by Gaelen Foley
“You know that isn’t what I meant.”
He knew he should just shut up, find a smile, deny all—he was an expert at that—but after brief consideration, silence proved beyond his power. He set the cup aside. “It really is not wise for you to wander off alone without your chaperon,” he informed her in a seething tone, though highly controlled. “You must be more observant, Georgiana. As I’m sure you are aware, you cannot enjoy the company of strange men without damage to your reputation. And your family’s. And mine.”
“I came out here to get some air, for your information! I was standing here minding my own business when they joined me.”
“And what do you think they wanted?” he bit out in a lower, harder tone.
Her eyes flared, but she looked away from his intense stare and focused on the garden, refusing to meet his gaze. “They said they wanted to dance with me.”
“Right.” He scoffed, but then a new thought struck him, and ice promptly formed in his core. “Did they offend you?” he asked, poised to rip someone’s head off if that was the case.
“No,” she replied with a snort.
“Frighten you?”
“Of course not,” she retorted, but the glance she sent him suggested that he might be doing so now.
Ian dropped his gaze, taken aback. A moment’s clarity beamed into the dark chaos of his churning emotions like a ray of sun breaking out from amongst the thunderheads. Good God, what was happening to him? He clamped his jaw shut.
Georgiana glanced at him again, her bright-blue gaze wary and much too shrewd as she scanned his face.
Ian slowly picked up his glass, poured its contents, bug and all, over the railing, letting it water a flower bed, and then, with a highly civilized motion, set the empty goblet atop of the wide balustrade. “We should return to the ballroom.”
“Yes,” she murmured, eyeing him with a guarded look. “Let’s.” Lifting the hem of her skirts, she whooshed around in a rustle of rose-colored satin and strode back across the terrace ahead of him, returning to the ball.
His brow furrowed, Ian followed a step behind her, but he was mystified as to how this night had suddenly gone so wrong.
The picture matched.
In the darkness, Firoz squinted at the locket in his hand, then peered in the window at the child. Cloaked in the shadows of the trees in the park opposite, he could see right into the diplomat’s house.
The small boy, tousle-headed, barefoot, draped in a long white nightshirt, was being shepherded up to the nursery by the household servants. Firoz noted the portly old butler, two maids, and a sturdy footman. They did not worry him.
He had been doing this sort of thing for too long—though, in truth, the political abductions he had carried out for the royal family of Baji Rao did not normally involve a child. He did not like to sully his hands in dealings with youngsters, but for her, for his dark queen, he was willing to make an exception.
Closing the locket with the miniature portrait of Matthew Prescott, Firoz slipped it back into the pocket of the plain English-style clothes he had adopted to draw less attention to himself.
The ship on which he had crossed the seas had arrived from India only today. On the journey, he had attached himself to a wealthy traveler, following the usual Thuggee procedures—a florid English nabob who liked to hear himself talk.
Firoz was itching to kill him just to be relieved of having to hear him drone on about fox hunting, but somehow, he refrained. Sir Bertram was useful. No subject was dearer to the bloated Englishman’s heart than the country house he meant to build in one of the Home Counties with his Indian fortune.
On the ship, Firoz had begged humbly for the privilege of serving such a wise and noble sahib, winning Sir Bertram’s trust through the usual flattery. When he cooked for him his finest curry, playing the slavish role, eager to please, Sir Bertram had fallen right into his hands, declaring that it was the best curry he had ever tasted and Firoz must become his man.
Of course, Sir Bertram’s other Indian servants suspected him immediately. They were afraid of Firoz, but the nabob would not listen to them.
One of the Bengalis had even tried to whisper to the old drunkard that Firoz had a dangerous look, but Sir Bertram had scoffed at him, eager to show off his human menagerie of exotics to all the English gentlemen back at his club in St. James’s.
Upon their arrival at the London docks, Firoz had stayed close to Sir Bertram’s party, marveling at the cosmopolitan mix of men and women from every corner of the world. He must have heard a dozen languages merely in crossing from the ship’s gangplank to the wagon that had come to pick them up, following along behind the baronet’s fine coach.
For the edification of his favorite nautch girl, whom he had brought with him, Sir Bertram pointed out all the different sorts of people on the quay, with their odd costumes and strange practices. Silvery-blond Swedes, rugged Poles, and bearded Russians, intense-looking Germans, bickering Scots, and whistling Irish. Italians, Spaniards, and Portuguese arguing loudly. There were even dark-skinned Africans, a race of men Firoz had never seen before.
What a strange, chaotic world these English came from! he had thought. He was eager to return to the quiet of the desert mountains north of Janpur.
Once he had managed to orient himself a bit in his new surroundings, he had waited until nightfall and then had sneaked away from Sir Bertram’s townhouse, stealing out of the stables above which he had been housed. In the stables, he had discovered the coachman’s map of London. Firoz had studied it closely, tracing his finger along the route to Lord Griffith’s street address. He had already been given the location of the residence before leaving Janpur. Queen Sujana’s maidservant had procured it for him when she had delivered the poisoned fruit to the diplomat’s room and paused to snoop among his things. Firoz knew exactly where he was going and had little trouble finding the place.
Now he took a good, long look at the park, which would offer ample cover for his escape when he made off with the child. Getting his bearings, it was only a matter of waiting for the proper time.
He made a mental note to arrange in advance for transport back to India. Queen Sujana had given him plenty of gold to pay for the voyage. Deciding to make his way back to Sir Bertram’s before he was missed, he glided out of the shadows of a large elm tree, when suddenly a carriage came barreling down the darkened street and clattered to a halt in front of Lord Griffith’s house.
Firoz leaned back into the shadows, staring as the marquess himself jumped down from the coach and slammed the door with an irritated air. Not pausing, Lord Griffith jogged briskly up the few front stairs and let himself in, waving off his butler.
A sinister smile curved Firoz’s lips, but by now he had seen enough. He withdrew from his hiding place and headed back to Sir Bertram’s stable.
Along the way, he mused on the probability of a violent clash with the marquess.
His original assignment from Queen Sujana had been to tail the British negotiator all along the road to Janpur, and then to spy on him once he had arrived at the palace. Thus, Firoz had had a fair chance to study Lord Griffith in depth.
Not once had he seen the man allow himself to be drawn into a fight, and though some of the royal guards at Janpur had privately, among themselves, taken this to mean that the silver-tongued diplomat was despicably unskilled in defending himself—indeed, they had laughed about it—Firoz was shrewder than that.
Experienced as he was in the ways of death, he knew a fellow killer when he saw one. For the sake of efficiency and ease of escape, he decided not to chance a clash with Lord Griffith if it could be avoided. He had no doubt that he could kill the man, but he might well come away injured, and that would slow him down.
Eager to be rid of this infidel country, Firoz only wanted to complete his mission and go home, back to Queen Sujana.
He worried for her in that tower.
Yes, he mused as he jogged lightly, tirelessly, through the darkness of this s
trange city. He must snatch the cub while avoiding the tiger. He would watch for his chance, and take the boy when the father wasn’t there.
Radiant sunlight beamed through the high arched windows of the morning room the next day as Georgie sat at the breakfast table, poking morosely at the heavy fare of buttered eggs and cheese on the plate before her. Setting her fork down with a low sigh, she picked up her butter knife and jellied a piece of toast instead. But then, unsure if she could eat even that, given the tumult of her emotions, she tossed it to the edge of her plate and took a sip of tea. At once, she winced at its bitterness.
Propping her elbow on the table, she rested her cheek in her hand—bad manners, true, but she was alone except for the portrait of Aunt Georgiana, watching her from above the mantel with a frozen smile. Her cousins were right—they did look alike—Aunt Georgiana and she. Only Georgie had blue eyes, while those of the scandalous duchess were brown. Somehow the similarities between them brought her no pleasure today. Those boys last night believed or at least hoped that she was like Aunt Georgiana in the naughtiest sense, and as a result, Ian had been annoyed.
But I didn’t even do anything!
Feeling wronged, she reached wearily for the dainty silver tongs and plopped another lump of sugar into her tea. Then she stirred idly with her spoon until the contents of her cup swirled like the thoughts in her mind.
What a dismal turn the ball last night had taken.
After Lady Faulconer’s interference, everything had gone downhill. Ian and she had not quarreled outright, but somehow the night that had started with such happy enchantment had turned tense and cool, and ended disagreeably.
“More flowers, Miss!”
She perked up as a uniformed maid came sailing in, her rosy-cheeked face beaming under her white lace cap as she brought over another large bouquet for Georgie to inspect. “Who’s it from, Martha?” she asked eagerly.
“I haven’t looked, Miss. Would you like to see the card?”
“Oh, yes, please!” She waved her over in a rush, her heart racing with sudden hope. Could they be from Ian?
Martha set the brightly colored bouquet on the table, fished the little linen card out from among the ravishing and fragrant blooms and sprigs of baby’s breath, and handed it to Georgie.
Holding her breath, she accepted it and read.
A second later, however, her shoulders dropped and she handed the card back to Martha with a look of impatience. “Who do you suppose ‘D’ is?”
The maid grinned. “Somebody you danced with at the ball, I should think?”
She just sighed and shook her head. “I suppose.”
Martha eyed her in wonder, marveling at her lack of enthusiasm after her social triumph. “Shall I put it with the others, then?” she asked uncertainly.
Georgie nodded with a vague wave of her hand. “Thank you.”
When the maid had gone, Georgie sat for another moment staring at nothing, brooding on the question of whether or not Ian was angry at her.
Well, how the devil should it be that he was the one angry at her, when she was the one who had far greater reason to be cross?
He was the one who might be in love with a ghost!
It was so hard to tell sometimes how he really felt, though, admittedly, she was learning to read him better every day. That was how she was certain that when he had first stepped out onto the terrace last night and had seen those witless rakes crowding around her, he had been perfectly enraged.
Not that he would admit to it.
Oh, no. Not him.
Not the paragon.
But just because he didn’t discuss it didn’t mean the anger wasn’t there. No, she quite feared there was something worse going on under the surface with him, and she wished she knew what it was.
Sometimes she almost felt as if he were hiding something. But then she realized she could hardly complain about Ian not telling her what he was feeling if she was not willing to come out and do the same.
Ugh, this whole line of thought was beginning to give her a headache.
She turned her spoon slowly, tapping it on the table in her musings. Telling him about her little visit from Lady Faulconer, asking him flat-out if there was any truth to her claims—it all sounded like a dreadfully risky and embarrassing ordeal. If she dared broach the subject and Ian confirmed Lady Faulconer’s story, admitted that his dead Catherine would always be first in his heart, Georgie knew her own would break. On the other hand, this uncertainty was worse. Surely she had to take the risk and find out how he felt about her versus Catherine. She had to ask and get it over with. She had to talk to him.
Suddenly too restless to sit in her chair anymore, she downed the last swallow of her tea and headed to her chamber. There had to be something she could do to keep from going mad until she heard from him—if she heard from him. Perhaps she’d buff her nails, she thought dully. Her mind was too cluttered, her heart too riled up to work at anything much more productive than that.
As she climbed the staircase, however, she heard the angry sobs and incoherent protests of a child in the throes of a temper tantrum. Instinctively concerned, she furrowed her brow and ran the rest of the way up the steps, following the sound down the wide marble hallway. The child’s cries led her to the music room.
Glancing in the open doorway, she found a beleaguered nursery maid, Sally, trying to soothe a red-faced, outraged Matthew.
“Come, Master Aylesworth, is this any way for a young gentleman to behave?”
“I don’t gotta listen to you! You’re not my mother!”
“But you can’t sit on the doggy’s back! He’s an old dog, you’ll hurt him!” The long-suffering girl had Matthew by the hand and was trying gently to coax him out of the room, presumably to take him up to the nursery to see his best pal, Morley.
Today, however, it was clear that Ian’s heir wanted no part of the usual routine. He was thoroughly fixated on the duke’s favorite dog, Hyperion, a huge, floppy Newfoundland of advanced years. The duke’s loyal pet was lying near the corner of the sofa, watching Matthew’s show of rage in amiable canine indifference, merely panting.
“Hyperion’s too old for you boys to sit on his back anymore,” the maid was explaining for the tenth time when Georgie walked in to see if she could help. “What if he gets vexed and bites you?”
“I want to ride him! He’d never bite! Leave me alone!” Pulling against her hand, the little lordling let out a screech of fury so loud it was a wonder he didn’t shatter all the windows.
“Oh, dear, oh, dear!” Georgie exclaimed fondly, hurrying over to them. “Matthew, darling, what is this little storm in a teacup?”
When the boy looked up and saw her, his whole mien changed in a heartbeat from rage to abject sorrow. Lord Aylesworth burst into tears.
“Oh, there, there, poppet.” Georgie went down on one knee and encircled him in her arms. She did not know what was bothering him, but she doubted that, in reality, it had anything to do with the dog. “What’s the matter, sweeting?”
“She yelled at me!” he wrenched out.
“Oh, no, she’s only trying to make sure that you don’t accidentally hurt Hyperion, Matthew. He’s a grandfather doggy now. You have to treat him gently or you’ll break his old bones, and then Uncle Robert would be very sad. Why don’t we go up to the nursery and play with Morley now?”
“Nooooo!” He pushed against her, but she wouldn’t let him go.
“Hush. Did you eat your breakfast? There’s cinnamon crumpets in the morning room,” she whispered, ignoring his halfhearted kick.
“I don’t want it!”
“Matthew.”
“Leave me alone!” His inscrutable needs were clearly not being met, and he was getting furious again.
“I know, let’s go play with Noah’s Ark! You can show me all the animals, and I’ll tell you a story about an elephant.”
“No!” He pulled away from her with an angry little growl. “I don’t care about an elephant!�
�
“All right,” she said. “Why don’t we go out to the stable and visit the ponies?”
“I don’t want to!” he bellowed. “Why won’t you listen to me?”
With a patience that amazed even her, Georgie gazed at him softly. “What do you want then, my dearest boy?”
And then the truth came out.
“I—want—my—papa!” Matthew wailed. “He never comes home! He never wants to play with me!”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Georgie pulled him into her arms and gave him a long hug. The poor little prince’s loneliness was enough to break her heart. He was crying again quite angrily, and from her own childhood days, she knew exactly how he felt.
She simply held Matthew and let him cry it all out.
After a time, his sobs dwindled and he laid his overheated head on her shoulder. He seemed calm enough to try reasoning with him at last. “Matthew, I know it seems like your father is always busy, but I promise you, he loves you to bits. It’s just, well, he’s a very important man, and in the grown-up world, people need his help solving their problems. Your papa helps people get along better, so they won’t fight. It isn’t an easy job. You should be very proud of him.”
“He never stays home. Pretty soon I know he’ll leave again.”
“Oh, poppet.” With the boy’s tears wetting her shoulder, Georgie glanced up to meet the anxious gaze of the nursery maid. “Could you please find out for me if Lord Griffith is at home this morning?”
“Oh, His Lordship went to Parliament, Miss,” the girl replied, then blushed to confess the staff’s gossip. “Scott, the footman, told me so.”
“I see.” Georgie nodded her thanks, then pried Matthew back a bit and smiled tenderly at him. “I have just had the most splendid idea, Matthew. Would you like to hear it?”
He nodded, drying his eyes. But first, Georgie took out her handkerchief and put it to his nose. “Blow.”
He obeyed, and she tidied him up.
“My idea is this—why don’t we go to Parliament and see your papa at work?”
The maid gasped. “Go to Parliament, Miss?”