“Where’s Mr. Turner?” he asked the room at large.
“He went to see to the linens,” Mrs. Ferris said, not meeting his gaze.
A sick feeling began to grow in Lawrence’s stomach. “When did he leave?”
Mrs. Ferris looked at him and shook her head. Lawrence saw what he should have noticed right away: Barnabus was stationed by the door, instead of begging for Simon’s crumbs.
Lawrence strode across the room and flung open the garden door, letting in a blast of cold air and a flurry of snow. But he saw no footprints, no trace of Georgie.
“Where is Mr. Turner?” he repeated. “Where did he go?”
Dazed, he retreated to the safety of his study, only to find that even there he felt the walls closing tightly around him, his heart pounding furiously in his chest.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
It wasn’t until they had been snowed in for two days that Lawrence realized he was, effectively, hosting a house party. A terrible, boring house party with guests who heartily disliked one another and with the painful absence of the one person Lawrence wished were present, but a house party nonetheless. The servants contrived to keep everyone fed, Lady Standish carried the conversation at mealtimes, Simon cavorted with the dog, and Lawrence played the part of the thoroughly drunk host.
“Your library is appalling,” Courtenay announced, throwing open the door to Lawrence’s study. “It’s shocking. There were mushrooms growing on Seneca, which is neither more nor less than the fellow deserves, but all your brother’s naughty lithographs are ruined. Disgraceful.”
“I daresay you have some expertise in disgrace,” Julian Medlock murmured archly, glancing up from the letter he was writing. Lawrence had forgotten that the dandy had decided to make himself at home in the study while his sister fiddled with the telegraph. Why the fellow was draining inkwell after inkwell in writing letters when the post hadn’t been collected in two days, Lawrence couldn’t attempt to guess.
“Get out,” Lawrence grumbled, holding his glass of brandy close to his chest. “The lot of you.”
“Would that I could,” Courtenay said, a single eyebrow raised, his gaze never straying from Lawrence, “but my valise and my coin purse went missing at around the same time as your secretary.”
Lawrence looked up sharply at Courtenay. Georgie hadn’t taken the jewels, not even the emerald ring, and the idea of his wandering penniless through the storm had troubled Lawrence as much as the sheer fact of the man’s absence. He had repeatedly told himself that Georgie was resourceful, that he was conniving, that he certainly wasn’t fool enough to die of exposure.
“Yes, I thought that would get your attention,” Courtenay said. A lock of hair fell onto his forehead, and Lawrence remembered the old rumor that he slept in curling papers. “I do love a good—”
“Will you look at this, Radnor?” Lady Standish interrupted, rising to her feet behind the sofa and shaking out her skirts. “Your battery is not the problem. It’s just that there are too many wires. Each additional wire multiplies the likelihood of something going awry.”
“I know,” Lawrence assented wearily. They had been through this at least a dozen times this morning. “But what use would fewer wires be?” There were twenty-six letters in the alphabet, twenty-five if they were to eliminate C, per Lady Standish’s pragmatic suggestion. What the devil could anybody do with fewer wires than that?
“The point isn’t to be able to communicate in perfect English prose,” she said. “That’s what the post is for.”
“A fat lot of good the post does when you’re snowed in,” Medlock chimed in.
“Listen,” Lady Standish insisted. “What you have right now is a way to communicate urgent, prearranged messages from one point to another. Say, from the coast to London.”
That was more or less what Georgie had thought. Lawrence felt another miserable pang at his secretary’s absence. “A way to signal a strange ship’s approach,” he said, echoing Georgie’s suggestion.
“Or favorable conditions for a crossing. That sort of thing.”
Lawrence nodded and knelt on the floor beside the telegraph. They spent the rest of the afternoon reconfiguring the device. It was pleasant working with Lady Standish; after such a prolonged correspondence, they were almost like old friends. Once he had gotten over the initial shock of discovering that she was a woman—and a youngish woman too, when he had been expecting a man considerably older than himself—he found himself recognizing in her conversation turns of phrase that she had been wont to use in her letters. Lawrence at first had to pretend that he was dictating a letter to Standish, but after a few hours and too many short circuits to count, he felt nearly comfortable with her.
Lawrence had never had this many people in his study at once. It had been years since he had even been in a room with so many people. It was unpleasant, and even the thought of his sanctuary being invaded made his heart squeeze uncomfortably in his chest. Medlock was silent, except for the incessant scratching of his pen on paper. Courtenay sprawled in the chair by the fire, thumbing through whatever books weren’t too damaged to be read, and then later quietly playing cards with Simon when the child tentatively poked his head into the room. He would have strongly preferred them all to go far away.
Except Lady Standish, because together they had accomplished more in a single day than they had in months of correspondence.
Except Simon, too, because seeing him filled Lawrence’s heart with a degree of joy he hadn’t thought himself capable of.
Except that old roué Courtenay, because Simon clearly adored the bastard.
And hell, he’d even keep Medlock, if for no other reason than because his presence seemed to be a prerequisite for his sister’s company.
So while he still much preferred being alone, this was . . . not horrible. He felt the walls closing in on him, the heat rising to the surface of his skin, but it never got unbearable. He had always assumed that if one of his episodes progressed too far, he would be plunged thoroughly into madness, and then be as lost to reason as his brother or father. But that hadn’t happened. Not now, not when Georgie had turned the house upside down, not when Simon had arrived.
Not madness, then. And it never would be. He finally believed what Georgie had been trying to tell him, and Georgie wasn’t even here to look smug about it. There were days and weeks and years opening before him, and every one of them would be without the person who had helped him see that he had a future.
“Radnor?” Lady Standish looked like she had been trying to get Lawrence’s attention for some time now. “Do you need to rest?” She pitched her voice low, so as not to be overheard by the gentlemen or Simon. He recalled that she had traveled some distance to check up on him. She knew he was a hermit; she knew his family’s madness. And she was treating him as a friend.
No, she was a friend. Somewhere in between their disputes about the relative merits of brine and acid as electrolyte and their arguments about copper wire, they had become friends.
“I wanted this machine to send letters, not prearranged messages. I wanted a way for people to correspond instantly, without the hassle of letters crossing in the post or the annoyance of forgetting to send letters.” He still regretted all those unposted letters Georgie had found that first day—so many wasted words, so many conversations that had never taken place. “I wanted a way for people”—he busied himself in uncoiling a length of wire—“people like me, perhaps, to not be quite so alone.”
Lady Standish put her hand over his. “There’s time for that. You have decades to work out the details. Right now, though, I think we ought to go to the Admiralty. What was the name of that fellow who had asked you for the plans?”
It took Lawrence less than a minute to lay his hands on the letter from the Admiralty. This study, from the neatly labeled bottles and vials, to the meticulously organized papers, was Georgie’s doing. He had left his mark on every inch of this room, to say nothing of the rest of Penkellis.
&
nbsp; He had reshaped the house, he had reshaped Lawrence’s life, and now he was gone.
Against his better judgment, Georgie peered over the side of the fishing boat. The ocean was choppy and frothed with white in the storm, and when Georgie looked inland he could see the cliffs covered in snow.
The fishermen—Mrs. Ferris’s smuggler cousins—assured Georgie that they would reach Plymouth tomorrow. Or perhaps it was tomorrow night. Their speech—whether it was a foreign tongue, a rustic burr, or a thieves’ cant, Georgie neither knew nor cared—was almost unintelligible. He was in the uncomfortable position of having to trust that these strangers weren’t going to dump him overboard to spare themselves the inconvenience of having to sail out of their way. But Mrs. Ferris had spoken to them very sternly, in the same tongue they now used among one another. Whatever she had asked for, none of the sailors had the temerity to deny her to her face.
At least Lord Courtenay’s coat was warm, with all its superfluous capes of heavy, soft wool. Georgie hadn’t scrupled to steal it, along with the man’s valise and coin purse. He would have stolen Courtenay’s hat as well, if it hadn’t been ruined by the snow. Lawrence didn’t care much for Courtenay, and that was enough of a reason for Georgie to rob the fellow blind even if he hadn’t arrived at precisely the moment when Georgie needed to make a quick escape.
Pulling the coat tightly around him, he realized that helping himself to Courtenay’s belongings and persuading Mrs. Ferris to aid his escape had been the easy part. Now he had to figure out where to go.
In the stolen coin purse was enough money to get him to Paris, maybe further. But he hadn’t asked the fishermen to carry him across the channel. No, he had asked them to bring him to Plymouth, where he would travel by the mail to London.
And once in London, well, he would choose the method of his demise, most likely. Either the gallows or a knife in the back.
At the moment he was leaning towards the knife in the back. If he delivered himself to Mattie Brewster of his own accord, the man might not look too closely into where Georgie had been—and who Georgie had been with—these past months. That would keep Lawrence safe and out of reach. Lawrence would be able to live peacefully at Penkellis, undisturbed. Georgie would either be killed as a traitor or put back to work for Mattie. Both fates appealed to Georgie about equally, but at least all the people he loved would be safe.
“Drink.” A fisherman shoved a flask under Georgie’s nose. Georgie took a long drag of what tasted like apple brandy.
“Thank you,” he said, returning the flask.
The fisherman grunted and left Georgie alone.
Then there was the other option. Riskier, but Georgie had never been one to shy away from danger. Georgie only had one card that was any good whatsoever, and if he played it right, he could . . . well, not precisely win, because there was no winning in this game, but he could make sure that Brewster lost.
Halliday arrived at Penkellis as soon as the snow had melted enough to allow foot travel from the village.
“You could have warned me,” Lawrence said, greeting the vicar in the hall. He had been looking forward to confronting Halliday ever since he learned that the vicar had thought Lawrence’s sanity needed inquiring into. Never mind the fact that Lawrence himself had been quite convinced of his own lunacy. One expected one’s vicar to have more sense.
Halliday’s habitually concerned expression grew several degrees more anxious and he ran a finger between his neck and his collar. “Oh?” He was plainly striving for innocent curiosity but failing miserably.
Lawrence drew himself up to his full height, effectively towering over Halliday. “You knew Courtenay was out to get me declared mad, and instead of simply telling me, you went and hired a spy. You put a man into my own house.”
The vicar’s brow furrowed. “Now, that isn’t entirely fair. What would you have done if I had said that Simon’s maternal relations were investigating your competence? You would have thrown me out on my ear, and then you’d be in Bedlam before you even knew what happened.”
“Besides,” said a voice from the doorway. Courtenay, of course. The man was forever materializing from the shadows like a nasty insect. “You couldn’t blame the fellow if he were a bit concerned about your . . . ” He gestured at his own head. “What with your pedigree.”
“That’s terribly rich coming from someone who called my late brother a friend,” Lawrence retorted. “Pedigree, my arse.”
“I take it the matter is moot?” Halliday asked. “You’re satisfied of Radnor’s mental state? Mr. Turner saw nothing amiss.”
“Yes, yes,” Courtenay answered. “You can’t imagine how relieved I am. I had visions of needing to rescue a small boy from the clutches of a monster, and instead, I find this.” His gaze traveled around the hall, taking in the furnishings Georgie had hastily put in place. “Shabby and tired, but respectable. In all events, it’s clear enough that you’ve none of your brother’s predilections, Laurie. I see no courtesans, either dead or living, on the premises. No evidence of any recent orgies, more’s the pity. No pregnant servants, no creditors banging on the doors. Utterly, boringly respectable.” He paused, blowing some hair off his forehead. “God, I can’t wait to get out of here.”
“You’re welcome to leave.” Lawrence gestured helpfully at the door. “More than welcome, in fact.”
“The mail coach arrived in Penryn this morning,” Halliday said. “So the roads must be clear.”
“I’d run off to pack my bags, but of course my bags have vanished, right along with the fellow you hired to keep an eye on Radnor,” Courtenay told the vicar.
Courtenay was the only one who had dared allude to Georgie’s absence. Lady Standish instinctively knew it was a delicate matter, and Simon seemed grimly accustomed to the idea that people he was fond of might disappear.
“I’ll give you whatever you need to get back to the rock you crawled out from,” Lawrence growled. Twenty pounds, thirty pounds, whatever it took to get Courtenay out of his hair would be money well spent.
But instead he found himself taking tea with the vicar, because that was evidently what one did with afternoon callers. A maid arrived with a tray of tea and biscuits, and Lawrence let himself be swept into the parlor. Lady Standish and Simon arrived, as if summoned by the presence of tea, both chattering about their progress in laying wires from the study to the kitchens. Lawrence couldn’t figure out the purpose in that endeavor, except that it kept both of them busy.
Courtenay was absolutely right that it was boring, but he was also right that it was perfectly respectable. Ordinary. Sane. Unremarkable. Lawrence had never even aspired to such outright normalcy. If anyone had told him in October that before the end of the year he’d be taking tea with Simon, the vicar, Standish’s sister and brother-in-law, and one of Percy’s nearest and dearest, he’d have thought it more likely that he would open up the window of his study and discover he could fly.
He knew he had Georgie to thank for easing Lawrence’s way back among the living. And Lawrence had done nothing for him in return. Georgie hadn’t even taken the jewels, the one thing that Lawrence could give him. He had simply disappeared into thin air, and Lawrence knew that he would never see the man again.
No, Georgie hadn’t disappeared into thin air. People didn’t simply evaporate, for heaven’s sake. Georgie had gone somewhere, and based on what he had said, there were few safe places he could have gone.
But there was a niggling doubt that he hadn’t gone someplace safe at all. It was past time for Lawrence to stop feeling sorry for himself and start figuring out how to help Georgie. He put down his teacup and paced the length of the parlor, searching his brain for some clue as to Georgie’s destination. The roads had been blocked, and no horses were missing from the stables, which mean that Georgie had left Penkellis on foot. Which was a stupid thing to have done in the middle of a blizzard.
But Georgie was clever. He was brilliant. Either he was holed up in a cottage within an easy wal
king distance, or he had found some other means of leaving.
Either way, he would couldn’t have acted on his own, and there was only one person at Penkellis who was in a position to help. Lawrence strode out of the room and was in the kitchens before he could second-guess himself.
“Where did he go?” Lawrence asked, ignoring the flutter of curtsies from the kitchen maids.
Mrs. Ferris put down her rolling pin and looked at him levelly. “Tell me why it’s your business again?”
“I need to know whether he crossed the channel.” Whether he was safe. “And if you want to have this conversation in plain hearing of a dozen strangers, it’s up to you.”
She followed him into the larder. “I don’t know where he went,” she whispered. “But he didn’t say anything about France, and he knows full well I could have gotten him there.”
So Georgie knew about the smuggling. The Ferrises had run goods inland for generations, and Lawrence accepted it as a fact of Cornwall life, much like weather.
“What exactly did he ask you?”
She hesitated a moment, wiping her hands on her apron. “He asked if I could get him close to London. And I told him I could send a boat as far as Plymouth if the wind was right, and that he could travel by land the rest of the way.”
If Georgie had gone back to London, with all the risks that city held for him, there had to be a reason, and Lawrence didn’t doubt that Georgie had a plan. And he had a grim sense of foreboding that he was going to do something dangerous. Something noble.
And damn it all to hell if Lawrence wasn’t going to do the exact same thing.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
As soon as the smugglers set him ashore, Georgie stripped off Courtenay’s sodden greatcoat and pawned it along with the contents of the stolen saddlebag: a silver hairbrush, an ivory and tortoiseshell shaving kit, and a proliferation of shirt studs. He didn’t even bother to change into dry clothes before boarding the stagecoach for London. Likely he looked and smelled like a stowaway, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.
The Lawrence Browne Affair Page 21