by Nichole Van
Sir Henry, in particular, seeming to notice Lady Ambrosia for the first time. She gave a simpering smile and shifted again, allowing her shawl to slide down to her elbows. Sir Henry’s mustache twitched appreciatively. She did have a fine bosom.
Sebastian squelched a resigned grunt.
With her constantly slipping shawl, not-so-subtle maneuvers and wool-enshrouded yippy dog, Lady Ambrosia was not unlike a one-woman traveling circus.
Generally entertaining in small doses but gratingly irritating in larger quantities.
By Sebastian’s estimates, Lady Ambrosia had definitely moved into irritating territory.
Lady Ambrosia continued, “Given the dangers which lurk for all gentlewomen, I had feared for your safety. How terrible if you had gone the way of poor Miss Franklin in Wales.”
“Heavens! Poor Miss Franklin. That was a horrid case.” Marianne leaned toward Lady Ambrosia. “Outside Brecon last year. September was it not? Such a tragedy. That unfortunate girl, missing for several days and then to find her body below the castle walls.” She placed a protective hand over her expanding waistline and looked duly upset.
“They say she lost her footing and fell,” Arthur chimed in, patting his wife’s hand comfortingly.
“Yes. ‘Twas most unusual,” Lady Ambrosia agreed. “I was in the neighborhood at the time, visiting an aunt in Brecon. Miss Franklin had told no one she was going for a walk to the old fortress. She must have slipped somehow. The stones were said to be worn and slippery with moss.”
“Surely the tragedy must have been felt throughout the neighborhood,” Marianne said.
Lady Ambrosia gave her shawl another twitch. “Indeed, madam, you are correct on both accounts. My aunt was most dismayed by the events. Poor Miss Franklin was quite the budding artist. She had painted a commendable watercolor of the prospect from my aunt’s drawing room. Of course, I consider myself to be something of an artist as well, so I felt Miss Franklin’s loss quite keenly.” She pulled a handkerchief from her reticule and dabbed at her eyes.
There ensued a small silence.
“Well, we have had quite enough of dismal talk.” Marianne rose to her feet and walked to a table behind the divan. “Lady Michael was kind enough to show me several new paper filigree techniques yesterday, and I am eager to try them. Will you join me, Georgiana?”
Sebastian smiled as Georgiana’s face instantly adopted a frozen look. He was quite sure quilling was the last thing she wanted to do.
It was too much to resist.
“Yes, please do join in, Miss Knight. Whilst you work, I promise to sit here and compose compliments for whatever marvel you create.” He flashed her a wicked grin. “You know I adore lambs.”
Eyes narrowed, Georgiana rose from her seat. Sebastian gave her his most innocent face which he could only hold for a second before slipping back into a teasing smile.
He had no worry that she would get back at him. He was looking forward to it, in fact.
Georgiana followed Marianne to the table, took a seat and started sorting through the thin paper strips.
Sebastian gazed at Georgiana, wearing a morning dress that he was quite sure his sisters would describe as excessively smart.
Made of flowing off-white muslin, there was a contrasting subtle vine pattern somehow woven through the fabric in a different shade of white. A long aqua-blue shawl with a subtle yellow and orange floral pattern draped over her arms as she reached for pins to hold her designs.
For someone who had supposedly just recovered from consumption, she had a remarkably au courant wardrobe.
The rational part of his mind recognized that Georgiana was not the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her eyes a little too wide set, her mouth too generous, her forehead a titch too high.
But how could a woman’s attraction simply be laid down to physical appearance?
Georgiana’s zest for life lit a fire within her. She bounced with energy. Life was simply more when Georgiana was around.
Brighter. Sweeter. Alive.
She shot a glance at him from beneath her bent head and then turned to Sir Henry.
“Sir Henry, Lord Stratton has expressed an interest in gooseberries. I understand that Stratton Hall boasts ever so many varieties from the late earl, but his lordship is at a loss as to how to best maintain them.” Georgiana looked back to Sebastian as she spoke, everything in her body language saying this was her way of getting back at him. Sebastian raised a quizzical eyebrow.
Sir Henry instantly perked up, mustache quivering.
“Gooseberries are a most worthy opponent, Lord Stratton. The old earl would be pleased to learn of your interest.” Sir Henry rubbed his hands together. His mustache looked nearly gleeful.
Ten minutes later, Sebastian was fully aware there was nothing in the world Sir Henry loved quite so much as gooseberries. He took his duties as the president of the Greater Herefordshire Old Gooseberry Society most seriously.
Additionally, Sir Henry was also one of the four founding members of the Royal Gooseberry Show—established under the good grace of King George himself—which had just held its fifteenth annual show. Where, yet again, Sir Henry had presented the heaviest berry and had come away with the coveted gooseberry trophy, a silver oval-shaped bowl that was meant to look like a gooseberry cut in half.
From the mischievous looks that Georgiana kept shooting his way, she expected him to find Sir Henry’s gooseberry monologuing tedious.
But it was strangely . . . fascinating. The varieties, the tender care, the science behind it. So much passion focused on such a humble little fruit.
“I have great hopes of my new Hereford Blush variety,” Sir Henry said after debating the nuance of gooseberry tint with himself for at least eight minutes. “They are a lovely rose color, and I have been developing the plant for several years. It combines the sweetness of Conquering Hero with the red coloring of Whinham’s Industry. At the last meeting of the Greater Herefordshire Old Gooseberry Society, Mr. Johnston declared the Hereford Blush to be the most spectacular gooseberry he had ever seen.”
“Remarkable, Sir Henry,” Sebastian said without a trace of irony.
“And when do we get to taste your new rose-colored gooseberry, Sir Henry? A large gooseberry is well enough, but the taste of them is most important,” Georgiana said.
“Yes, yes, my dear. I could not agree more. To that point, I actually had my cook create the most delightful gooseberry fool this morning and brought it straightway here as a welcome home gesture.” Sir Henry looked to Marianne. “Perhaps, Mrs. Knight, you would be good enough to have a footman bring it in for Miss Knight’s inspection?”
Marianne gave a gentle smile. “Of course. It was quite the sight, I do assure you, Georgiana.” She gestured a footman over and made the request.
“Gooseberry fool made with Hereford Blush gooseberries?” Sebastian nodded. “How delightful! Not only am I exorbitantly fond of gooseberry fool, but given that the Greater Herefordshire Old Gooseberry Society may soon be the recipient of twenty thousand of my hard-won pounds, I should like to know it will be put to a good cause.”
“Yes, my lord, indeed it would be. In fact, I should dearly love to show you exactly what I would do with the money. John Carew—may his soul rest in peace—was a terrible rascal, leaving his will as he did. It has put all of us in a terrible fix. Cannot understand what he must have been thinking.”
“Indeed, Sir Henry, I could not agree with you more,” said an excessively cool voice from the doorway.
All heads turned as a decidedly aristocratic figure pushed his way past the footman holding the door. The newcomer stopped just inside the door, the better to glower at the room.
“Though it pains me greatly to agree with you about anything,” the gentleman continued. “All of Stratton’s money should have been left entirely to me. Instead, I now find myself having to share it with an inept amateur such as yourself.”
“Lord Blackwell.” Sir Henry named the visitor, imbui
ng the word with scathing contempt, mustache bristling in disdain. A look Blackwell haughtily returned.
Lord Linwood, Marianne’s older brother, followed Lord Blackwell into the room, bowing to the company and handing his hat and gloves to the waiting footman. His face a mask of cool indifference, as usual.
Everyone rose to greet the new guests.
“Brother! Welcome,” Marianne said smoothly, crossing and standing on tip-toe to give Linwood a fond kiss on the cheek. “How lovely to see you. Though I had assumed you would call this morning to witness Georgiana’s miraculous return yourself. And Uncle Bertie, what a delight!” She turned to Blackwell who continued to exchange hostile looks with Sir Henry. “I have not seen you since Mama’s funeral nearly two years past. Please allow me to present you to my husband and visitors.”
Sebastian studied Lord Albert Blackwell. Ah, so this was the other gooseberry enthusiast who stood to gain from his misfortune. What a specimen he was.
Disdaining the subdued men’s clothing made popular by Beau Brummel over a decade earlier, Blackwell clearly still favored the ostentatious fashions of his youth. Which, judging from his lined face and stout figure, must have been decades past.
His peacock-blue velvet frock coat edged with silver embroidery and matching waistcoat and knee breeches contrasted sharply with bright white stockings and heeled shoes with sparkling silver buckles. Additionally, Blackwell sported a white, powdered wig with a puffed, pompadour front and rolling side curls, all drawn back into a queue and tied off with a matching blue ribbon.
All in all, he looked as if he had just arrived from the French courts of Marie Antoinette circa 1775.
Recalling his manners, Blackwell managed to give Marianne a polite smile and minced into the room, balancing precariously on his heeled shoes. Instead of bowing at the waist as was currently common, he placed one leg forward, bowing low over it as he greeted each person in the room. He presented Lady Ambrosia with a particularly appreciative look. Her shawl had ‘slipped’ again to hang loosely around her elbows.
Next to his uncle, Linwood looked coolly reserved in an au courant dark green cutaway coat, tan breeches and glossy Hessian boots, his dark hair cropped short. Nearly as tall as Sebastian himself, he nodded a polite greeting.
Sebastian found Linwood a difficult man to read. He was arrogant and often cold, but Sebastian knew of few other peers who took their responsibilities so seriously. Working with him in the House of Lords over the past few months had been satisfying, despite Linwood’s haughty reputation.
“Uncle, what brings you to Kinningsley?” Marianne asked as they all sat down. She resumed her place at the work table with Georgiana. “Timothy neglected to tell me of your arrival.” Marianne shot an accusing look at her brother, who merely raised an eyebrow. It was the most emotion Linwood ever showed.
“I was scarcely informed myself, Marianne,” Linwood said in clipped aristocratic tones. “Uncle Bertie merely showed up on my doorstep yesterday evening—”
“‘Tis easy enough to see why I am here,” Blackwell interrupted, flicking a spot of dust off of his velvet sleeve and adjusting the froth of lace extending past the embroidered cuff. “This whole business that wastrel Stratton set in motion—oh I beg your pardon, my lord, I was referring to the late earl, not yourself.” He nodded to Sebastian. “This business has got us all worked into a lather. I have come to ensure no one sabotages the proceedings.” He directed a pointed look to Sir Henry.
“How dare you, Blackwell!” Sir Henry’s mustache quivered with righteous anger. “It is more likely that I should be here to ensure that no perfidy occurs—”
“Perfidy! If anyone will stoop to low means, it would be you—”
Sebastian could not contain a startled laugh. He held out a calming hand. “Gentlemen, please. I am at a loss as to how you think there will be any underhanded dealings in this case. Either I marry or I do not. That is the beginning and end of the matter. I fail to see how either of you could influence the outcome.”
Sebastian watched the two older men glare at one another, their raised hackles practically visible.
He glanced at Georgiana, which was a mistake. She had her lips pinched tightly together, eyes wide and sparkling with incredulous laughter.
Blackwell gave a disdainful sniff and went back to adjusting his lace. “Well, Sir Henry, you would do well to remain at home and tend to your precious gooseberries as heaven knows that is the only way you will defeat me during the next competition—”
“Bah! You are just jealous the trophy still remains in my possession,” Sir Henry huffed.
As if on cue, a footman entered the room carrying a large silver pedestal bowl ornamented with curling, filigreed handles, gooseberry fool mounded high above its rim. Sebastian could see flecks of green and red peeking out from the frothy cream. At Marianne’s gesture, the footman placed the bowl on the table where she and Georgiana sat working. Georgiana examined it with interest.
Blackwell gasped in outrage. “Really you have stooped to new lows, Sir Henry, flaunting the gooseberry trophy cup in such a manner. If you think such a display will sway Stratton in his decision to take a bride, you must be entirely mistaken.”
Sir Henry gave Blackwell a slow, perusing look, scathingly assessing his clothing. “Well, perhaps if you spent half as much time doting over your gooseberries as you do your ancient tailor—”
“How dare you! At least I can manage to keep my lip clean shaven instead of indulging in whiskered histrionics. Your mustache, sir, is a disgrace to polite society—”
Sebastian stifled a bark of laughter, turning it into a cough only at the last second.
“Sir Henry, who is Lord Tangert?” Georgiana suddenly asked, gesturing toward the silver bowl. “I see your names are engraved here on the bottom as the founders of the Royal Gooseberry Show: Sir Henry Stylles, Lord Blackwell, Lord Stratton—meaning the old earl, of course—and then Lord Tangert. I was unaware that there was another founding member of the Royal Gooseberry Show.”
Blackwell drew in a hissing breath. Sir Henry’s mustache stood nearly on end.
“We do not speak his name,” Sir Henry said, his voice taut with emotion.
“Indeed. Such traitors are beneath our notice.” Blackwell adjusted his cuff again with a sniff.
“The blackguard! Using a hollow needle to inject water into his berries to make them heavier. And then once he was exposed, starting that ridiculous Gooseberry Lovers International Brotherhood.”
Both men glowered at the thought.
“Well, at least there is one gooseberry society in England who does not stand to take my money,” Sebastian offered into the silence.
No one appreciated his attempt at levity.
Blackwell sniffed. “Indeed. Tangert was outraged when the old earl cut his gooseberry society out of the original will, leaving money to just his own society, myself and Sir Henry here. You should have seen the look on his face when he found out. He turned so red I feared his head would near explode.”
Sir Henry nodded. “Tangert never could dismiss the slight. More the fool.”
“Agreed, Sir Henry, agreed.”
“Fortunately, Tangert did have the decency to be lost in the wilderness of Newfoundland with his younger son—”
“Jack, was it? Utter scapegrace like his father,” Blackwell interrupted.
“Yes, Jack. I understand they were trying to find the fabled giant golden gooseberry of Labrador. As if such a thing actually exists!”
Blackwell harrumphed. “Nearly bankrupted the barony in the process. Golden gooseberry indeed.”
“And now his elder son, the present Lord Tangert, persists this ridiculous Gooseberry Brotherhood.” Sir Henry waived his hand dismissively.
“At least the Prince Regent has barred them from our Royal Gooseberry Show,” Blackwell replied.
“Thank heavens, Bertie,” Sir Henry’s mustache bounced in approval.
“Indeed, Henry, it has all been such a disgrace.”
Blackwell shook his head in disgust.
Both men regarded each other for a moment, surprised to discover that they were still comrades.
“It has been a long time, Bertie, since we had a good chat. Shall we lay down our weapons? Perhaps you would like to try some gooseberry fool. I understand that luncheon is in order?” Sir Henry turned a questioning eye to Marianne, who nodded her head in agreement.
Blackwell pondered this for an instant and then let out a long breath.
“Perhaps a chat is in order, Henry. Though I find your mustache ridiculous.”
“Duly noted, Bertie,” Sir Henry said with a nod. “And for the record, your sense of style is still truly absurd.”
Chapter 9
Georgiana’s bedroom
Haldon Manor
In the early hours of morning on September 1, 1813
Birthday in minus 38 days
A scratching noise at the door woke Georgiana from a deep sleep. Blearily, she turned over in bed, dragging her phone from underneath her pillow. It was two thirty in the morning.
Coming more awake, Georgiana sat up and pushed aside the heavy bed curtains. From the light of her phone’s lock screen, she could see a white square on the floor in front of her bedroom door.
A note of some sort.
Slipping out of bed, she quickly scooped up the folded paper and switched on her phone flashlight.
You will send Lord Stratton away. He is destined for another.
That was all. She turned the paper over, examined it. Nothing more.
She scrunched her nose. What a ridiculous note.
Please.
As if she were Sebastian’s keeper and could control his movements. As if she were pursuing him and not the other way around. As if she were even a threat.
And then adding insult to injury, the warning note was so . . . tepid.
Ugh. How disappointing.
The first menacing note of her life, and it would hardly deter a mouse, much less herself, were she determined to win Sebastian.
Which she was not. But still.