by Jane Feather
“Let me see what else is in here,” Georgiana said, taking out the remaining papers. She lifted out a box that had been on the bottom beneath the papers. “I knew he hadn’t deposited them in the bank,” she said, opening the box.
Ned blinked at the brilliance of the stones that lay glinting on the black velvet lining. “They are magnificent,” he murmured.
“The Carey diamonds,” Georgiana said softly, taking the necklace out and letting the stones ripple into her hand. “Selby let me keep all my mother’s other jewels, but he took these. He said I would have no cause to wear them up here, and besides, they were too valuable to have lying around. They were to go to the bank and he would give them to me on my wedding day—but I doubt he intended to honor that,” she added with a grim smile.
“Well, the sooner we get them somewhere safe the better,” Ned observed. He replaced the papers in the box, closed it and clicked the padlock in place. “Meet me at the stables in fifteen minutes.”
It seemed he had decided to take complete charge of this enterprise, Georgiana reflected as she deposited the diamonds in the cunningly contrived inner compartment of her cloak bag, which also contained her ill-gotten treasure. She wondered if she minded and then decided that she didn’t. At least not at the moment. Indeed, she wasn’t at all sure, now that the reality was upon her, that she could have managed to do this entirely alone.
She slipped the will into an inside pocket of her jacket, where it rested against her heart, picked up the small cloak bag, gathered her thick hooded riding cloak around her, extinguished the lamp and crept out of the attic.
It was dark but her eyes grew accustomed quickly until she entered the back staircase leading down to the kitchen. Here it was pitch-black and she felt her way down, using her free hand on the wall to guide her. The kitchen was lit by the fire in the range and she stepped in more confidently, then started violently as the scullery door opened.
“Lord Allenton’s just gone out, my lady,” Jacobs said. “The kitchen staff will be down any minute, so you’d best hurry.”
Georgiana patted her chest, where her heart was thumping wildly. “You gave me such a fright, Jacobs.”
“Sorry about that, Lady Georgie,” he said. “But you didn’t think as how I’d not see you off.”
“I suppose I did,” she confessed, going up and kissing his cheek. “Thank you, my friend.”
“Oh, away with you now,” he said, his cheeks turning pink. “You’ll be safe enough with Lord Allenton, I’m thinking.”
“I’m thinking so too,” she said, hurrying to the kitchen door. “Colin will take us along the back paths?”
“Aye, they’re still pretty thick, but he reckons you’ll get through as far as Mother Jacobs. He’s driven the ox cart with a plow through them once this afternoon.”
“What would I do without you both,” she said, blowing him a kiss. “When I’m settled at Allenton Manor, you’ll both come to me there, won’t you?”
“If that’s in your cards, Lady Georgie, you can count on it.” He smiled with pleasure. “Right glad I am to hear it. He seems a good man, the viscount.”
“I’m certain of it,” she said, and stepped out into the frigid predawn.
Ned was standing with Colin in the yard, stamping his feet in an effort to keep warm. The horses had blankets under their saddles and were shifting restlessly on the snow-covered cobbles of the yard.
“Ah, there you are at last,” Ned declared as Georgie appeared. “Hurry, we have to get out of here before first light.” He took her portmanteau and handed it to Colin, who strapped it to the back of Athena’s saddle. “Up with you.” He lifted her, swinging her up into the saddle before swiftly checking the girth and stirrup length. “All right?”
“Fine,” she responded impatiently. “Mount up yourself.”
Ned swung onto Magus, who shifted beneath his weight and tossed his head as if debating whether to complain. Ned soothed him with a hand on his neck and a soft word in a pricked ear. Colin mounted a sturdy pony and led the way through a back gate in the yard into a field piled high with snowdrifts.
A narrow path had been cleared around the perimeter of the field and Ned dropped back, gesturing to Georgie that she should ride between himself and Colin. It was hard going; the paths were only minimally passable and very narrow. The sun came out and the snow blazed and glittered. Colin dismounted and blinkered the horses to protect them from the glare, but there was no such relief for the riders, who rode almost blind, eyes streaming in the freezing air. But they saw no one else for several hours, and finally Colin gestured silently ahead to a small cottage, a plume of smoke curling from the chimney stack.
“We haven’t put enough distance between ourselves and Selby to stop,” Ned said from behind Georgie.
“It’s all right, it’s Colin’s grandmother’s cottage,” she told him. “She’s expecting us. Or at least she’s been expecting me at some point. I don’t suppose Selby even knows she exists. We have to rest the horses and we don’t want to be seen in daylight. We’ll stay here for the rest of the day and part of the night and go on again before dawn tomorrow, before anyone else is out and about.”
It made sense, and Ned was far from averse to warming himself up. They were in no particular hurry, after all. Their only imperative was to stay clear of Selby.
Colin’s grandmother was a taciturn woman, like many of her fellow Northumbrians. She welcomed Georgie warmly enough, but looked at Ned a trifle askance until her grandson murmured something to her in an undertone, after which she accorded him a nod that he took as acceptance, and beckoned him to the kitchen table and a bowl of thick, honey-sweetened porridge.
Colin left after he’d eaten and his grandmother went out to feed the chickens and collect the eggs. Georgiana yawned. “I feel as if I haven’t slept in two days,” she said. “In fact, when I think about it, I haven’t.”
“Well, now might be a good opportunity.” Ned pushed his chair away from the table with a sigh of repletion. “We could both do with it. The question is, where?” He looked around the kitchen somewhat at a loss. “You could take the rocker by the fire. I’ll make myself comfortable on the settle.”
“Oh, I’m sure Mother Jacobs can do better than that,” Georgie said. She took her cloak off a hook by the fire and went out into the garden, picking her way over to the henhouse. She returned in ten minutes, her eyes alight, cheeks pink with the cold.
“Up there.” She pointed to a ladder in the corner of the kitchen. “In the apple loft. Mother Jacobs says there’s a cot made up for me, and enough blankets and quilts for you to bed down on the floor, if you’re not too hoity-toity that is,” she added with a gurgle of amusement. “I assured her you weren’t.”
“I could probably sleep on a bed of nails at this moment,” Ned stated, making his way to the ladder. “Come on, Georgie, you first.” He stepped aside and she set her foot on the ladder and went up with an encouraging push to her rear. Ned followed her into a round chamber smelling of winter apples and the straw in which they nested.
Georgiana, shivering, pulled off her riding boots, then her jacket and skirt, and dived onto the cot in her petticoat, huddling beneath a thick quilt. “Hurry,” she insisted, lifting a corner of the quilt in invitation. “It’s cold.”
Ned wasted no time. He undressed to his shirt and drawers and slid in beside her. It was a tight squeeze but she tucked her slight frame against the contours of his, relishing his body warmth, her head in the crook of his neck, her eyes closing involuntarily. Ned held her as she slipped into sleep, her body relaxing against his. He smiled and smoothed a red curl from his chin where it tickled.
-o-O-o-
It was midafternoon when Ned awoke, his arm numb from Georgie’s dead weight. He tried to extricate it without waking her but she stirred as soon as he moved it and gave a soft protesting groan.
“Forgive me, love, but my arm’s gone to sleep,” he murmured, rolling her sideways off him. “There, that’s better.
” He sighed with relief and shook out his arm. “How do you feel?”
“I’m not sure yet,” she said, trying to sit up without exposing an inch of her skin to the air. “My nose has lost all feeling.” She rubbed at it with the heel of her hand. “Every other bit of me is warm though.”
“Lie sideways,” he said, trying to maneuver her where he wanted her without causing the quilt to slip. “There, that’s better.” He curled himself around her back, his hands finding the soft mound of her breasts. “Much better,” he murmured.
After a minute, Georgiana said, “Have you thought about what we should do once we’ve secured the will with the solicitor in Alnwick?”
“Actually, we’re not going to Alnwick,” Ned stated, his breath rustling against the nape of her neck.
She stiffened, struggled to turn around. “Of course we are. It’s the most important thing we have to do. It has to be done right away.”
“No,” he contradicted gently. “It is not the most important thing we have to do.”
Georgiana fought against him and won, pushing herself up against his chest. She stared down at him, heedless of the cold air on her back, her green eyes fierce. “This is my plan, I’ll have you know. And we’re going to do exactly as I planned.”
He shook his head, smiling into her indignant gaze. He reached up and pushed her hair away from her face, holding it back behind her head. “My love, first I am going to marry you over the anvil. Then we will prove and secure the will.”
“Gretna Green, you mean?” She looked as startled as she felt.
“Without a moment’s delay,” he declared. “I’m sorry if you had grand romantic notions of St. George’s, Hanover Square and the rest of the whole wedding circus, but this seems our only option if we’re not to wait for six months until you come of age and won’t need Selby’s permission. And I really don’t think we can afford to do that.”
“No, of course I don’t have notions of a grand wedding,” she said, the indignation fading from her eyes. “I just hadn’t thought of it. Anyway, I think it’s the most romantic thing imaginable. Married by a blacksmith over an anvil. And it’s not very far from here, either. How clever of you to think of it. ‘Viscountess Allenton’ has such a nice ring to it.” She leaned down and kissed him.
He caught her face between his hands, letting the red cascade of curls fall forward again, and kissed her, his mouth hard on hers, before rolling her beneath him.
“Do you think we can manage to sidestep the clothes without losing the quilt?” he murmured, pushing up her petticoat, feeling for the string of her drawers.
“Oh, I think we can do anything, you and I,” declared Georgiana Carey, her own fingers busy in their own right.
When Sparks Fly
Sabrina Jeffries
To Susan Huggett Williams, for all you do. And to Ursula Vernon, the daughter I never had—this is as close as I get to exploding carriages.
Chapter One
Yorkshire
December 1823
Dear Charlotte,
The school must be an empty place with your pupils gone for the Christmas season. I hope you have friends nearby to look in on you. A woman alone is never entirely safe.
Your concerned cousin,
Michael
No more marriage mart. That would be Elinor Bancroft’s Christmas gift to herself this year.
Ignoring the antics of her bored young cousins and their friend as the Bancroft carriage hurtled toward Sheffield for the holiday, Ellie gave a heartfelt sigh. She’d rather be a spinster at home in Sheffield than endure another humiliating Season in London. Just the thought of being launched into the social whirl again in a mere three months made her stomach churn.
Now all she had to do was convince Aunt Alys and Papa to give up on marrying her off. She frowned. That was unlikely.
“The Christmas goose at Uncle Joseph’s house is the best,” eleven-year-old Percy Metcalf told his quiet school chum, Charlie Dickens, who’d come with them for the holidays. “He buys the biggest one in town.”
“Will there be plum pudding?” five-year-old Meg Metcalf mumbled around the thumb she had stuck in her mouth. “I like plum pudding.”
“I hope we play snapdragon,” eight-year-old Timothy Metcalf said.
“I wish we could,” Ellie said, “but I doubt Papa will allow it. He’ll say snatching raisins from a burning bowl of brandy is too dangerous.”
“But snapdragon is a Christmas tradition!” Percy protested.
“If Mama lets us play it, why should Uncle Joseph refuse?” Tim said with a pout. “Stop the carriage, and we’ll tell her to convince him. I want to ride with her, anyway. Percy keeps hogging the seat.”
“If you hadn’t already driven her mad this morning,” Ellie countered, “you could be riding with her now. Let her nap—alone—and I’m sure she’ll be happy to have you and Meg back in her carriage when we reach the next town.”
After arriving in Hull by ship from London, they’d found one of Papa’s coaches waiting to take them the day’s drive to Sheffield. Business had called him to Lancashire, but he’d promised to be back before Christmas. Sadly the coach hadn’t been large enough for them all, despite the children’s nurse being delayed in London with a bad fever. They’d had to hire a post chaise just for their trunks.
“Can we sing Christmas carols?” Meg asked.
“If you want,” Ellie said. “What about ‘On Christmas Day in the Morn’?”
“Let’s sing ‘A Jolly Wassail Bowl,’” Tim put in. He seemed to have bowls of spirits on the mind today.
“That one’s too long,” Percy protested. “I want ‘The Holly and the Ivy.’”
“You picked the story yesterday—I should get to pick the carol,” Tim complained, thrusting his elbow into Percy’s side.
Percy reacted by shoving Tim, which sent Tim into Charlie, who said, “Stop that, you nodcocks!” and shoved them both. Within seconds, the rough-and-tumble boys were brawling. Again.
“Enough!” Ellie protested, leaning forward to separate them. “Stop this nonsense!”
The next thing she knew, Percy accidentally jabbed his elbow into her breast.
“Ow!” Ellie cried, and drew back.
Meg, who worshipped her nineteen-year-old cousin with a passion generally only reserved for kittens and lemon drops, threw herself into the fray. “You hurt her! Mustn’t hurt my Ellie!”
She then burst promptly into tears, which brought the fight to a screeching halt, since the boys coddled Meg as if she were a fairy princess.
“There now, don’t cry.” Percy clumsily patted her shoulder to comfort her.
“Go ‘way!” Meg protested, shoving at his hand. “You were mean to Ellie!”
Biting back a smile at Meg’s fierce defense, Ellie dragged her onto her lap. “It’s all right, moppet.” She nuzzled the girl’s fragrant blond curls. “I’m fine, really. No one hurt me.” She frowned at Percy over Meg’s head. “Not much, anyway.”
Percy thrust out his dimpled chin. “I didn’t mean to poke you in the…you know where.”
“The bubby?” Tim supplied helpfully.
“Tim!” Ellie chided. “You shouldn’t use such vulgar language!”
“‘Such vulgar language,’” he repeated in a prissy tone, sticking his nose up in the air to mimic her. He snorted in disgust. “You’ve sure become prim and proper lately. You were more fun before you went off to that school.”
“She’s trying to catch a husband, you chawbacons,” Percy said. “That’s what they teach them at the School for Heiresses.”
Ellie glared at Percy. “Don’t call it that. Besides, they taught us etiquette and literature and science, too. It wasn’t just about catching a husband, you know.”
But it really was, and she was destined for failure. She was no beauty, like her friend Lucy Seton or Mrs. Harris, owner of the School for Young Ladies, which Ellie and Lucy had attended until their coming-out. Ellie was plain and slightly plump. Her unfa
shionably straight black hair defied any attempt at curling, so she had to wear it plaited in a coil atop her head.
Lucy praised her green eyes, but since Ellie’s spectacles hid them, they did her little good. She’d tried leaving the spectacles off, only to discover that it made it hard to do anything. Beauty might indeed be but “a flower, Which wrinkles will devour,” according to Thomas Nashe, one of her favorite poets, but she would still like to have been given the flower—at least for a while.
And what did a man know about it, anyway? Nashe had no idea what it was like to lack any of the physical attributes that might attract a husband.
“What do you need a husband for?” Charlie said. He wasn’t very talkative, but he could be quite sweet. “You’ve got us to look after you.”
“Yes, Ellie,” Tim put in. “I’ll marry you.”
Arching one eyebrow, she cleaned her spectacles. “I thought you said girls were stupid.”
“But you’re not a girl. You’re Ellie.” Tim’s face brightened. “Think what jolly fun we could have climbing trees and fishing and riding to hounds.”
She flashed on an image of her standing at the altar beside the towheaded Tim while he held a fishing pole at attention, and a smile curved her lips.
“Of course, you’d have to wear something sturdier than that silly froofy thing.” Tim pointed to her redingote.
“Froofy isn’t a word,” she shot back. “And I like this gown.” It was the only one that made her look halfway pretty.
“You can’t clean fish in it, you know,” Tim remarked.
“I don’t intend to clean fish ever, not even for you. Besides, what would we live on while we’re busy fishing?”
“You’ve got a fortune, haven’t you?” Tim said with the matter-of-fact practicality of the young. “We’ll live on that.”
Her smile faltered, and she donned her spectacles to hide her sudden tears. Even Tim knew that her greatest asset lay in her money. At least he was honest about it, which was more than she could say for most gentlemen. Fortunately, she could spot a fortune hunter from ten paces, thanks to her training at the school, not to mention the information proffered through letters from the school’s anonymous benefactor, “Cousin Michael.” And fortune hunters were all she ever attracted.