God help him, he wanted their engagement to be real.
He finished his second glass of brandy and headed for the stairs. It was time to straighten a few things out with the infamous Mrs. Huffington. He stepped over the scattered fragments of the foyer table and took the steps two at a time. He knocked but opened the door before she’d had time to answer.
Clara dropped a nightgown trimmed in blue ribbon over Georgiana’s head, and both of them turned to stare at him in shock. Manners required an apology, but he did not feel like offering hypocrisies at the moment.
“Thank you, Clara. That will be all,” he said.
The maid turned to Georgiana and waited for a nod before complying. At least someone in this house recognized Georgiana was in charge.
“Sorry if I’ve caught you at a bad time,” he said.
She retrieved a sheer wrapper from her bed and pulled it on over her nightgown, which did nothing to cool his lust. “I was going to send for you.”
He raised an eyebrow at that. He did not think he would be so lucky.
“We must call off our engagement.”
“Disappointing,” he murmured. “Do you mind telling me why?”
“I never should have agreed to such a reckless plan. It is not too late to turn back. All we need do is tell the appropriate people that we’d been a bit precipitate. I doubt the rumor has had much time to spread.”
He laughed. “In London? Surely you are not that naive. I would imagine society matrons are already ordering gowns for the wedding and their husbands are making wagers as to whether I will make it to the altar alive.”
She winced and he regretted his teasing. “Too late for cold feet, Georgiana,” he said. “We are bound to go through with this now. We’ve set the stage, and I think we should start making more public appearances together. The more people who know, the more likely we will provoke a response from our villain.”
“But that is just it!” She came forward and placed her hand on his arm. “I cannot risk your life. I cannot.”
“I thought we were agreed that it was the fastest way to get to the bottom of our little mystery.”
“Oh! It is not a little mystery. Three men are dead! And you could be next. How could I live with that?”
“You care?” He strove to sound blasé, but his future hung on her answer.
“Of course I care. You have been very kind to me. Without your help, I would not have come so far.”
“And how far is that?”
“I...I...”
“Precisely. Not nearly far enough. We are on the verge of discovery, Georgiana. We have taken a path and committed to it. We would be foolish to abandon it now.”
She looked desperate, as if she were about to cry. “Charles, there was a man tonight. At Vauxhall, when you went to fetch the others for supper.”
A tingle of anticipation prickled the hair on the back of his neck. “A man? Why did you not tell me?”
She answered his last question first. “He warned me not to say anything. I thought he might have a weapon and would hurt you. He mentioned that he would rather ‘cut me’ than have me with you.”
Charles’s heart went ice cold. “Who was it, Georgie?”
“I do not know. I never saw his face. He came up behind me and warned me not to turn around. He told me to stay away from you and your brothers. He said you were not for me.”
“What the—?” Who would warn her against him? “Has he ever come to you before? Did anything like this, any warnings, happen before your marriages?”
“I’ve never heard that voice before. I swear it. But when he said your name, I feared for you. Oh, Charles, I do not want you to die.”
Then she did care. And for the moment, that was enough. What matter if he died tomorrow as long as he had tonight? He pulled her into his arms and looked into her eyes—those captivating eyes that had haunted his dreams for the last seven years.
Her lips parted on a sigh and her hand came up to stroke the back of his neck as she lifted on her toes to meet him halfway. There was something shy and innocent about that kiss that humbled him. He took her offered lips and nibbled at the corners until she moaned and tightened her arms around him.
“Charlie...kiss me, please,” she said on a sigh.
And he did just that, plundering the heated recess of her mouth with all the ardor he’d held back when he’d expected rejection. His desire was wreaking havoc with his body. He didn’t want to give it rein. He wanted to make love to her as she deserved. Slowly. Softly. Thoroughly. He’d not given her his best last time, and he would not have her again until he could.
And he could not when he half expected Hathaway to return to fulfill his threats. Or when he had to solve the puzzle of who the strange man in Vauxhall Gardens had been. The bastard would rather cut her? Not while he was alive. Damn it all, he would have to make new plans.
While he was still able, he broke the kiss, unwound her arms from around his neck and stepped back. “I will be in the library. Call if you need me. Good night, Georgiana.”
Chapter Eleven
Georgiana read the note from Charles for a third time, her mind bouncing between anger and gratitude. It seemed he had spent the night in her library making plans for her safety. When morning came, she found he’d hired a bodyguard, dressed him in footman’s livery and sent him to protect her against Hathaway’s possible return or any mischief he might have in mind. The man’s name was Finn, the note read, and Charles further instructed her to take him with her to any appointments or outings. And he was standing before her in the foyer this very instant.
She cocked an eyebrow at him. The man looked as if he’d been born to a race of giants. He was quite tall, with a large nose and hands the size of hams. “Finn, is it?”
“Yes, madam,” he said in a gravelly voice.
“And where did Mr. Hunter find you?”
“I, uh, have worked for friends of his from time to time, madam.”
She was certain she did not want to delve further into that explanation. “Did Mr. Hunter give you instructions?”
“Yes, madam.”
“And if I dismiss you?”
A look of near panic crossed Finn’s face. “Mr. Hunter hired me, madam. I would not go until he gave me leave.”
Then there was no use in trying to send him away. She had visions of this man sitting on her front steps all day, frightening neighbors and passersby alike. She would simply have to deal with Charles tonight. As surly as Hathaway had been, she could not imagine that he would return. Charles was just being overly cautious.
“Are you day help, Finn? Or staff?”
“Staff, Mrs. Huffington.”
“Very well, Finn. Go to the kitchen and introduce yourself to Cook and Sanders. Ask them to assign you a room. I will be in the attic.” At the man’s indecisive look, she hastened to explain. “I am going through my late aunt’s things. I doubt Hathaway will scale a wall in the middle of the day for all the neighbors to see.”
“Mr. Hunter told me to watch for danger from any direction, madam, not just from someone named Hathaway.”
Oh! She never should have told Charles about the man at Vauxhall Gardens. Really, he hadn’t exactly threatened her. Just mentioned that he had plans for her. Hmm. Well, perhaps that could be taken as a bit of a threat. She shrugged. “Very well,” she allowed. “We shall discuss this further with Mr. Hunter tonight. Meanwhile, please try to make yourself inconspicuous.” Though she doubted that was possible for man his size.
He nodded and stepped out of her way as she walked to the stairway. She had no doubt he would come looking for her sooner rather than later and then laughed to herself as she thought of him at La Meilleure Robe this afternoon. Madame Marie would make short work of him, she was sure.
The attic door was unlocked and the narrow windows at each end had been uncovered to allow light to pour through. Yes, Clara had said that Hathaway had been in the attic yesterday. She frowned as she noted that dust covers
had been tossed into a heap. Spare furniture had been left bare. Trunks and boxes were open. Someone had been rummaging through Aunt Caroline’s things. Hathaway.
A prickle of fear made her shiver as she looked around more carefully. What could he have been looking for? Hidden treasure or something of value? Something to carry off? Or...or something in particular? More personal?
Georgiana had played up here as a child when she and Aunt Caroline had made short trips to the city to tend business matters. She knew every nook and cranny. Every crate, box, trunk and broken chair. She knew right where Aunt Caroline’s childhood toys were stored. Where the gowns now out of fashion had been kept for their trims and fabric. She knew where her old lesson books were, and the sheet music from her pianoforte lessons.
And she knew something was very wrong.
She turned on her heel and hurried down to the library and the desk where Hathaway had seen her place the pouch with money for household expenses. How foolish of her not to secure it in the safe at once! That money had to last her until the confusion over inheritance had been settled. She opened the drawer and unfolded the pouch. After carefully counting the cash, she went weak with relief. There! It was all there. She sank into the chair and opened the bottom drawer where a heavy lockbox was secured. She removed the key from her chatelaine, opened the box and placed the pouch inside. When it was secure, she sat back and pressed her fingertips to her temples, trying to think.
If Hathaway had meant to rob her, he’d known right where to go. But he hadn’t. Thus, he’d been looking for something more precise than his valise when he’d gone to the attic. But what?
He’d been employed by Aunt Caroline’s father a year before his death, and had stayed on afterward. It was not unreasonable to think that he might have collected quite a few belongings in that space of time. All the servants had their own lockers in the cellar to store their valuables, and Hathaway had been no exception. In fact, he’d had two lockers.
No. Hathaway had not been looking for his own belongings. And that meant that he’d been looking for something quite specific.
She did not know how long she’d sat there, trying to think of anything Hathaway might have wanted, but she started when Clara touched her shoulder.
“Madam? That Finn fellow said you’d gone to the attic, but here you are in the library. I came looking for you to get you ready to go to the dressmaker. Finn says he’ll be escorting you today.”
“Oh, yes. I just forgot something here. Could you get the key to the attic and lock it for me? I won’t have time for it until tomorrow.”
“Aye, madam. How long is Mr. Finn going to be with us?”
“Not long, I think.” She noted the flash of disappointment that passed over Clara’s face. “I do not believe ‘footman’ is his usual occupation, Clara. He will likely leave when the danger has passed.”
“Danger? What danger, madam?”
Georgiana stood and went to the library door. “Mr. Hunter seems to think Hathaway could come back to cause trouble. Finn is here to prevent that from happening.”
“He’s a bodyguard, madam?” Clara asked in wonder.
“Something of the sort.” She gave her maid a wry smile. After the discovery of Hathaway’s thorough search in the attic, she was suddenly very glad Finn was here.
* * *
Charles paged through the betting book at his club and sighed. Yes, there it was. Hunter—Huffington Nuptials. Odds were not favoring his surviving marriage to Georgiana Huffington, née Carson. The long odds were giving him a week. On the short end, someone had bet he wouldn’t arrive at the altar. Only three had taken odds for survival—Lord Lockwood, Andrew Hunter and James Hunter. His brothers. He hoped he’d make them rich.
But, of course, the engagement and pending marriage were a farce. No one would win. Well, maybe Georgiana if they found the killer.
“I vow, I do not know which odds to take,” Wycliffe spoke over his shoulder.
“The only right wager would be no wager.”
Wycliffe grinned. “I’m not so certain of that, Hunter. I’ve seen the way you look at her. And the way she watches you.”
Sir Harry Richardson joined them with a hearty smile. “You look to be in a good mood, considering the odds against you.”
Charles gave them both a quelling glance and headed for the parlor. They gathered three chairs in a conversational circle with a low table bearing a coffee service in the middle. He poured himself a cup and prayed it would be strong. He’d gotten very little sleep last night between listening for Hathaway’s return and thinking of Georgiana. The only new plan he’d been able to conceive was so shocking that he could scarcely believe he’d thought of it. And yet there was a certain logic to it. Nothing else would answer all their needs.
Actual marriage.
He could move Georgiana’s household to his, thus thwarting any plans Hathaway might have and enabling him to better protect her. The killer would be forced to act quickly or forfeit his game. Georgiana would be compelled to stay in London. With him. He would have free and unhindered access to her. It was madness. And yet...he would acquire a special license to marry. Whether he’d use it or not remained to be seen.
“So pensive, Hunter?” Richardson asked as he and Wycliffe sat.
“I have a lot on my mind. None of which has to do with the matter at hand.”
“And what is that?”
“Richardson, how quickly can you be to Cornwall and back?”
“Where in Cornwall? St. Ives?”
“Mousehole.”
“Why in God’s name—”
“That is where Lady Caroline finally located Georgiana after her parents’ deaths. I want you to find out anything that might have a bearing on this matter.”
Wycliffe narrowed his eyes. “What is it that you suspect?”
“Nothing. Everything. I am becoming more convinced that the answer to this problem lies neither in who Georgiana is, nor whom she married, but in her identity before Lady Caroline took her in. Lord Carlington gave me a possible link to her father—a Captain George Carson of the Royal Navy. Carlington said he’d look into it, but see what you can find out about him or his wife. And why Georgiana was abandoned in Mousehole. Find out, too, who cared for her during that time.”
“Mousehole,” Richardson repeated. “The end of the earth.”
“Well, England, at any rate,” Wycliffe contributed. “Appears as if someone wanted her lost.”
This echo of Charles’s thoughts confirmed his suspicions. It was looking more and more as if Georgiana Carson was not at all what she seemed. “How soon can you report back?” he asked Richardson.
The man glanced at the tall case clock standing in one corner of the parlor and still reading an indecently early hour. “How soon do you need the information?”
“Yesterday.”
“I can ride for Brighton within the hour and from there hire a smack to Mousehole. With favorable winds and ready tongues once I get there, three days, perhaps four.”
Charles nodded and Richardson got to his feet. “I’m going to need a few days to sleep when I get back.”
Wycliffe nodded. “You’ll get them.” He waited until Richardson disappeared and then turned back to Charles, a serious expression on his face. “And the rest of it?”
Damn. The man always knew when he was holding back. “Only a vague notion that all is not as it should be. But why Lady Caroline should be party to a lie, I cannot imagine.”
Wycliffe gave him a sage smile. “Can you not?”
“Nothing I’d care to share at the moment.”
“Do you think our assailant in this instance has turned his attention to Georgiana?”
“I do. She has had several close calls recently. One just last night in Vauxhall Gardens. A man encountered her along one of the paths and warned her that he had plans for her. That he’d rather ‘cut’ her than see her with me. Cut her, Wycliffe. I think that is a clear threat.”
“Did he sa
y why? Did she even know him?”
Charles shook his head. “He was behind her and warned her not to turn around. She said she did not recognize his voice, but I wonder if she would tell me if she had.”
“I cannot believe anyone would wish her harm. She is such a pleasant woman. Who could she have given offense to?”
“I can think of at least half a dozen people who might want Georgiana dead, and most of them would profit by it.”
“Half a dozen?” Wycliffe scoffed. “Surely that is an exaggeration.”
“Not in the least. A conservative estimate, actually. Between the families of her deceased husbands, the newly found potential heirs to Caroline’s fortune and her own murky beginnings, there could be more.”
Wycliffe sat back in his chair and looked thoughtful. “Two cousins of Lady Caroline’s, a displaced cousin of her second husband, the parents of her first husband.” He stopped to look pointedly at Charles. “Not to mention various friends and Adam Booth’s parents. Yes. You might have something there.”
“I would wager my fortune that she had nothing to do with Booth’s death.”
“Never really thought she did.”
“Then why—”
“To get you to accept the assignment, Hunter. You can be deucedly stubborn when you have your ire up.”
“Possibly,” he mused. What did he actually know about Georgiana? That she’d been raised by Lady Caroline Betman and married twice. That she made love like an innocent and that she used lilac soap to wash her hair. That she had turned him around with barely a crook of her finger. What still lay hidden to be discovered?
“I heard you hired Finn. What prompted that?”
“Her butler has been behaving suspiciously. She dismissed him and he made threats. He and I...well, he knows he’d be a fool to try anything. But fools are born every day.”
Wycliffe leaned forward and lowered his voice, glancing right and left before speaking. “Hunter, hurry up. I’ve heard from the Under Secretary that pressure is increasing to solve these cases. And there appears to be some new development. Information that could implicate Mrs. Huffington in those murders and lead to her imminent arrest.”
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