“No, it is I who beg your pardon. Again,” George Wright replied. “Miss Somerville, it is a pleasure to see you.”
“Mr. Wright,” she said coolly.
George Wright reached forward and plucked the volume from the shelf and handed it to her with a bow. “Is this what you were reaching for?”
“Yes, thank you,” she said.
“I should have guessed,” he replied. “I know your love for learning of foreign lands.”
Diana was in a quandary. It seemed strange to be conversing with George Wright as if they were old friends, but then again what was she to do? This was a public place, and she could hardly order him to leave. Nor did she wish to leave, not until she had concluded her business here.
She was saved by the return of the young clerk, who carried in his arm a half dozen dust-covered volumes.
“I have the set, all six volumes, including the quarto with maps and drawings,” the clerk announced.
“Excellent,” Diana said, with a beaming smile. This was one of the true advantages of London. The small circulating library near her home had only a limited collection of books, and she had read everything of interest several times over. But here in London, she was free to indulge herself to her heart’s delight, spending her pin money on tales of exotic lands.
The clerk set his finds on the counter and then reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief which he used to mop his brow. “Would you like these on account?” he asked.
“Yes, and this as well,” Diana said, handing him the book she had found. “Miss Somerville, of number fourteen, Chesterfield Hill. If you would be so good as to have these sent round.”
“They will be there before nightfall,” the clerk promised.
George Wright stood patiently behind her as the clerk wrapped up the parcel, and Diana signed the ticket.
“May I offer you an escort anywhere?” he asked.
“No, thank you. This was my last errand, and I am about to return home,” Diana said.
George winced. “And I would not be welcome there.”
“Well, no, er, that is—” Diana floundered. In truth, she knew George would not be welcome, and should her father be home, no doubt there would be a very awkward and unpleasant scene. It was no more than George deserved, and yet somehow, when confronted with his presence, it was hard to remember the anger toward him that had once burned so hotly inside her.
“Do not fret yourself,” he said. “I understand.”
Perversely the more he reassured her, the worse she felt. He opened the door for her, and she stepped out onto the street. Her maid, Jenna, who had been sitting on a bench outside the door, rose and came over to join her mistress.
“I hope I did not cause any trouble between you and my brother the other night,” George said. “He seemed distressed to find me in your box at the theater.”
Distressed was putting it delicately. Stephen had been positively enraged. And then, when she had attempted to explain, he had turned high-handed and dictatorial, refusing to listen to her. Then, not content to give orders to her, he had gone behind her back, urging her parents to leave London for the country. It was humiliating to realize that he did not trust her virtue or her common sense.
Diana had put Lord Endicott squarely in his place. She had convinced her parents to remain in London through July and informed the arrogant viscount that she was prepared to end the engagement at once, should he find himself inconvenienced.
“Your brother has firm opinions,” Diana said.
“And he does not wish me to see you,” George said. “Though that seems folly since you are to be my sister-in-law. Still, it is all of a piece with him. Over these years, I have learned to expect little in the way of consideration from him.”
His voice was sad, as if resigned to his brother’s failings, and Diana was reminded of the confidences that Lady Endicott had shared over tea only a few days before. Could there be some truth to the dowager viscountess’s words? Had there always been bad blood between the brothers? And if so, what did that say to Stephen’s motives in seeking her out? Was it simply a matter of honor, or was there some other reason why he had pursued her?
“Perhaps, if you can find it in your heart to forgive me, some day he can forgive me as well. I want nothing more than to be able to call him a true brother,” George declared.
Diana winced inwardly. Were she truly to marry his brother, then, indeed, she might be forced into the role of peacemaker. As it was, given how strained her own relations were with Lord Endicott, nothing she said was likely to advance his brother’s cause.
“If you behave yourself with propriety and refrain from scandal, I am certain your brother will come to see you in a new light,” she said. She herself was still uncertain as to George’s character. Was his repentance genuine, his crime against her a youthful folly he now regretted deeply? Or was he still a rake who cared for nothing but himself, as Lord Endicott averred?
George smiled. “I can but try. And in that light, may I take you for ices at Gunther’s? It is too fine a day to rush indoors.”
Diana hesitated. The day was, indeed, sunny and warm, and ices had become a secret passion of hers.
“I assure you I will behave myself as a gentleman,” he said, with a boyish grin. “Please?”
“Yes, thank you, I would like that very much,” Diana said. After all, she had her maid with her, and there was nothing at all improper about a gentleman escorting a lady to Gunther’s for ices. Lord Endicott had taken her twice, and more often she had gone with a group of young ladies and gentlemen who now formed her acquaintance.
They strolled together over to Oxford Street, followed by the dutiful Jenna. Upon reaching Gunther’s tea shop, George found them a place at an outdoor table and then went inside to procure refreshments, returning with strawberry sorbets for himself and Diana and a glass of lemonade for Jenna, who accepted the largesse gratefully and then seated herself on a nearby bench, along with a half dozen other maids and a pair of footmen.
As she took a spoonful of sorbet, Diana’s first impression was of blissful coolness. Only as it melted in her mouth could she then taste the sweetness of the strawberry flavoring. It was a perfect treat for a summer’s afternoon, and as she smiled in bliss, George beamed back at her in perfect accord.
In between bites of the sorbet, they spoke of mutual acquaintances and the latest on-dits. Unlike his brother’s habitual reserve, George was an accomplished conversationalist, at ease discussing any topic. They bantered easily, discovering a great similarity in their opinions. Both of them loathed the opera, but loved the theater. They agreed Lady Shenton’s new town house was the height of vulgarity and that the fireworks celebrating the victory at Waterloo had been a wonder beyond imagining.
She quizzed George on his recent sojourn in France. Not for the first time she envied the freedom that came with his gender. She and George were nearly the same age, and yet propriety dictated that as a woman she remain sheltered by her family, while George was free to roam the world over should he choose to do so.
“It is a pity your journey was cut so short,” Diana said.
George shook his head. “I should not have left at all,” he said solemnly.
Diana felt her cheeks color as the implications of his words sank in. She had not meant her words to sound like an accusation.
“I did not mean—” she began, and then fell short.
George reached across the table and took her gloved hand in his own. “I know you did not mean to accuse me. I accuse myself,” he said. “I thought of you constantly, you know. I remembered how much you longed to travel. In Calais, and Lille, and in Brussels, I kept thinking how much you would have enjoyed seeing these cities and how I longed to be the one to show them to you. And the more I thought of you, the more the guilt grew in me, and I knew I should never have left you.”
Rather than reassuring her, his constant repentance made Diana feel as if she were somehow the guilty party.
“I t
hought we agreed to put the past behind us,” she said.
“Of course.”
He relinquished her hand as a waiter arrived to clear away the dishes. Diana took advantage of the interruption to change the conversation to a more neutral topic.
“Are you decided to stay in England? Or will you be rejoining your friends and resuming your travels?” she asked.
“I thought to stay in England, at least until your wedding this fall. After that, I do not know. And yourself? Are you to remain in London this summer? Or will you be returning to Kent to make your preparations?”
She squirmed inside, wondering how George would react when the engagement was called off. Would he understand her decision? Or would he try to court her again? After all, he had returned to England with the intent of offering for her.
But she could hardly marry him, no matter what feelings she had once harbored for him. George might be a kindred spirit, but she did not love him. And she had already caused enough scandal. Breaking with Lord Endicott only to marry his half brother would undo everything they had worked so hard to achieve, and would be poor repayment of Lord Endicott’s generosity.
“We will remain in London, through the end of this month at least. After that, I am not certain what my parents intend,” Diana temporized. She could hardly admit that there was no need to rush home, since there was not actually going to be a wedding.
“Good,” George said. “Did you know that the Tsar Alexander and members of his court are soon to arrive? He and his sister, the grand duchess, are to be Prinny’s guests. Not to mention General Blucher and his Prussians.”
Indeed, London society could talk of nothing else, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the foreign royals. Such an event had not occurred in generations, and society hostesses everywhere were frantically scheming to be the first to host the noble visitors.
“I hope to meet with some of our visitors, to hear of their homelands and their impressions of England. After all, to them this will be a foreign country,” Diana said.
“If you allow, I will be happy to arrange introductions,” George said. “I met many members of the court while in Brussels, including Count Peter Kossilof, who has the honor of serving as an attendant to the tsar. I am certain he would be willing to introduce you to other members of the court, who would be happy to speak with you.”
“Thank you,” Diana said. This was generous, indeed, for there would be many clamoring for introductions to their illustrious visitors. And it would be useful for her to have acquaintances in foreign cities, once she embarked upon her career as an explorer.
“It is nothing,” George said. “Remember, I swore to be at your service.”
Lord Hawksley’s carriage bounced as it hit a patch of uneven pavement, and Stephen braced one arm against the side of the seat to steady himself. Honestly, the streets of London grew worse every year, despite the vast sums spent for their improvement. Across from him, Lord Hawksley did not even pause in his speech, seeming oblivious to the jolting and swaying of his ancient carriage as it bore them toward the Houses of Parliament and the latest committee meeting of the Tory party leaders.
“I have it upon good authority that the Whigs are planning to bestow even more honors upon Wellington, after his latest triumph,” Lord Hawksley continued. “We must be certain that the Tories do not lag behind in recognizing our great hero. We must make it clear to all that he is one of our own.”
“But what more honors can they award? He is already a duke and has received every medal the Regent and Parliament can devise. Short of renaming the city Wellingtonville, I do not know what else we can do.”
Lord Hawksley lifted his bushy gray eyebrows and peered disapprovingly at his companion. “This is a serious topic, not one for jest,” he said. “With the threat of Napoleon now gone, we must move swiftly to consolidate our political power, both at home and upon the Continent. Alliances made now will secure power for the next generation.”
“I bow to your experience in these matters, Lord Hawksley,” he said.
In truth, he had little interest in politics, outside of those that affected his own county. But Stephen’s father had been a prominent Tory, and when he had inherited his title, Stephen had also inherited his father’s politics and his political allies. Such as Lord Hawksley, a dyed-in-the-wool conservative, whose political views had not changed one iota in the last half century.
“There is talk of making Wellington an ambassador,” Lord Hawksley said. “To keep him in France, until the allies can sort out the mess that Bonaparte made of the Continent. Make him our lead negotiator.”
“His presence would be a potent reminder of how much the Continent owes to British military power,” Stephen agreed.
“Without us they would have been speaking French from Sicily to St. Petersburg,” Lord Hawksley said disdainfully. “We secured the peace and ensured the stability of the monarchies. Now it is time to reap our just rewards.”
There was sense in what he said. The allies had worked together to defeat Napoleon, but now with their common enemy gone, the former allies would each be jockeying for power and position in the New European order. No doubt the coming negotiations would require every bit as much cunning and strategy as the hard-fought military campaign.
Stephen listened with half an ear as Lord Hawksley continued to expound upon his plans for the coming debate. In truth, there was little required of him, save to nod at the appropriate intervals. He gazed out the carriage window as they drove down Oxford Street. A strolling couple caught his eye. Though he could see only their backs, there was something familiar about the woman’s figure. As the carriage drew abreast, he lost sight of the couple in a crowd. He turned and looked backward, and smiled as he recognized Miss Somerville. He would know her anywhere.
Then his gaze turned toward her companion, and his jaw clenched as he recognized his brother. Anger welled up within him. What on earth was George doing with Diana? How dare he even speak to her, let alone accost her on a public street? Had he no sense of decency?
And what of Diana? For she did not appear distressed, nor did it appear that she was making any attempt to avoid George’s company. His eyes narrowed as he saw that Diana’s gloved hand rested lightly on George’s arm as he walked beside her.
Stephen leaned forward, ready to command that the carriage be stopped, intent upon confronting the two of them. Then, just as swiftly as the impulse came, it passed. If he saw George now, he would not be able to control himself, and the resulting scene would hardly improve his chances with Miss Somerville. This was no accidental encounter; on the contrary, Diana showed every sign of being with George by choice. However loathsome Stephen found that idea, he could not dictate Diana’s every waking hour.
He did not know how Diana would react if he were to confront her in such a public setting. No doubt she would be humiliated and justly angry with him. He already knew that she had a stubborn streak. And were he to demand that she cease seeing George, she might well carry out her threat to end their engagement. Then he would have no excuse to see her and be forced to watch helplessly from the sidelines as George betrayed her for a second time.
He did not understand, Stephen thought, sinking back against the worn seats as the pair faded from sight. He had treated Miss Somerville with respect, courting her in hopes of winning her affection. And yet it was his rakehell brother, George, to whom she was drawn, a man who had treated her dishonorably once and seemed likely to do so again. Surely there had to be something Stephen could do to convince her of the sincerity of his admiration.
He sighed.
“Is there something wrong?” Lord Hawksley asked, breaking off in mid-diatribe.
“Yes,” Stephen said. “Or rather, no. Nothing that need concern you. A dilemma of my own making, as it were.”
Lord Hawksley’s gaze sharpened. “Affairs of the heart are never easy. They make politics look simple.”
The keen insight surprised him. Was he really that easy to read? Or
was Lord Hawksley more perceptive than he had given him credit for? Stephen was uncomfortable with the idea that his thoughts could be read so easily.
“Each man must tend to his own affairs,” said Stephen, firmly closing the subject. “Now, tell me, what do you think of young Gartner? Will he be ready to take his uncle’s seat in Commons? Or should we cast about for another candidate?”
“Far too young and irresponsible,” Lord Hawksley said, shaking his head. “We need a reliable man there. Someone like Joshua Rawlings, or perhaps Harold Forsythe could be persuaded to leave his position at the treasury.”
Stephen let the words wash over him, and as Lord Hawksley debated the merits of the various candidates, Stephen focused on his own dilemma. He could not continue with things as they were. He needed to find some way to connect with Diana, to prove to her that he was the one gentleman who could make her happy. And his brother be damned.
The more Diana thought, the more she was puzzled by George Wright’s behavior. For someone she had once thought a villain, he was working very hard to win his way back into her graces. He seemed sincerely repentant, but having trusted his good nature once, she was reluctant to make the same mistake again.
She longed to discuss this with someone who knew him, but Stephen, who should have been the logical choice, had his own prejudices and was hardly a neutral observer. Finally, one afternoon as she was strolling in Hyde Park with Miss Charlotte Fox, she took the opportunity to sound her out.
“Mr. Wright is good friends with your brother, is he not?” Diana began.
“Yes,” Charlotte replied. “Or rather, they were good friends, and then this spring I think they quarreled, for Arthur was to accompany Mr. Wright to France, and then at the eleventh hour Arthur changed his mind. He would not tell me why, but hinted it was some scandal. When Mr. Wright returned to London, Arthur would hardly speak with him. But then he invited him to the picnic the other day, so I suppose they have mended their disagreement.”
Charlotte twirled her parasol, her eyes glancing idly over toward the banks of the Serpentine where Arthur Fox and two of his friends were deep in conversation with the Misses Binghams, a pair of twin sisters who had captivated London with their identical beauty.
The Wrong Mr. Wright Page 13