Rake to Riches (The London Lords Book 2)

by Nicola Davidson

  “Based on your previous escapades, I have no comment. But it is revolting. Especially when so many of those mamas would have stepped over your body in the street and complained about the odor before. Do you know I’ve even seen some revised versions of ‘Glorious George’ in the scandal rags? How fortunate for those obsessed with all things G that your true surname obliges further.”

  George rolled his eyes. “It might hurry along the government. If the rags say I’m Trentham, that is that. Fuck, it’s freezing. What do I have to do to get some of that brandy?”

  “Cartwheels along that brick wall. Finished with a backward somersault dismount.”

  “Bastard. Just give me the damned flask. I think I outrank you as a duke’s heir.”

  “Speaking of which,” said Stephen, handing him an engraved silver flask of premium brandy, “what are my in-laws up to right now?”

  George took a long swallow, sighing at the invigorating warmth. “Don’t ask.”

  “Why?”

  “Because they are currently barricaded in the ducal bedchamber.”

  “What? Not well?”

  “No,” said George with a shudder, “reuniting. They’ll be in the dining room or the parlor or even the damned library, chatting away, and suddenly they’ll get this look on their faces. Next thing, Father scoops Mama up and marches away upstairs, and she giggles and blushes like a school miss every bloody time.”

  Stephen burst out laughing. “Plenty of life in the old dog yet, eh?”

  “Please don’t.”

  “What is the phrase—like son, like father?”

  “Shut the fuck up.”

  “Hmmm,” said Stephen, his eyes gleaming. “Aren’t we irritable. Sounds like someone needs the company of a very expensive courtesan or delicious widow, post haste.”

  George began studying the engraving on the brandy flask with great concentration. “No plans in that direction.”

  “Excuse me? You are George Henry…oh. Oh.”

  “Oh? What the fuck is oh supposed to mean?”

  “You don’t want any woman. You want the woman. Ha! I knew this day would one day come. The mighty George hath fallen! So, when can we expect the announcement that a certain thoroughly unconventional redhead is soon to become Countess of Trentham?”

  George’s gaze flew up to meet Stephen’s. “Er…what?”

  “Come on. You think the sparks between you aren’t blindingly obvious? It was only a matter of time…hmmm. Look at those pink cheeks. I didn’t realize matters had progressed that far…Jesus. Crimson! Forget I asked. What I don’t know cannot be extracted from me by my wife’s cunning and annoyingly successful methods of interrogation. But I’d suggest it is better to have a wedding before there is, ah, a hasty need to.”

  “I am not madly in love with Louisa Donovan. So you may take that supercilious look off your face before I remove it for you.”

  Stephen spread his hands in a gesture of innocence. “Did I even mention a name? Or the other ‘L’ word? I said sparks with a redhead.”

  Knowing he’d been completely outmaneuvered, George scowled. “You are enjoying this far too much. It is revenge for me catching you with Caro and making you marry her, isn’t it?”

  “Nonsense. I take no pleasure in the fact that your balls are now in the keeping of a bluestocking who plays with gunpowder,” said his brother-in-law with a huge grin. “None whatsoever. But, I repeat: when will the two of you announce your betrothal?”

  George tensed. It was quite ridiculous how much he actually wanted to walk around with Louisa on his arm and introduce her as his fiancée. Knowing they could discuss literally any bloody topic. Knowing together they were explosive as her damned gunpowder in bed. Knowing she had a heart of gold, and courage and daring alongside her sharp intellect and wickedly outrageous tongue. Louisa would be the kind of wife that made every day interesting, and yes, he could imagine himself still scooping her up and leaving a room with the flimsiest of excuses at age fifty. He couldn’t even contemplate waking up beside anyone else now. And yet…

  “She is avoiding me,” he blurted out.

  Stephen’s brow furrowed. “Why? What happened?”

  Fuck. He couldn’t even say, not without explaining the whole Kildaire debacle in Gloucestershire. Standish had been as good as his word in not revealing anything to George’s family. His father had also agreed, if reluctantly, not to speak of what he knew. Dr. Murray, Victoria, and Louisa were the only other people who knew the true identity of the stabbing victim Mr. Howard. But it was so very odd, that after seeing him through the worst of times, Louisa would suddenly make herself scarce.

  “I, ah, don’t know,” he said eventually. “I sent her notes, but she had a gown fitting. Then a flurry of at-homes. Now she has apparently been laid low by a head cold.”

  “Well then. We need to have a ball. Just a small one. Mama would be in transports if she could be first to host you and your parents as the Grenville family. Planning would distract Caro from her attempts to hurry the baby out, and as Louisa is her dearest friend, it would be entirely appropriate to invite the Donovans. Everyone wins. We’ll give Louisa a week to get over her, ah, head cold. Come to think of it, you might look a little more sprightly, too. Bit pale on it, George.”

  Indeed, bed sounded like an excellent idea. And he could feel his shoulder wound starting to seep a little. Hell. A bloodstain through his greatcoat would be impossible to explain away. “I do have a fair amount of sleep to catch up on,” he said, and that was true at least. “Just need a few barrels of brandy and quality time with a mattress. But a ball sounds like a good idea. And the dowager will do a splendid job, as always.”

  Stephen grinned. “Perhaps in a week your parents might have exhausted themselves, also?”

  George shuddered. “One can only hope.”

  ~ * ~

  “Is there a particular reason why you are avoiding Mr. Howard—er, Lord Trentham?”

  Belinda’s casual question was so unexpected and startling, Louisa nearly fell face-first into the comprehensive window display of Hatchard’s bookshop. “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me, miss.”

  “I, um…you knew? The whole damned time?”

  Her companion gave a snort of derision. “Please. Despite your best efforts to make my head explode, I am not a nincompoop. His disguise was rather good, I grant you, but the scandal sheets are my guilty pleasure, and I’m well aware the former George Edwards possesses such unique jade-green eyes. And that height. Good grief. He towers over everyone in England.”

  Louisa’s shoulders slumped. “Not quite. I think his father might be half an inch taller. The two of them together could prop up buildings. Why didn’t you say anything?”

  “Several reasons,” said Belinda, adding a slender volume of poetry to her basket. “The main being he was actually an excellent tutor who knew exactly how to manage you.”

  “Manage me? He bloody well—”

  “Did.”

  Louisa scowled. “Did not. I allowed him to guide some minor adjustments that I agreed with.”

  “I suspect you allowed him a lot more than that, young lady.”

  Hell and damnation. Hatchard’s would have no need for their fireplaces soon. The heat from her cheeks could heat all five floors. “This discussion is quite, ah, inappropriate.”

  “Indeed,” said Belinda, her lips twitching. “Your acknowledged area of expertise.”

  “Sssh! I just want to buy some books in peace.”

  “Answer the question, and I won’t say another word. Are you or are you not avoiding Lord Trentham?”

  Louisa stared unseeingly at a science periodical. How could she even explain the feelings that were keeping her awake and miserable night after night? “He’s an earl,” she mumbled eventually. “Heir to a bloody dukedom, and rich as Croesus now!”

  “Forgive my inability to grasp the obvious, but how is that so terrible?”

  “He doesn’t need me.”

  �
�I would have thought that a good thing—a man who isn’t desperate for your dowry above all else.”

  “But if he doesn’t need that, what else do I have to offer? When George could have his pick of titled ladies or foreign duchesses or even a bloody princess with perfect manners and perfect hair and perfect damned feet that twirl without tripping? None of them would slap him at a ball. Or burn off a section of hair because of an experiment. Or leave a trail of broken beakers in their wake. Or wear jonquil when it makes them look like a lemon who has lost the will to live.”

  A bark of male laughter sounded behind her, and Louisa spun around on her heel to see the Duke of Mannering leaning against the bookshop’s curved central staircase. Oh God. Of all people to hear her rather pathetic self-pity tirade, it had to be George’s father?

  “Forgive me,” said Mannering in his exotically lovely, drawling American accent, his faded green eyes twinkling. “I’m trying to picture exactly how a lemon who has lost the will to live might look.”

  “Good afternoon, your grace,” mumbled Louisa, her cheeks now probably able to heat all of Piccadilly.

  “Good afternoon, Miss Donovan. And you, madam,” he said inclining his head at Belinda.

  Her companion tittered. “Your grace. I’m sure you two have a mutually important person to discuss, so I’ll be right over here looking at the books on, er, crop management.”

  Louisa almost smiled. Served the woman right for abandoning her charge to a gentleman she could scarcely bear to look at, such was his resemblance to George. “Well…”

  “Can I tell you a story, my dear?” said Mannering, surprisingly quietly for such a huge man.

  She blinked. “Um…if you want, your grace.”

  “Call me Howard.”

  “All right,” she replied, hoping her jaw hadn’t bruised too badly as it crashed onto the wooden floor. “Howard. Then you should call me Louisa.”

  “Lovely. It won’t take long, I promise. Once upon a time there was a young lad. He was a third son, but from a very prominent family. He was sent to the best schools, Eton and Cambridge. Taught to dance and fence by the greatest masters from the continent. Introduced to all the highborn ladies of the north, even measured for the regimentals he would wear in his glittering future career in the British army. But…”

  Louisa shifted uncomfortably, her forehead puckering into a perplexed frown. “But?”

  “In the summer of 1788, when he was twenty-four years old, two things happened that changed his life forever. One was the opportunity to purchase a share in what sounded like a great adventure—a merchant ship travelling between Liverpool and places like the Indies and America. The other was his attending a Mayday fair and bumping into, quite literally, a tailor’s daughter by the name of Emily Brown and falling head over arse in love as he fell head over arse down a bank because he’d indulged in a little too much ale.”

  “Oh dear,” said Louisa, unable to stifle a laugh, even as the news of the Duchess of Mannering’s humble origins shocked her to the core. “Did your parents accept…?”

  “No,” he said, his tone suddenly brusque. “I was given an ultimatum. Emily or my birthright. I chose Emily.”

  Tears burned her eyes. “Why?”

  “As I said, I was head over arse in love. The heart doesn’t care about lineage and titles and suitable matches. I knew she was the woman for me, and that was that. Well, once I convinced her to take a chance on a giant with a useless courtesy title, an inability to dress even vaguely well, and no more than a fledgling talent for building and repairing, of course. Em had a bee in her bonnet about a tailor’s daughter not being good enough for a duke’s son or some such nonsense,” Mannering finished with a pointed glare.

  “I’m worse. I like explosives,” she shot back.

  “Good,” he snapped. “My wife and I will expect you at the dowager Lady Westleigh’s ball in three days’ time. In whatever color gown you feel compelled to wear. Singed hair optional.”

  “I would be delighted!” Louisa snarled. “Howard.”

  “Capital,” he said with a nod, then ambled away, whistling.

  Stunned, she watched the duke leave through the double doors toward the Royal Academy across the road. What the hell had just happened? She hadn’t just been lulled by a story then hoodwinked into attending a ball, had she?

  “How did he do that?” Louisa muttered, quite disgusted with herself.

  “Men of the high seas,” said Belinda with a heartfelt sigh, as she came to stand beside Louisa. “There is no defending against them. Look at Nelson. Blind in one eye, missing an arm, and Lady Hamilton still couldn’t say no. Don’t feel bad, you didn’t stand a chance. Now. We cannot tarry, not with a ball in three days’ time. To the modiste!”

  “You know,” said Louisa slowly, “I was just pondering what an incredible coincidence it was that his grace should happen to wander in here right when we were perusing books.”

  Her companion’s gaze shifted. “Er, yes. Quite remarkable.”

  “Almost unbelievable.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “Belinda, that was a damned cunning and underhanded trick, luring me to Hatchard’s, the one outing I will never decline, so I could be swindled into attending an aristocratic ball.”

  “No idea what you are referring to.”

  “Belinda,” she said softly, as they left the comfort of warmth and dark wood paneling and walked out into the stark iciness of a winter afternoon, arm in arm.

  “Yes?”

  “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome, dear.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “George, darling, you look splendid. As usual. By the by, I know we said small, but I suspect tonight will be a complete crush. Everyone wants to say they met the Grenvilles.”

  He smiled at Jane Forsyth, the dowager Countess of Westleigh. After his own mother, one of his favorite people in the world. Actually he felt rather uncomfortable in his black jacket, white shirt and cravat, silver waistcoat, and gray trousers. Everything was brand new, not a single repair, and made by some efficient tailor on Bond Street, rather than lovingly created by his mother. There was a difference. Not to mention Jane was partly incorrect—not all the Grenvilles would be here to spend an evening with. His grandmother Charity, the dowager duchess, had been excluded from the invitation list, as had his father’s cousin Percival. The two of them could burn in hell forever as far as he was concerned, after everything they had done to so coldly and deliberately ruin lives.

  Protecting his injured side as much as he could, George leaned down and kissed Jane’s cheek. “How is my best dowager?”

  “Very well. Staying healthy by accompanying my daughter-in-law up and down hallways as she attempts to coax the babe out through vigorous exercise. Poor darling. I was the same when carrying both my boys. The last month was just diabolical.”

  He grinned. “And they say ladies are the weaker sex.”

  “Pfft. They, whoever they are, are complete bacon brains…oh, I hope Emily likes what I’ve done with the ballroom. I fretted about the colors, but when it comes to you Grenvilles, it is hard to go past green for the eyes and gold for the hair.”

  George nodded as he cast an admiring glance around the main Forsyth House ballroom. Even though she’d only had a few days, it looked magnificent. Pale gold and cream silk on the walls, dark green urns with huge profusions of hothouse blooms, a stunning replica of the Grenville coat of arms carved entirely of ice, a champagne fountain, and long tables with green tablecloths where supper would go. Even the string quartet setting up in the corner wore green and gold livery. “She’ll love it. I know I do.”

  “Oh, George. Or should I say, Lord Trentham. I’m so v-very happy for you, and dear Emily,” said Jane with a sniffle. “After so many years with Sir Malevolent…the cream on the cake would be his death notice. I look for it every day. You’ve heard nothing?”

  “Unfortunately not. But you’ll be the first to know if we do,” he promised. “So
dry your eyes. The guests will be arriving any minute now. I don’t think anyone will be fashionably late this evening.”

  Jane brightened. “Quite right. There hasn’t been this level of fervor in London since Stephen and Caroline created a storm with their wedding…stop fidgeting, poppet. I’m sure the Donovans will be here soon.”

  He blinked. “Am I the only one who thought it wasn’t obvious?”

  “Pfft. Silly man. Now come along, and I’ll arrange the receiving line,” said the dowager, as she turned and walked toward the front entrance.

  Following obediently, George flexed his jaw and fingers, as Stephen had told him to do in preparation for all the polite smiles and handshakes he would have to provide while “meeting” a few hundred men and women he’d known for years. He glanced down the line that included his father, mother, Jane, and Stephen. Caro was still upstairs resting, but might put in a brief appearance later in the evening when they had supper if she felt well enough.

  “Are you holding up all right, son?”

  George nodded. Would he ever get tired of hearing his father say that word? At this point it seemed highly unlikely. “Fine right now,” he whispered, so the others didn’t hear. “It’s a good thing that my left shoulder and side was injured. Otherwise this would be impossible.”

  “Indeed. Well, just give me the look when you’ve had enough, and I’ll use my best ducal bark to clear the deck. You’ll want to be at your best when Miss Donovan arrives.”

  “Mmmm,” he replied in an attempt at casualness, as if his gaze wasn’t fixed on the wide stairs that led up to the ballroom entrance.

  His father’s lips twitched. “The last time I witnessed such poorly disguised eagerness, I was staring in a looking glass and adjusting my cravat for the thousandth time while waiting for one fashionably late Emily Brown to arrive at the smallest church in Liverpool.”