Emily hung her head. “I know. I’m sorry, darling. So very s-sorry.”
Abruptly he grabbed his greatcoat. “I’m going out. I need some air.”
After the relative warmth of the house, the frigid temperature was a slap to the face as he walked and walked, but nothing like his mother’s confession. Christ. He’d have to rob a fucking bank. Become a highwayman or a pirate. Or use an actual existing talent and become a male whore for the rest of his life. And yet they’d still have nothing. No reputation to speak of. Never welcome anywhere, ever again. No friends or outings as a respite from Sir Malcolm.
Hell and damnation. He needed a drink. Badly.
Ducking into a shabby but clean tavern, George put his last few coins on the bar and attempted to smile at the barman. “Whatever you have to get me legless, fast, sir.”
“Aye, lad, ’ere ye go,” said the brawny older man as he put a dusty corked bottle of dark brown liquid in front of George, his gaze far too knowing. Perhaps people often came here when their world fell apart.
Nodding his thanks, George turned and found an empty table in the back of the tavern. He sat down, braced himself, then took several long swallows of the ghastly but wonderfully potent rotgut, and studied his fellow patrons. Industrious folk, definitely. Mid-level merchants, lawyers, bankers and clerics, by the look of their plain but decently tailored clothing. Skilled and worthy men. Probably not encumbered with a gambling-addict mother, a missing criminal stepfather and a debt large enough to sink several warships.
How the fuck was he supposed to do this?
Even a hint of gossip and they would be finished. Only land and titles kept creditors at bay; everyone else was thrown to the wolves. He and his mother would be talked about and laughed at behind fans, over cheroots. A compassionate few might just avoid them, but the rest would revel in loudly sympathizing straight to their faces, for no one took pleasure in another’s downfall like so-called Polite Society. Stephen and Jane would be thoroughly humiliated at the stain the connection brought them. As would the other London Lords.
Shuddering, George lifted the bottle of rotgut directly to his lips and drained it as two well-dressed men squeezed past him and sat at the adjacent table with full tankards of ale.
“Poor Maxwell,” said the younger, earnest-looking one. “I don’t envy him his task.”
“I couldn’t believe it either. Young ladies these days...I blame indulgent fathers. Fancy an heiress having to get professional help to find a husband.”
What on earth?
Surprised at the older man’s words, George surreptitiously leaned closer. Perhaps something might wrestle a genuine smile from him today after all.
“That isn’t the problem. The way I hear it, she doesn’t want a man.”
“I say!”
“Not like that, she just doesn’t want to get married. It’s the parents who want to see her wed, and to a lofty title.”
“Really?” said Old Man, stroking his white sideburns and frowning. “To aim so high they must have funds. New money and country folk, obviously, to go about the task in this common manner.”
“Here now, apart from a notable few, new money is the only money these days.”
“But what kind of chit needs such help? Must be ugly as sin and a screeching harpy.”
“Maxwell wouldn’t elaborate overmuch, so I’m quite sure she’s plump with bad hair and buck teeth. But here’s the sweetener…the parents are willing to pay ten thousand for assistance.”
“Ten thousand pounds?” Old Man barked, his heavily lined face turning bright pink as he choked on his ale.
To be fair, George was nearly wheezing in unison. A fortune.
“I know,” said Young Man. “And that’s not the end of it. If the assistance results in a wedding before the end of this coming Season, they’ll double the sum.”
“Twenty thousand? For that kind of blunt I’d marry the gel myself, no matter how terrible she was.”
“Your wife might have words about that. But who’d have daughters, eh? Thank the good Lord I’ve only sons is all I can say...”
George couldn’t listen any more.
Hastily getting to his feet, he strode across the tavern and stepped out into the afternoon chill. So, some extremely wealthy and generous parents needed an expert to get their ghastly girl married, did they? For a moment he felt sympathy for the matrons or elderly sticklers probably employed previously. None of them would have grown up with a hellion sister who used every trick in the Book of Mayhem to get her way. None of them would know the ton’s twisted labyrinth of manners and quirks so intimately, or be noted as a leader of fashionable good taste. And most importantly, none of them needed twenty thousand pounds quite as desperately as he did.
This was it, the way to save him and his mother from destruction. Country folk probably wouldn’t know of him, but he’d still go in disguise, some spectacles, hair coloring, plain clothing, belly padding. Plus false references and a false name to boot.
Miss Rich Spinster didn’t know it yet, but she had met her match.
Chapter Five
Gloucestershire
“Good afternoon, Mr. Howard.”
Glaring at her looking glass, Louisa pursed her lips and tried the words again. “Good afternoon. Good afternoon.”
“That is much better,” said Belinda encouragingly. “You sound like a woman with great potential to be a refined lady.”
“Why thank you,” she replied, now smiling at the looking glass and dipping into a curtsy. “It is indeed a privilege to make your acquaintance, Mr. Howard. I’ve heard you enjoy bathing in squirrel blood and your manhood resembles an overcooked radish. Tea?”
Her companion choked on a mouthful of said beverage, coughing like she was attempting to dislodge a lung, so Louisa crossed the bedchamber and helpfully thumped her on the back.
“You cannot,” Belinda wheezed, “I repeat, you cannot say that. Please don’t, I beg you.”
“Why not? It is important to establish an open and friendly relationship with one’s comportment tutor from the outset, is it not? And if he’s an elderly man with rickety knees, sour breath, and a propensity for smacking knuckles with a ruler, squirrel blood bathing and a tiny member is quite on the cards.”
“You know nothing about him.”
“Oh, come on. With a name like Mr. Howard, he’ll be sixty if he’s a day, have all the humor of a statue, and hate me for being born female in the first place. Unless you have discovered something?”
“Not much, actually. Apart from the rather astounding fact that he has references from both the Marquess of Standish and the Duke of Southby.”
Louisa’s jaw dropped. Standish and Southby? Why, those two cretins. How dare they play a part in what looked horribly like an eventual forced marriage, even if the part might be unwitting. They had always seemed so pleasant. Shockingly reserved, but pleasant all the same, and not in the business of casually destroying others.
“Oh no,” she muttered. “Mother will be in absolute transports. No wonder she instructed Mr. Howard to be brought here with all haste. But if he has references from Standish and Southby, he’ll probably be the stuffiest etiquette expert in England. Bloody hell. This is terrible news.”
“Not necessarily,” said Belinda. “If he has those kind of patrons, he might know all sorts of interesting people. Have dozens of fascinating tales to share.”
“I doubt it. If Mr. Howard has been in the employ of the marquess and the duke, he’ll be more silent than the grave. They are both closely connected to the government; Standish to the War Office and Southby a confidant of not only the royal family, but people like Liverpool and Wellington, too. They would never hire a gossip.”
“Oh. I see. Well, perhaps he won’t be that stuffy. Perhaps he’ll have a gruff exterior but really be sweet with a dashing way about him and a quick mind.”
Louisa raised an eyebrow. “Hmmm. Is the man coming here to be my comportment tutor, or your midnight lover?
And don’t give me that ‘I am going to swoon’ look. You are perfectly fine. Actually, if you did steal him away and locked him in your bedchamber for hours of naked, sweaty tutoring, you would be doing me a great, great favor.”
“I couldn’t…I mean, I am far too old…I’m certainly not a woman who indulges in that sort of carry on,” said Belinda, her cheeks crimson.
“Hush your mouth. He could be just the man to put a spring in your step. Or perhaps younger than you, in which case your field could be ploughed many times from many directions—”
“Stop! Please stop. And know that not only am I going to get rid of all your textbooks, I will also burn those ghastly penny romances. Plough my field, indeed.”
“All right, all right. You prefer to have your castle invaded. Duly noted.”
“Louisa, you are aging me by the minute. When I first started in your parent’s employ, my hair was black as night. And now I’m plucking so many silver strands I shall be as bald as a newborn soon. Why can’t you read La Belle Assemblée or the Bible?”
“Bah. Fashion plates are dull. And woman cannot exist with the good book alone. Although if I recall correctly, there are a lot of murders. And reproducing. And great quests. Perhaps I shall reacquaint myself with the scriptures.”
“Is that your mother calling?” said Belinda, in a rather desperate tone.
“Funny, I didn’t hear anything.”
“We should probably go downstairs. Mr. Howard is due very shortly, after all. We’d hate to be tardy.”
“Oh yes,” said Louisa dryly. “That would be dreadful.”
They made their way downstairs to the front parlor. Belinda settled herself in the corner with an embroidery frame, and Louisa immediately helped herself to a slice of fruitcake as she sat down on an overstuffed chaise. No reason for her stomach to suffer while waiting for the fourth instalment of Awful Comportment Tutor Monthly.
“Louisa! There you are. And actually looking vaguely feminine in that blue gown, thank heavens.”
“Thank you, Mother,” she replied, rolling her eyes as Margaret Donovan peered out the parlor window and wrung her hands.
“Oh, do not use that tone with me, daughter. The other women were most adequate, but Mr. Howard is in a class of his own. He has references from Lord Standish and His Grace of Southby!”
“So I hear,” Louisa said irritably.
“That makes him the best of the best. Which means he is going to fix our little problem once and for all.”
“Mother, I am not a leaking roof.”
“No, that would be far easier on my poor nerves…you do remember our conversation about the fourth comportment tutor, do you not?”
Ice touched the back of her neck. As if she could forget threats to have Belinda sent home to her awful, pinch-faced family and herself carted away to an asylum. Further investigation in the form of gothic novels and one scathing treatise she had found amongst the other periodicals in the Gloucestershire lending library had confirmed an asylum, even one that catered for wealthy guests, was definitely not somewhere she wanted to end up. Good grief. The choice between that and marriage to Kildaire was definitely devil and the deep blue sea, and just for a moment, anger and frustration threatened to get the better of her yet again.
“Yes,” she said eventually, as calmly as possible. “I remember.”
“Good…oh, look! Maxwell’s carriage is approaching. Get rid of that fruitcake for heaven’s sake, I don’t want Mr. Howard thinking you are a glutton.”
Somehow she managed not to hurl the plate at her mother’s head, but obediently push the remains of the delicious cake away. “Ladies do eat.”
“Nonsense. Not until the ring is on their finger,” replied Margaret, settling herself onto the chaise beside her. “Now sit up. Sit up! Back straight. Future duchesses do not hunch. And smile. No, not like that. Polite. Ladylike. Try to succeed at something for once in your life.”
Fustian. This was impossible. “Mother…”
“Be quiet. Maxwell and Mr. Howard are in the foyer. Can you hear them?”
Louisa sighed and tilted her head. Actually, she could hear three male voices. One was their young butler, one a slightly high-pitched whine that could only be Maxwell, and the third…
She frowned. Deep. Aristocratic. Well-modulated. Rich, like the best pot of bittersweet chocolate. But more than a very attractive voice, there was something vaguely familiar about it. Now she did sit up straight, her curiosity well and truly piqued.
A knock sounded on the ajar parlor door, and their butler cleared his throat. “Mr. Maxwell and Mr. Howard, madam.”
The Donovans’ silver-haired secretary marched into the room, his petite, too-lean physique not well served by a jacket one full size too large and a fussy cravat. But her gaze barely rested on that man for a moment, as she stared incredulously at Mr. Howard.
What the bloody hell?
He wore a very plain ensemble of gray trousers, white shirt and brown waistcoat, although the shirt and waistcoat were straining over a fleshy belly. Silver-rimmed spectacles perched on his nose, and his dark brown hair had been brushed to sit just so off his face. But not even stooped shoulders could disguise a man who stood at six and a half feet. And the ridiculous spectacles did nothing to dull the effect of perfect jade-green eyes.
Eyes that were now regarding her with complete horror.
Louisa barely swallowed a fit of manic giggles. This situation had reached Shakespearean levels of farce. How the hell could George bloody Edwards be Mr. Howard, her new comportment tutor? And yet…this could be the answer to her prayers.
Margaret got to her feet, beaming broadly. “Good afternoon, sir, we are so—”
“Very, very delighted to make your acquaintance,” said Louisa, grinning as George paled further. “Mr. Howard.”
~ * ~
What fresh hell was this?
George knew he was staring like a complete bacon brain while his jaw remained where it had crashed onto the floor. But surely this could not be real. The Donovans lived in Staffordshire, close to their mining interests, not bloody Gloucestershire. He knew that much from Caroline.
And yet he stood in a fucking lavish parlor of blue and cream, with a large painted portrait of the family hanging on the east wall. Maxwell the secretary was smiling genially as he bowed and greeted a petite, slender older woman as Mrs. Donovan and Louisa as Miss Donovan. Both women were smiling and holding out their hands for George to bow over. Actually, the smiles made him uneasy. Mrs. Donovan’s was so artificially bright it almost looked like a mask. Louisa’s, on the other hand, could only be described as diabolical.
Shit. She knew exactly who he was. So much for the disguise he’d actually been quite proud of. Exactly why Louisa had called him Mr. Howard a moment ago when she knew the truth, he didn’t know, but surely she would expose him soon. And then the only chance he had to honestly and legally finance the repayment of his mother’s debt would be cannonballed into oblivion.
George cleared his throat, despair almost crushing him. “Good afternoon.”
“Did you have a pleasant journey?” said Louisa unexpectedly, and far, far too politely.
“Pleasant enough,” he replied, shooting her a wary look.
“Much nicer journey to Gloucestershire than our old home. We’ve only recently moved from Staffordshire, you see,” said Mrs. Donovan in an ingratiating tone. “I told Mr. Donovan that we needed to have a country estate much closer to London if we wanted to see our dear Louisa meet appropriate suitors and be properly wed, and this was his compromise.”
“Ah, I see. Good decision,” said George, darting another look at Louisa. She still wore a faux-polite smile, and his tension level ratcheted up a notch.
The only silver lining in this whole debacle was that she remained the only person in the room to know the truth. His twin had met Louisa’s mother on several occasions when the two girls were classmates at Miss Ashley’s Academy, but he’d been away at Eton, then Cambridge, a
nd in London after that, so he’d never had the opportunity. Despite their enormous wealth, Mr. and Mrs. Donovan were considered vulgar new money stained by trade by the ton, and with no title, purchased knighthood, or high-ranking connections to give them the veneer of so-called respectability, they weren’t welcome in polite company. As an heiress Louisa was given more latitude, and her friendship with Caroline had opened further doors.
Abruptly Louisa gestured to an overstuffed, expensive-looking chaise. “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Howard? Some tea and fruitcake to refresh you after your journey?”
Good God. This ladylike display of hospitality was scraping his nerves. Why the hell didn’t she just expose him and get it over with? He felt like a damned fly in a web being circled by a spider.
“Sounds delightful,” he lied. “Much obliged, Miss Donovan.”
Rather than inviting poor Maxwell to stay for tea, Mrs. Donovan dismissed the man. So for an excruciating half hour George and the two ladies sat and drank tea alone, while discussing all the standard, non-offensive and dullest topics possible. To make things worse, his stomach padding was chafing. And he had to peer over the top of the spectacles to see properly, which made him feel like some ancient, crotchety professor, and surely at any moment the perspiration dampening his entire skull would loosen and dislodge the bloody awful brown wig on his head. Not to mention the threat of Louisa revealing his true identity hanging over him like a damned guillotine.
Just as he was ready to run screaming for the parlor window and hurl himself out of it, Mrs. Donovan set down her teacup and saucer, and beamed at both him and Louisa. Although it was a rather odd smile, the woman looked as grateful as a person hauled from the ocean after a shipwreck.
“I can see you are going to be just the ticket, Mr. Howard,” she announced. “Hmmm. What else do I need to tell you? We dine at eight o’clock in the evening. Belinda, my daughter’s companion, will show you to your chamber when you are ready—it has a lovely outlook of the gardens. Our stable is at your disposal should you wish to ride. You will find me a most generous employer; I only expect you to see to Louisa’s lessons between the hours of eleven in the morning and three in the afternoon. The rest of the time, and all day Sunday, are yours to do with as you wish. All your expenses will be met while you reside here, as per the terms of your contract. I’m sure I need not reiterate the strict confidentiality of this matter.”
Rake to Riches (The London Lords Book 2) Page 7