one.
“The water’s failed,” the woman hurried on. “I’ve contacted the company, milady, but nothing’s been done.”
“When did the water stop?” Georgia asked, trying to seem efficient and knowledgeable.
“Two days ago, milady! At least, that’s when I realized the tank was running dry. It’s filled three times a week, and we must have been missed the last time, but the company won’t send someone to turn on the tap to us.”
“Are your neighbors affected?” Dracy asked.
“No one’s said anything, milord.
“May I see the tank?”
Dracy was taking over, but if he knew anything about such things he was welcome to.
“This is Lord Dracy, Mistress Ossington. My”—she struggled for a word—“adviser.”
The woman made another curtsy. “So kind of you, milord. Come with me.”
Georgia followed, studying these back parts of the house with interest. She’d never previously progressed beyond the guest parlor and dining room.
The place seemed to be as clean and orderly here as in the more public rooms, which was a good sign. Most doors were shut, but in one room she saw four girls working at writing, and in the kitchen three women and two girls were preparing food. They all dipped curtsies and seemed cheerful, despite their shame. From some of the stories she’d heard, a few were shameless.
Dracy was waiting for her at the top of a short, narrow staircase. “Have you not been through the house before?”
“I’ve had no need to,” she said, feeling defensive. “What’s down here?”
“The water tank.”
She went down, wrinkling her nose at the damp, moldy smell, and grateful for the simple gown, which wouldn’t be ruined by dust. The lead tank sat in the dank space, a pipe feeding into it, through which, she gathered, water was pumped by the water-supply company. At her house on Belling Row, she’d never concerned herself with the working of the system. She’d paid five guineas a year to the New River Company and expected water to be available when required, and that had been the end of it.
“So the tank should be filled three times a week?” she asked.
“Yes, Lady Maybury,” Mistress Ossington said.
“And that pipe rising up?”
“To a pump in the kitchen, ma’am.”
“Ah.”
There’d been no pump in Belling Row. The servants had gone to the tank with buckets to get water. Georgia wished she’d known better. She would in her next home.
Dracy had mounted some wooden steps and was looking into the tank. “Nearly empty, and in sore need of cleaning out.”
“Let me see,” Georgia said.
He came down and handed her up. The bottom was thick with slime. “No wonder no one drinks the water from a tank. Do you have drinking water, Mistress Ossington?”