Georgie and Simon arrived in the kitchens cold and disheveled and out of breath. Mrs. Ferris clucked and tsked as she carried over ginger biscuits and buttered muffins, which they ate at the long kitchen table. Janet sat down with them, nicking bits of muffin from Georgie’s plate. This was likely grossly improper, for the heir to be eating in the kitchens with a pair of servants, but Georgie figured that if Lawrence couldn’t be bothered to trouble himself with proprieties, then neither could Georgie. Besides, Simon seemed content by the wide kitchen hearth, amidst the clatter of pots and chatter of kitchen maids.
They drank their tea and slowly warmed up, listening to Janet tell Mrs. Ferris about shadowy goings-on at a cousin’s house. From the bits of conversation that Georgie picked up, this cousin was decidedly up to no good.
“My mum says Davy had to spend half the night under a hawthorn bush,” Janet said with a gurgle of laughter. “He came home half-blue.”
Mrs. Ferris turned from the pot she was stirring, spoon still in hand. “Serves him right, capering about under a full moon.” Then the two women glanced at Georgie and Simon before falling silent.
Smuggling, most likely. Before coming to Penkellis, Georgie’s only knowledge of Cornwall had been that it was packed with smugglers. But he hadn’t seen or heard anything, so he hadn’t thought overmuch about it. As far as he knew, every new moon brought crates of tea and a fortune’s worth of French brandy, but if it didn’t affect Lawrence then it didn’t matter to Georgie. Far be it from Georgie to begrudge a man his living.
Georgie supposed that if he had been born here, he might have been a smuggler too. Would he have been one of the men out in the fishing boats, bringing cargo ashore on moonless nights? Or would he have been one of those who ran the smuggled goods inland, from cove to barn to—
“Mrs. Ferris,” he said suddenly, “is this Cousin Davy in fact David Prouse?” Oh, what a fool he had been. He had been so busy thinking of these people as superstitious peasants that he hadn’t given them any credit for proper criminality.
“Yes,” she said carefully. “Davy Prouse is my cousin, and Janet’s too.”
“He’s the man the vicar overheard saying that Lord Radnor stole one of his sheep. Really, I must have maggots in my brain not to have put this together weeks ago. The cart driver I saw you arguing with—was that your cousin Davy as well?” Of course there hadn’t been any stolen sheep. The vicar had only overheard bits of conversation that weren’t meant for his ears. Coded conversation, if Georgie had guessed right. Prouse was a smuggler, and he had lied about seeing Lawrence steal a sheep, and Georgie was inclined to think those facts were somehow connected.
“Simon,” Georgie said, turning to the child, “John is warming his feet by the fire. Why don’t you ask him to help you decorate the parlor with greenery? You can tell him I said he’ll have the rest of the afternoon to himself afterwards. I’ll be there in half an hour, and you can surprise me with how festive the room is.” Simon pocketed some biscuits and a lump of sugar, then went on his way, Barnabus following along.
“Ladies.” Georgie pitched his voice low enough that it wouldn’t be overheard by any of the other servants. “If I were, right this minute, to pay a visit to the old stables, would I find anything of interest?”
Mrs. Ferris didn’t turn around, but Georgie noticed that she stopped stirring the pot for an instant. Janet was the one who spoke. “ ’Course not. Only rats.”
“I see,” Georgie mused, “you would have taken care to have everything moved once you knew I was going to bring in servants from Falmouth.” He remembered Lawrence’s complaints about midnight noises coming from outside. Georgie hadn’t taken him seriously, thinking the man just needed to grouse. But Georgie himself had heard horses and carts a few times; he hadn’t thought much about it because Penkellis was such an eerie house that no strange noise or occurrence ever seemed out of place.
“Don’t know what you’re going on about,” Mrs. Ferris said, her back still turned to Georgie.
Georgie pushed his chair away from the table and got to his feet. “I’ll take myself off then. Fine day for a walk, all this lovely snow. Maybe I’ll run into an excise officer and have a chat about why your cousin never pressed charges about his missing sheep.” He made as if to reach for his coat.
“No, wait!” It was Janet, of course. Mrs. Ferris would have called his bluff, and rightly so. The last thing on earth that Georgie wanted was for Lawrence to come under scrutiny.
“Hold your tongue,” Mrs. Ferris said to the other woman.
“There’s nothing happening that would cause any trouble to his lordship,” Janet said, laying a hand on Georgie’s arm and looking up at him pleadingly. “We’ve taken such care to make sure that nobody comes near the stables.”
Georgie could have slapped himself. So, that was why the servants had quit—Mrs. Ferris and Janet had done whatever was necessary to keep prying eyes away from Penkellis. They must have spread tales of Lawrence’s evil doings. “I think there would be trouble indeed if it were known that the Earl of Radnor was turning a blind eye to smugglers using his property to store run goods,” Georgie hissed. “Nobody would believe he didn’t know.”
“They would if they knew him,” Janet protested. “It’s not as if he has a hand in running the estate.”
“If his eccentricities were to become common knowledge, you mean?” Georgie stepped into the larder and beckoned for the women to follow. Once the door was shut, Georgie went on. “That’s hardly any better than having him known as a smuggler. The two of you have done your damnedest to have him branded a devil-worshiping madman throughout the neighborhood, presumably because you want to frighten people away from poking around Penkellis. You can’t mean to have this nonsense said aloud in court.”
“Who said anything about court?” Mrs. Ferris countered, hands on hips.
“That’s what it would come to, if his name were to be tangled up in this business. Do you have any idea what would happen if word got out? Simon’s relations would have the earl declared incompetent, and as the heir’s guardians, they would have the running of this house and everyone in it. So if you want to keep your smuggler friends safe, you might want to think twice about making people wonder whether the earl has his wits about him.”
“Now, now.” The cook was looking up at him with concern. “Take a deep breath, Mr. Turner.”
“Take a deep breath?” Georgie repeated, incredulous. “This is not a problem that will be solved with breathing, no matter how deep.” His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, his nails biting into the flesh of his palms. “Can you even imagine how his lordship would take being summoned to testify in court?” A strange place, strange people, noisy and crowded and new. “What the devil have you done?” He wasn’t shouting—he would never be so imprudent, even as furious as he was—but his voice was raised.
The realization struck him like a blow. He was furious. If he were the sort of man to punch walls or throw things, he’d have already put the larder into shambles. But Georgie never got angry. Annoyed, yes. Bored, most certainly. But anger didn’t enter into it, let alone this full blown rage.
Now Janet and Mrs. Ferris were looking at him as if he were a spectacle. Janet’s mouth was shaped into an O of perfect astonishment, and Mrs. Ferris’s eyebrows were hitched so high they disappeared into her cap.
“What I’m trying to tell you,” the cook said in patient tones, “is that none of that’ll come to pass. The goods aren’t on the property anymore. And they won’t be, not so long as this place is crawling with outsiders.”
“They won’t be on his lordship’s land, full stop. Tell whoever is behind this operation to avoid Penkellis in its entirety, or he will have to deal with me. And make no mistake, that will not be pleasant.”
“We’re in Cornwall,” Mrs. Ferris was saying, as she regarded Georgie in utter bafflement. “His lordship would be surprised to learn his land wasn’t being used by smugglers. Don’t you worry your head.”
“I’ll worry as much as I damned well please. I neither know nor care about Cornish customs. All—and I do mean all—I care about is that his lordship not be troubled more than absolutely necessary.”
He slid out of the larder and marched to the parlor, smoothing his lapels and straightening his cravat on his way.
He had spoken the truth. He would commit any number of outrages in order to keep Lawrence safe. All he had to do was imagine Lawrence in the dock, Lawrence in a madhouse, and he’d gladly unload a pistol into any Cornish smuggler who threatened the man he loved. Because there really was no denying it anymore, not even to himself: he loved Lawrence and was pretty damned sure Lawrence loved him in return. Not that it would do either of them any good at all.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Lawrence was arrested on the threshold of the parlor, hoping another moment would give him the courage to enter the room. Georgie and a small boy—Lawrence’s mind reeled at the knowledge that this was Simon, whom he had last seen as a babbling, chubby infant—were sprawled on the rug before the fire, playing a card game Lawrence didn’t recognize. Barnabus was lounging between them, as if he were waiting to be dealt into the game.
“You’ve almost got it,” Georgie was saying. “You’re trying to pull the second card.”
The child looked so much like his mother, pale and small, almost elfin.
Georgie shuffled the cards and held them out to Simon, who took what appeared to be the top card. He held it out, face up, to show Georgie, who let out a crack of laughter.
“A quick study. You were born to sharp cards.”
Good heavens. Was Georgie teaching Simon, the future Earl of Radnor, to cheat at cards? If Lawrence had been under the impression that Georgie was an ordinary, respectable secretary, that delusion would have been quite crushed by this little tableau.
Georgie took the cards back from Simon and gave them a quick, competent shuffle. Or at the least appeared to do so; Lawrence assumed some sleight of hand was in play. He fanned them out, directed Simon’s attention to one of them, and then restacked the deck.
Lawrence had known for a while that Georgie was not what he seemed. He was not a proper secretary, and therefore some manner of subterfuge had brought him to Penkellis. Lawrence ought to be disturbed, offended, afraid. He was none of those things. The strength of his affection for Turner overwhelmed any other stray notions, in the way a full moon blinded one to the surrounding stars. He knew they were there but couldn’t make himself see them.
Lawrence took a tentative step forward, his new boots stiff and unfamiliar, his freshly starched cravat a strange presence under his chin.
Georgie noticed him first, shooting immediately to his feet. “Lawr—my lord,” he said, giving a thoroughly correct little bow. “Allow me to present—”
“Simon,” Lawrence said hoarsely. In two strides, he crossed to where Simon now stood beside Georgie. He hesitated for a moment, unsure what to do, and then impulsively took hold of Simon’s hand. “Simon,” he repeated, staring at the child’s face, trying to find some trace of the infant he had held and comforted. “How was your journey?” he asked, because he had to say something.
“Most uneventful, sir,” Simon said in a small voice.
Lawrence still held the child’s hand. “You look so much like your mother.” Something unpleasant flitted across Simon’s face, and he looked like he wanted to tug his hand free. “I never thought to have a portrait made of her, but I wish I had, so I could show you the resemblance.”
Simon swallowed. “My aunt has a portrait, but I haven’t seen it.”
“Whyever not?” Lawrence dropped the child’s hand.
“They took it down after she ran off, sir. After”—he tilted up his chin, like a man about to take a punch—“after she disgraced herself.” He said this with a matter-of-fact certainty that broke Lawrence’s heart.
Lawrence drew in a long breath and felt his nostrils flare. He wanted to tell the child that his mother had committed no disgrace, that she had been faced with the choice between a pro forma marriage and utter scandal. Lawrence, while missing the child he had loved, could hardly blame Isabella for having left.
He couldn’t very well say all of that to a child, though. “Your mother was a fine woman,” he said. Simon’s eyes went momentarily wide, and Lawrence heard Georgie’s sharp intake of breath. “Perhaps you’ll deal me in to whatever interesting card game you’re playing here. I’ve always wanted to become a card sharp.” He said this with a sidelong glance at Georgie, hoping to elicit a smile. But Georgie was staring at him blankly.
“Yes. Quite.” Georgie nervously raked his fingers through his hair. “I apologize. I was only teaching Simon—Lord Sheffield—how to fuzz—damn it—how to recognize sleight of hand in the event he ever finds himself among unsavory people who do that sort of thing. He knows not to behave dishonorably.”
Lawrence had never seen Georgie so uncomfortable. “I see,” he said, striving for their customary ease. “An excellent plan, Georgie.” As he watched, the other man’s face turned red. What the devil? And then he realized: they were supposed to be distantly correct around Simon. They were Lord Radnor and Mr. Turner, earl and secretary. They were not on a first-name basis. They did not speak lightly about cheating at cards or marital infidelity.
To hell with that. He’d give Georgie his Mr. Turner if that’s what he wanted, but he wasn’t going to play act.
They got through a few hands of loo, which was the only game all three of them knew. Simon giggled whenever he won a trick, while Georgie sat ramrod straight, as if he were listening to a sermon rather than playing a silly game of cards. All Georgie’s conversation was directed at Simon. He scarcely turned his head in Lawrence’s direction. But when Lawrence was bent over his cards, he felt Georgie’s eyes on him. Whenever Lawrence looked up, however, Georgie’s gaze had slipped away.
The rhythm of card play distracted Lawrence from the alien strangeness of sitting in his newly transformed parlor with the child who was, in some sense, his. The room, which he had last seen at sixes and sevens while the laborers worked, was now lit by a multitude of candles that hinted at expanses of rich, soft fabric and polished wood. Lawrence found that if he kept his attention on his cards and his companions, he could avoid the sensation of being in a strange place.
They laid down their cards when one of Georgie’s new footmen—Lawrence couldn’t quite accept that these efficient strangers were his own servants—came in with a supper of cold meat. Georgie murmured something, and a few moments later the same servant appeared with a tray of bread and ham. Lawrence tried to catch Georgie’s eye to give him a wordless expression of gratitude, but Georgie wouldn’t turn his head to look at him.
Soon afterwards, Simon started to yawn and Georgie took the child up to bed.
“Come back when you’re done,” Lawrence murmured.
“Of course, my lord.” Georgie bowed his head with infuriating deference.
The sight of the two of them going off together made Lawrence’s heart jump. He had somehow, over the course of little more than a month, acquired something like a family.
But no. Simon would go back to school and the homes of his more civilized relations, and Georgie would eventually go back to London where he belonged. And Lawrence would be alone, once again. A month ago he would have looked forward to solitude, but now he felt that he was on the other side of a chasm he could not return across.
Lawrence finally allowed himself to take in his surroundings. In his memory, the room was blanketed beneath dust and cobwebs, half the windows cracked and the other half blackened with filth.
But this room looked like a picture in a book. Hell, it looked like a home.
Every sconce and candlestick held a lit candle. The enormous old hearth was filled with a roaring fire, casting a mellow glow on the room. Every available surface was draped with fir boughs and trimmed with ivy and holly. It was Christmas Day, Lawrence realized. The scents of greenery an
d wood fire, beeswax and furniture polish, filled the air. Somehow, Georgie had found rugs and curtains that looked like they had always been here. He made the room seem like a place fit for happy, sane people, rather than feral cats and wild squirrels.
As unfamiliar as the house now seemed, as strange as his new clothes felt on his body, it all was somehow right, as if Lawrence and Penkellis had been waiting around for Georgie to set things right. Lawrence found himself forgetting that there had ever been a time before Georgie came to Penkellis.
And he wondered what it would take to get him to stay.
He wondered whether asking Georgie to stay would be the maddest thing he had ever done.
Georgie hardly knew where to look. Every time he let his gaze stray to the man who sat beside him, he felt like he had gotten a glimpse of a stranger. A very imposing stranger. Clean-shaven, decently dressed and groomed, Lawrence was every inch the earl. They were sitting on the parlor sofa, and Georgie was at a loss for words for perhaps the first time in his life.
“We gathered rather more greenery than was called for,” Georgie babbled apologetically, noticing Lawrence taking in the room. “It’s a fortune’s worth of beeswax candles, but I thought we might as well do the thing right.”
“I think you’re a magician.” Lawrence was swirling a glass of brandy in one hand; his other arm was slung over the back of the sofa, so near to Georgie’s neck as to almost be an embrace. Georgie could feel the heat radiating from the larger man’s body.
“Not a magician.” Georgie kept his back straight, his eyes fixed on the fire blazing in the hearth before them. He had the sense that if he relaxed a single muscle he’d slide not only into Lawrence’s embrace but into a mess he’d never see his way out of. “Just very good at spending other people’s money.”
“Ha. I can stand the expense, as you know.” Out of the corner of his eye, Georgie watched Lawrence bring his glass to his mouth and caught the glimmer of an unfamiliar ring, its stones the same misty blue as Lawrence’s eyes. Could be blue topaz, but more likely pale sapphires or even blue diamonds. A fortune, in arm’s reach. Didn’t that just sum up these past weeks at Penkellis? A fortune in arm’s reach, and Georgie too addlebrained to do anything about it.
The Lawrence Browne Affair Page 16