Dangerous 01 - Dangerous Works

by Caroline Warfield

  “You’re making yourself blind. How much more of this are you going to do?” Jamie Heyworth’s impudent grin accompanied his welcome interruption. Andrew needed a distraction.

  “Not much. Bailey thinks we’ll have the first full copy in two days.”

  “Sorry to hear it. Even blind you’re good company.” Heyworth ducked a ball of paper flung with expert aim. The two had become regular dinner partners in a few short weeks. Jamie reveled in a free meal every day or so, and Andrew valued the diversion. Jamie’s company was far better than his own.

  “Shall we dine at Boodles? The company isn’t as illustrious as elsewhere, but the food is superb,” Andrew suggested.

  “Ah, a man after my own heart. Just how long are you going to grace me–and London–with your company?” Jamie asked.

  “In three days—four at most—there will be nothing, your delightful self excepted, to keep me here.”

  “What then?” Jamie asked.

  He didn’t know. Once his house had been filled with memories of his father and of family, now it felt empty without Georgiana. He dreaded facing that empty house, the empty town, his empty life, but he wouldn’t know if she made good on her threat or if the Duchess had beaten her down again if he didn’t go back. He couldn’t avoid Cambridge any longer, not with the book finished.

  “Back to Cambridge, I presume.” Jamie nodded morosely.

  Andrew continued. “If I’m to leave this charming …” He gestured helplessly at Bailey’s clutter. “Would you join me on the road to Cambridge?”

  “The delights of Little Saint Mary’s Lane! How can I refuse you, my friend?” Jamie clapped an arm around his shoulder. “Let’s discuss it over dinner—and a very good Port.”

  Chapter 22

  Jamie’s “very good Port” flowed with such abundance that it gave Andrew a slow start the following morning. Snow flurries on a sharp wind hindered his progress further. Andrew knew what actually slowed his steps; the effects of drink and the weather were merely excuses for avoiding the work.

  Bailey told him today should be the last of it. In another day, there would be a book. There would be a run of five hundred copies to be specific. Not a large amount, but Andrew thought it sufficient. He would go home to his empty house with only Jamie and Harley for company.

  The warmth of Bailey’s, even the smell and clutter of the back rooms, was a relief after the winds. “I’m sorry to be late, Bailey, I–”

  John Bailey wasn’t alone. The Marquess of Glenaire stretched across a wooden chair next to the printer, his long legs and elegant wardrobe gloriously out of place. “Hello, Andrew. Good of you to join us,” he said.

  Bailey’s face registered concern but not alarm. Perhaps Glenaire hadn’t threatened him. Andrew removed his greatcoat and hung his hat with exaggerated care while he gathered his scattered wits.

  “Hello, Richard. I didn’t know you had business with Bailey.” If Glenaire thought he could be intimidated out of his mission, he was mistaken. Then again, Glenaire rarely used anything as crude as outright intimidation. He watched his old friend warily.

  “This establishment came to my attention quite recently,” the Marquess drawled. He looked about with every sign of interest. “Mr. Bailey and I were just discussing the economics of the printing business. It is difficult for a small business owner, isn’t it Mr. Bailey?”

  Bailey looked from Glenaire to Andrew and back again. “Difficult, yes, but not impossible.”

  “You expect me to believe you stopped in to talk business with the shop owner, Richard? Come, come. Surely you have weightier matters on your mind.”

  “Greek perhaps?”

  “Since when do you care about Greek literature?”

  “Since it impacts my sister.”

  “It has always impacted your sister. You simply chose to ignore it.”

  “Gentlemen, may I speak bluntly?” Bailey interrupted. Clearly the sight of a peer of the realm casually conversing in his office failed to intimidate John Bailey.

  “Certainly, Mr. Bailey. What is your concern?” Glenaire managed to convey, “What concern could you possibly have in the matter of my sister?”

  “If this is about the work I do for Mr. Mallet, then I must suggest you address your concerns directly and not dance around the thing.”

  “I agree. I understand that you are printing a work for Mallet here.”

  “My arrangement with Bailey is none of your business.” Andrew bit out each word.

  The Marquess glanced up from under thick blond lashes. “Oh, I think it is. What concerns my sister is most certainly my business. It is my duty to look after her interests.”

  Andrew watched Bailey, who went pale. He wondered if he had told Glenaire the identity of the author of the work. He thought not; Glenaire would have guessed.

  “I am Lady Georgiana’s partner, I have every right—”

  “I heard her demand that you return her notes and translations.”

  “And so I shall—as soon as I return to Cambridge. Her manuscript materials are hers. I will send them directly to Helsington.” The Marquess gave Andrew one of his particularly inscrutable looks. Andrew didn’t know what to make of it, but he didn’t back down.

  “But in the meantime, Mr. Bailey will print them?”

  “The notes? No. Not in that form. The translations and commentaries as Lady Georgiana and I agreed.” Andrew bit out the last words and dared him to object.

  “Commentaries? Yours?” Glenaire asked.

  “Hers. Mine. It is impossible to separate them.”

  “And will my sister’s name be on this book?”

  “No. She didn’t wish it.” That stopped short of a lie. She wouldn’t wish it–if she knew.

  Bailey rose while they were sparring and returned with printed sheets. “You can see here, my lord. The lady’s identity isn’t disclosed.”

  Glenaire took the pages and read carefully. “‘A Lady of Scholarship,’” he said. He turned the page and began to read.

  Andrew stood for a while, watching the Marquess. When he appeared intent on reading the entire thing, Bailey gestured for Andrew to sit in the printer’s own chair behind the desk. Andrew nodded his thanks, eyes riveted on Glenaire. Bailey bustled out; he had work to do. Five minutes later he returned with four additional pages, the final galleys for Andrew’s approval. He left them there, Andrew with his editing pencil, Glenaire reading.

  Bailey’s clock showed twenty more minutes gone before Andrew lost all patience. He’d be damned before he’d let Glenaire sabotage the project. He rose to his feet.

  “I don’t need your approval,” he insisted.

  Glenaire raised an aristocratic eyebrow. “Don’t you?” He went on reading. A few moments later Bailey returned, and Glenaire spoke directly to him. “This is quite good, you know. You do excellent work.”

  Bailey’s pride showed, but he was quick to say, “The lady is the one who does excellent work.”

  “Quite.” Glenaire’s expression held no surprise. “‘With the assistance of A. Mallet’? Quite a bit of assistance?”

  “Less than you might think. It is Geo-, that is, Lady Georgiana’s work.”

  “She won’t thank you.”

  Andrew stopped breathing. He couldn’t form a clear thought.

  Glenaire continued. “She won’t thank you for ordering her life.”

  Ordering her life? Is that what I’ve been doing? Andrew stared at Glenaire’s merciless blue eyes.

  “You went ahead without her, didn’t you?” Glenaire continued relentlessly. “You gave her no choice about the printing. She won’t thank you.”

  “She’ll hate it.” Andrew sank back in his chair. He felt all the fight go out of him. Glenaire watched him and waited. Intimidation, one remembered, wasn’t Glenaire’s style. There were always neater ways to wield the surgeon’s knife.

  “I did it again, didn’t I?” Andrew felt like a bungling fool. Of course she would hate it if she had no voice, no choice. Ang
er had blinded him. Glenaire, damn him, is right.

  “You wish me to stop publication,” Andrew rasped.

  “I wish? My dear Andrew, we’re discussing what Georgiana might wish.” Glenaire wouldn’t have to block publication. He’d get Andrew to do it himself.

  Bailey cleared his throat and spoke in professional tones. “You wish to interrupt the print run? The first eighty pages are already printed, and–”

  “I’ll pay for it.” Andrew started to reassure him.

  “Finish it.” Glenaire’s emphatic command startled both of them. “Finish it and bind it.” He looked from one to the other. “She may wish it, if you ask her. If she doesn’t, I’ll pay for it and destroy all the copies.”

  Disbelief made Andrew mute. Glenaire went on smoothly, “It would be inefficient to lose what is already done. Finish it, Mr. Bailey. Mallet and I will decide its fate after my sister makes her decision.”

  Bailey beamed. “It really is good work. It would be a pity not to publish it.”

  Glenaire wanted it printed. Andrew couldn’t speak. Glenaire’s eyes held his, challenging, but Andrew held his ground. Glenaire finally looked away first.

  “You seem to have learned more quickly than I did,” Andrew whispered at last.

  “I had an advantage. She actually discussed it with me at Mountview. I’ll leave you and Mr. Bailey to arrange storage of the copies once they are printed. May I request that you send one round to me at Whitehall?” They knew they couldn’t refuse. Andrew nodded.

  The Marquess rose at last. “You do fine work, Mr. Bailey. I’m glad to be acquainted with it.” Bailey would see a steady stream of invitations, cards, and other small jobs coming from Glenaire, Andrew guessed. At least Bailey came out of this fiasco in good shape.

  The roof of Georgiana’s little house proved to be a much more difficult project than expected. There were workers to hire, materials to select, rafters to inspect, and a carpenter to obtain due to a rotten beam. In the deep of November, the weather factored in. The roofers needed four dry days together to get the bulk of the work done. Even then, she discovered, “done” didn’t mean finished. The finish work in her attic and around the eaves would take another few days.

  She delayed transfer of Helsington to Major Warrington, but he grew impatient. In three more days, she would have no choice but to leave. Georgiana’s head hurt from going over and over the list in front of her. She thought she had been ruthless about packing only what she needed, but she could see that the pile of finished boxes, neatly stacked in Helsington’s foyer, would not fit in the tiny house on Sheep Street. William the footman and her maid (the last of the servants, the only two who agreed to accept an extra month’s pay from the sale of the house) waited for her next order.

  She went over the list again. Her notes and papers must go with her. The little sitting room and half the bedchamber would be lined with boxes, but they had to go with her. Novels and books on gardening could be left for the estate sale. She needed her classics and her Shakespeare, but the rest could stay. With Mrs. Potter’s help she weeded six boxes for the kitchen down to one. She wouldn’t be entertaining; she would cook only for herself. It wasn’t “one bowl, one spoon,” but it was simple enough.

  “Shall we light the room, my lady?”

  “No, William. Leave it dark. I’ll close it up. I’ll take tea above stairs.”

  She pulled the doors closed and crossed the foyer where she said goodbye to Andrew the last day. Perhaps he will come. He has my notes. He must return them. What then? She had no answer for the mocking voice in her head.

  She climbed the stair with a heavy tread, gracefully lifting her pearl gray gown. He was gone. He had left Cambridge without telling her, and he had taken pieces of her work with him. He had taken pieces of her soul. She told him it was finished, but he still had her work.

  The dim hallway led to her private sitting room, bright with candlelight reflected on flower-covered walls and the ornate plaster ceiling and fading sun. With the clutter gone, the little workroom looked stark in the fading light. The world outside her window looked gray. She wondered how color could leach out of the world. Did the coming of autumn dim all color, or had the world bled out all its color as my heart bled out all feeling? She let the curtains fall shut.

  William brought tea she had prepared herself. There would be no need for such service in her tiny house. She would take tea made herself in her own little kitchen. That at least pleased her. She liked feeling competent at something. The ornate tea table wouldn’t come with her. It was built more for its dainty appearance than for comfort, and it had room enough for only one person. She drank her solitary tea and fought back self-doubt.

  “He said he wanted to marry me!” The empty room didn’t answer. She sounded like a spoiled child to her own ears. He asked, but I refused him.

  She vacillated, she demurred, and she refused him. She sent him away. She thought he would go back to Cambridge. Where is the blasted man? Where are my notes, my work?

  She forced her attention away from fruitless regrets to her lists and began again. Fill the pantry. Put in firewood. Air the sheets. Two sets, she thought, should do it. Four boxes were unnecessary. Tag the kitchen table and four chairs.

  A discrete knock broke the silence.

  “Yes, William?”

  “A message, my lady.” He handed her a heavy vellum packet.

  Richard! What now? He had arranged her travel. She suspected he had arranged the estate agent who miraculously appeared on her doorstep the day after she announced her decision to her neighbors–an honest estate agent at that.

  My dear Georgiana, I trust that all is well with you. I have been informed that Colonel Warrington has acquired Helsington and that the transaction went more quickly than expected. I have arranged for a bank account to be set up in your name to manage the assets from the sale. They have been informed to deal directly with you.

  I don’t wish to imply that I lack confidence in you, but you must know that if problems arise or you find you regret your decisions, you need only apply to me. Something can be arranged.

  My damned interfering brother just can’t stop arranging my life! With a twinge of guilt she realized she should be grateful for his help. He saved her awkwardness at the bank at least.

  Her irritation didn’t dissipate. She had refused his offer to pay for servants and upkeep so she could stay at Helsington. She didn’t want his control any more than she wanted their father’s. She would do without his help. No man would manage her life. Still, his concern threatened to weaken her. She put the letter down.

  She didn’t want any man, especially not one who tried to arrange her life. Why does independence have to be such a struggle? She just wished she was not so very alone.

  Georgiana crumpled her latest list and restlessly paced to the window again.

  Where is Andrew? she thought. Where is the damned man? The night didn’t answer.

  Chapter 23

  Joy, warm and familiar, surged through Andrew when Cambridge came into view. It would always be home to him. When his carriage rumbled up the cobbles into town, good spirits faded with each turn of the wheel. Georgiana was the heart of his home; without her, he had none.

  “Here we are then, home again, and glad of it.” Jamie declaimed as he leapt from the chaise. Andrew responded with a nod. The homecoming failed his every fantasy. Quiet, at least, was a relief. Jamie’s incessant chatter flooded the entire trip and drained Andrew’s supply of conversation to the dregs.

  Andrew took a moment to look around at the dark emptiness of his house while Harley saw to the baggage.

  “I’ll have the shutters open in a trice,” Harley’s cheerful voice drifted from the back, “and start dinner.”

  “Good man.” Jamie’s voice moved toward the kitchen, following the promise of food.

  Andrew let instinct pull him up the stairs to the book-lined center of his house. He yanked open the inner sash and the diamond-paned windows. The shu
tters flew open under his hand.

  Grey autumn light filtered between the familiar narrow rows of houses. It glowed off the deep red brick and fine English stone. Andrew breathed in deeply the smells of river water and cooking fires. No grandeur lay here, merely the familiar and the dear.

  Neat pages and an index list remained as he left them, arranged on the worktable. Books on the small wheeled shelf, arranged for maximum utility, stood unchanged, waiting for his hand. He ran a finger over them with a smile and placed another hand lightly on the shelves behind, savoring the feel of leather and the scent of paper. He trailed his fingers along the shelves absentmindedly until he came to the door of his bedroom gaping open. A quick jerk of his hand slammed it shut.

  Shutting out memory proved to be more difficult. The room lay dark and cold, like a tomb, like death itself. Jamie could have his room. He would sleep by the fire.

  “Dinner will be catch-as-catch-can. Need to see if the markets are open still.” Harley broke into speech without preamble when he burst into the room.

  “Forget that. I have a delivery for you to make first.”

  Eyebrows shot up. “No matter to me, but there won’t be dinner here tonight if that’s the way it is.”

  “That’s the way it is.” Andrew reached inside his satchel, pulled out a leather-bound book, and handed it to Harley. He had wrapped it in brown paper along with his hopes and dreams.

  Some objects inspire fear and others loathing; the parcel on Georgiana’s worktable did both. The notes and papers she expected couldn’t be in so small a parcel, and her thoughts were jumbled. He is back. But where is he? All he sends is this package for goodness sake.