Dangerous 01 - Dangerous Works

by Caroline Warfield

  It took all her courage to describe her body’s betrayal–the heavy bleeding and infernal weakness—to the older woman. Her failures as a woman shamed her; belief that her deepening weakness presaged her own death terrified her. Here in this parlor, for the first time, she felt less alone in her fear.

  “How can it be common? Womankind would all die out.”

  “No one would live to my ancient age?” The old woman twinkled up at her and reached out to hold her hand.

  “Yes, precisely. I won’t live long. I know it! I don’t shrink from it. I only want to finish my work.” The words rang sour in her ears.

  “Nonsense! You’ll live long enough to finish your work and beyond. You are a vital young woman, with much to give.”

  Georgiana doubted that. “How can one get past it?”

  “Some don’t.” The old woman shrunk a little under the weight of memory. “My own sister died when a bit older than you.”

  “There! You see?”

  “But she also wore herself out with childbearing.”

  “Different then. I have no children and no hope of any.” Her childlessness weighed on her, more so lately than ever before. After she died, she thought, there would be nothing unless she finished her work, and even then, who would care?

  “Not so different. We all have our monthly trials, but some women, for whatever reason, bleed almost to death, children or no. Hannah did that even when she wasn’t with child. Doctors in Yorkshire could do nothing.”

  “The old fool my father sent out from London wants to bleed me—again!”

  “Any woman would see that for the stupidity it is.”

  “Mrs. Potter, do you know anything about a Dr. Peabody? He is a surgeon—and a physician, too, I believe—who has premises here in Cambridge.”

  “Edwin Peabody? Excellent man. He is the rarest of all beasts, a medical man who understands women’s complaints. I planned to recommend him myself. How did you hear of him?”

  “My brother recommended him. Richard’s research is always thorough. The rest he recommended are all in Edinburgh of all places.”

  Mrs. Potter chuckled. “Indeed. I believe Edwin studied there. Has no truck with the philosophical approach. He tells me they take a more scientific way at the University there. Proud of it, and Cambridge be damned. I think you would like him.”

  Georgiana dried her face. “If you vouch for him, I will see him.”

  They sipped in companionable silence for some moments.

  “Tell me about this grandson of yours, Mrs. Potter. How is his Greek?”

  “I’m no one to judge, but adequate, I think. It isn’t his specialty. That would be Latin. Horace. Not only that …” Mrs. Potter lowered her voice to a whisper. “He’s a Fellow of the University—a celibate old bachelor. You did say the works are by women, didn’t you?”

  Mrs. Potter straightened awkwardly before going on. “Not the man you need. Banish the thought. Now, what shall we do about this little supper on Sunday?”

  Andrew’s progress along King’s Parade slowed with every step. He stayed on the main roads; he avoided Peas Hill this time.

  “Harley’s right, damn his hide. Something isn’t healing.” He leaned on his silver-tipped walking stick, head into the wind.

  The splendid medieval buildings of the colleges didn’t interest him. His mind, to his own great consternation, was filled only with Lady Georgiana Hayden.

  Andrew knew what lay behind her visit and the completely unnecessary sympathy note. Dunning’s stories made it clear that she needed help with her work. She wanted to be rescued again.

  “Damnable woman. Ever the wallflower and still not able to dance with the ones she chooses.”

  Heads turned at the low growl that came from his hunched frame. This time the suitors were the Fellows of Cambridge, and once again not one would have her. This time she would manage without his rescue. He had sacrificed his father’s esteem to rescue her once before. He wouldn’t do it again.

  By the time he reached Trumpington Road and turned into his own lane, every step increased his agony. Nausea gnawed at him, and he clamped his teeth hard against the pain.

  The wretched neighbors are about to be entertained by my undignified collapse, he thought. The mere idea propelled him forward with as much speed as he could muster.

  His door stood ajar and saved Andrew the effort of knocking or wrenching it open. He pushed with his good shoulder and stumbled into the front hall. “Harley, blast you! Come here at once!”

  Charles Harley stood a few feet beyond the door, taking a gentleman’s hat. Two faces looked at him with alarm.

  “Damnation,” Andrew spat. “Jamie Heyworth. Richard sent a nursemaid again! I don’t need any bloody Hayden interference, damn it anyway.”

  Jamie ignored the obvious lie. Andrew sank unceremoniously toward the floor and into Jamie’s arms.

  After two hours and much rough ministration at Harley’s hands, Andrew felt no better. He glared at his very irritated friend.

  “I’m not your bloody nursemaid,” Jamie insisted. “Can’t an old friend pop in without you acting like a bear with a thorn in its paw?”

  Jamie, who picked Andrew up off the floor and helped Harley haul him up the stairs to his bed, was certainly not as gentle or patient as a nursemaid.

  Sometime later, the vial of laudanum Jamie had generously offered lay splintered on the bedroom floor, its contents staining the offerer’s waistcoat.

  “Ruined my best waistcoat!” Jamie complained. “There’s gratitude for you.”

  “A nursemaid would at least be nice to look at.” Andrew managed a defiant growl.

  Heyworth’s face split with a cheeky grin. “Still the old Andrew inside, I see.

  “Tell Richard he owes you a new suit. Something better than that one, I trust. And Jamie, go away.”

  “Not yet, old boy.” Major Lord James Heyworth, late of His Majesty’s First Dragoon Guards, remained unflappable. He effortlessly raised Andrew while Harley slid warm stones under his hip.

  “Good gad, Andrew, you’re as white as these sheets.”

  Andrew didn’t answer.

  “So, no to the laudanum?” Jamie asked.

  Andrew replied with a very soft growl that Jamie ignored.

  “Can’t say your physician had aught else to offer. If you won’t take it, no point in calling him next time. Richard is probably right. You need a surgeon, not a physician. Physics won’t fix this.”

  A quiet mumble from the bed sounded like a strong wish regarding where the devil might put Richard Hayden.

  Heyworth chuckled. “Wished him there many times myself, old boy, but he’s right this time. You are worse than three months ago, almost as bad as on the ship after Waterloo.”

  “Is that why Richard sent you?”

  Heyworth hesitated but didn’t deny it. They both knew he couldn’t afford to turn down any little commission Glenaire might give him, even one involving an old friend, one he would have willingly done for free.

  “He sent you to care for me on that bloody ship, didn’t he?”

  Jamie’s temper rose. “I chose to do it, and you damn well know it. Richard didn’t pay me to care for you, you blasted fool. I’d have done this, too, even if he hadn’t asked. There’s the name of a good surgeon in Harley’s care and orders to see you use it.”

  “You don’t order my household, and I’ll thank you and Richard not to interfere with my servant. What else did our erstwhile friend send you to do? Come, come, Jamie. I can’t talk much longer. I’m getting ready to faint.”

  Heyworth leaned forward, alarm on his expressive face, but the patient snarled at him. “Just finish it.”

  “How do—” Heyworth sighed. “Never mind. I gave up trying to follow your mind or Richard’s years ago. It’s trivial anyway. I am to ask you if you’ve seen his sister. Said to ask casually, blast him. Don’t know why. Lady Georgie’s too high in the instep for soldiers like us.”

  “He should choose his
messengers more carefully. There’s a reason you were never a diplomat or a spy.”

  “So have you? Seen her, I mean.”

  “Tell Richard I have no idea what he’s talking about. No. Tell him that Cambridge is none of his damn business.”

  Chapter 6

  “Damn Glenaire. Damn his devious eyes.” A great bear of a man paced and gesticulated his way across Georgiana’s drawing room. She stood in the doorway for a full moment before he noticed and she came forward to accept his bow.

  “Jamie, Major Heyworth! This is a surprise.” The understatement she injected into her voice pleased her. Georgiana knew her brother well enough not to take offense when someone complained about his deviousness—even in colorful language—but wondered what one of his closest friends was doing there. She knew her brother wanted something. “What brings you to my little cottage?”

  Jamie raked a hand through his scruffy hair and looked around the opulent drawing room as if to ask, “What cottage?”

  “Call me Jamie, please, Lady Georgie,” he said with a boyish grin. “We’re old friends, aren’t we?” He had sketched a bow haphazard enough to say, “We’re among friends,” but correct enough not to offend.

  A smile, as warm and genuine as it was practiced, spread over his face and easily melted her reserve. This one would charm her senseless unless she kept her wits about her. If memory served, Jamie Heyworth lived on charm, but he was a harmless young man for all that. Noticing that he had aged, she wondered if he had matured as well.

  “Do sit down, Jamie,” she said and tamped down a grin. She asked after his family and listened to vague replies until Eunice Williams arrived with the teacart and disappeared with her needlework into her chair in the far corner.

  Etiquette neatly outlined behavior for an afternoon call. It gave Georgiana’s brain room for more important matters, like asking why one of her brother’s friends found it necessary to seek out a spinster he hadn’t seen in several years.

  “I am surprised you could be pried from London,” she said innocently. “What brings you to Cambridgeshire?” She watched under lowered lashes for any sign of dissemblance.

  “Business,” he pronounced. “Business takes me to Newmarket. Stopped by to pay my respects on the way home.”

  “I hope your business won.” She couldn’t stop her smile.

  He looked mournful. “Ran dead last.”

  Georgiana chuckled and earned an appreciative grin. “You always were a good ‘un,” he said with a smile that warmed her insides. “Never one to cut up at a fellow for his fun.”

  “Your way home took you nearby, and you decided to visit.” It wasn’t a question; it was a lure.

  “Yes, that’s it precisely.” Jamie couldn’t detect a trap when one opened in front of him. “Knew you’d welcome an old friend. Stands to reason.” His face was a player’s mask of innocence. He took a third cake.

  “Please say you will stay for dinner. My household is small, but I pride myself that I have the best cook in Cambridgeshire.” She didn’t lie. Her French chef was her great affectation.

  Jamie’s eyes danced. “Oh, Lady Georgie, I don’t doubt you set a fine table. These cakes tell a man that there are good eats to be had.” He took another. “Good friends, good food, hospitality! Nothing better in this life,” he sighed.

  Perhaps promise of a good meal drew him here and nothing else. Perhaps pigs would fly by midsummer.

  “How is my brother Richard?”

  “Fine, that is—” He stopped, caught in his own words. Calculation worked in his face while he framed an answer. “Haven’t seen ‘im in some time of course. Business. In Newmarket.” She had been right the first time. Richard sent him here.

  “Don’t you see Richard when you’re in town?”

  “Certainly, certainly. Best friend a man could want, the Marquess. Sets a fine table as well.” The cheeky grin widened.

  “A Hayden family weakness, I confess,” she replied dryly. “When did you last dine with Richard?” She pressed her advantage.

  “Goodness, Lady Georgie, I’m sure I can’t recall. Weeks ago. It was a fine quail and an excellent fish course. Best thing was the pudding though. Always cakes and sweets with the Marquess.”

  He didn’t recall when, but he could describe the meal. He was here at Richard’s bidding; she was sure of that, but she needed information. It might take heavier weaponry to break down his defenses. Georgiana hoped to show off her cellar more than her chef. She carefully selected cognac for before dinner, two dinner wines, and a strong after-dinner port.

  The first sortie was successful. He poured a second glass of the cognac before she filled her own glass with sherry.

  “When did I see you last, Jamie? It was London, wasn’t it?” She sipped slowly, determined to stay sharp. “You danced your way through the city and rushed back to your regiment in the Peninsula as I recall.” He drank his way, more like it.

  “Five years ago that was. Did I see you then? Didn’t have much to do with balls and things, that is—”

  “Places ladies frequent? You were too busy with the, ah, pursuits of a gentleman about town, I think.”

  Jamie colored. Ladies weren’t supposed to acknowledge gentlemen’s pursuits, at least not the kind Jamie indulged in while on leave from his regiment.

  Georgiana regretted making him uncomfortable. He was two years younger than Richard and Andrew. When they were boys, Georgiana felt protective of Richard’s friends. Still, if she weakened now, she wouldn’t be able to find out what her devious brother was up to. Jamie was no longer a boy; he was thirty-two.

  She pressed on. “You had other friends to see I imagine, the inseparable four from Harrow—Richard, Jamie, Will Landrum, and Andrew.” Her voice trailed off suggestively. “What did you call yourselves? The Cohort, wasn’t it?”

  Jamie grinned. “That was it. Andrew wanted ‘The Phalanx of Thermopylae,’ but Richard told him it was too damned obscure for the teachers to understand.” He colored at his own language. “Sorry, Lady Georgie.” He quickly went on.

  “Andrew didn’t come home from the Peninsula that year. Too busy. Will was there though. His father was ill. Went home and came back sorry. Knew he was going to have to sell out. Never saw him as drunk as he was when—”

  “Will Landrum? Never say it.”

  “Ok. I won’t say it.” Mischief in his face hinted at the old Jamie. “Not always a saint, our Will. Ask Glenaire.”

  “Tell me again, Jamie. How did you find my home?”

  “Glenaire gave me your direction. Told him I’d pop round to visit.” Jamie delivered lies and half-truths as well as any man, but this one made him squirm. Richard sent him.

  Georgiana’s gray-blue eyes crinkled at the corners. “He didn’t mention it to my parents, I’ll warrant. They think Helsington is locked up like a convent.”

  He flashed a relieved smile at her humor. “Goes to prove they don’t know you. Never did.”

  She attempted to look reproachful, but her mouth quirked into a smile.

  “It isn’t at all the thing to say, Lady Georgie, but you look peaky. Are you well?” His statement took her off guard.

  That’s it then? He’s inquiring after my health? Richard already knew about her health. She waved her hand in the air vaguely. “It is just an ill humor. I’m not as robust as I used to be.” She sipped her sherry.

  No more opportunities to probe arose over dinner, but she continued to tease his palate with first one wine and then another. He took the bait willingly enough when she invited him to take port in her sitting room.

  It took only one glass to give her the opening she needed.

  “Your sitting room is full of paper, Lady Georgie. Not what a man expects in a lady’s parlor. What is it for?”

  “You are looking at my work.”

  “Work? I thought you ladies did embroidery or painted or some such things. Never say you write.”

  “Not write. Translate, or try to. The works I find are in anc
ient Greek.”

  “Translate? That’s what Andr—another friend of mine wishes to do. Can’t see it myself. Don’t tell me a lady can translate also.” Jamie’s forehead wrinkled as though he tried to remember something. She hoped his brain, fogged with drink, refused to cooperate.

  “I am afraid I lack your superior education, but I try,” Georgiana said with a carefully controlled self-deprecating smile.

  “If you think my education is superior, you must have been sadly neglected.” He shook his head and held his glass for a refill.

  “Actually, Jamie, I want to employ a tutor or an assistant. You did your time at Cambridge. Would you know anyone who might accept a woman for a student?” She didn’t sound as neutral as she planned. She was sure her anxiety about the answer must have been obvious, even to Jamie.

  “I am long and happily gone from this place, Lady Georgie, and wouldn’t know. Not much of a scholar.” Jamie looked like a man who realized he had backed into a trap. His voice suddenly sounded more sober than she thought possible. “Can’t help you there,” he said.

  She forced a laugh. “What a joy you are, Jamie! Don’t worry. I won’t make you state the obvious. No Fellow would dare endanger his reputation on a female dilettante.”

  “Didn’t mean an insult, Lady Georgie. No offense intended at all,” he said, flustered.

  “No offense taken.” She sipped her port, encouraging him to drink more deeply before she pounced. “Jamie, Andrew Mallet excelled at Greek, didn’t he?” She kept her tone casual, but it put Jamie on alert. She swore his ears twitched.