Suzanne Robinson (16 page)

Pertwee dropped his clothes brush. Nick glanced up from replacing his pen in the inkstand. “Hang it, Pertwee, don’t faint now. I need you to be alert. Someone’s trying to harm Lady Georgiana. Last night the railing on her balcony gave way and nearly killed me.”

“Sir should not be telling me this.” Pertwee picked up the brush and began taking blind swipes at the morning coat. “A gentleman doesn’t discuss his—his …”

“Strike me blind but you’re weak-livered. I didn’t
touch—well—the lady’s virtue is intact. And don’t tell me you and the rest of the household don’t know about the earl’s mean little story. It’s a lie.”

“I’m sure I don’t know to what sir is referring.”

Nick shot out of his chair, causing Pertwee to jump and skitter backward. “I thought toffs were hypocrites, but toffs’ servants is just as bad. Lady Georgiana is irreproachable. Is that clear? I’m going to settle this mess with the earl as soon as I’ve spoken with her. She doesn’t realize the peril she’s in. Meanwhile, I want you to keep an eye out. Whoever tried to kill her last night may try again before I can get her out of here.”

This time he thought he could convince her aunt to agree to a removal. That way they could all leave with propriety, as Jos would want. He could escort them back to the duke and duchess and wash his hands of Georgiana Marshal. Or could he? Knowing her as he did, he could bet she’d made a list of suitably ancient bachelors. Efficient little beast. She would find another old relic, and Nick would be right back where he started. If he left her alone, she might succeed this time.

He wasn’t going to let her give herself to a decrepit. She should marry a young man, one who could make her happy, who could give her pleasure, who would make love …

All of a sudden this solution didn’t seem as suitable as it had when he’d first arrived. He knew a great many of the eligible young aristocrats. Thinking of her with any of them made him want to puke. But what other choice was there?

Returning to the desk, Nick unsealed his letter to Jocelin and added to it. Whatever the state of his
stomach, he couldn’t leave her until she was settled with someone acceptable. Jos would have to provide a list of his own; Nick couldn’t. Bleeding hell, he was going to have to play matchmaker for Georgiana when he would rather—no use pursuing that thought.

He finished the letter and sealed it again. Handing it to Pertwee, he donned his morning coat and set out for the dining room to corner Georgiana. After last night even she must have begun to realize the risk of remaining at Threshfield.

To his irritation Georgiana wasn’t in the dining room, but Evelyn bloody Hyde was. He pointed his eagle’s-beak nose in Nick’s direction and muttered something that might have been good morning, then buried his face in the
Times
.

“Seen Lady Georgiana, old chap?” Nick asked as he went to the buffet and picked up a plate to help himself to eggs, bacon, kippers, and toast.

“The ladies have gone shopping in town.”

“All of them? Even Lady Augusta?”

Evelyn slapped his paper down beside his plate. “Yes, and it’s a good thing. I want to talk to you, Ross. I heard your voice in Lady Georgiana’s room last night, and don’t try to deny it. My hearing is excellent.”

“You got a big mouth too.”

“I was disgusted.”

“You are disgusting.”

“There’s no use denying it, Ross. I’ve already spoken to the earl, though he refuses to see the truth.”

Nick poured tea into a cup and placed it beside his plate on the table. “What truth is that, Hyde?”

“That this child of Georgiana’s can’t possibly be his. That any occasion devised to validate such a claim
is merely a ruse trumped up to conceal your affair with the girl.” Evelyn rose and threw his napkin onto the seat of his chair.

“I won’t have it, sir. I’ll not stand by and see the great name of Threshfield dragged in muck. You’ll not cast dishonor on our noble heritage and compromise the family’s position in Society. That trollop will never quarter the Threshfield arms or become mistress of this house.”

Nick took a sip of tea. He patted his lips with his napkin and set it beside his saucer. Rising, he walked over to Evelyn, who held his ground with a sneer. Nick smiled at him and glanced aside at the buffet with its silver plate and sterling flatware. His hand shot out, plucked a carving knife from a ham, and held it in front of Evelyn’s face. At the same time his other hand grabbed the man’s collar, twisted it, and drew Evelyn close enough to hear his whisper.

“Now, you listen to me, Evelyn bloody Hyde. Threshfield is just trying to goad you. The story’s a lie. Right?”

Evelyn’s mouth worked as he tried to breathe, and his upper lip was spotted with sweat. “Erp!”

“Right. And you’re not going to repeat a lie.”

“Erp!”

“And you’re gonna stay away from Georgiana, or you’ll end up with a bloody smile in your neck. Oh, can’t you breathe? Sorry, old chap.”

Nick released his hold on Evelyn’s collar. Choking and gulping in air, Evelyn clutched a chair. Nick stuck the knife back into the ham. Then he took his seat and dug into his breakfast.

“Aren’t you going to finish your food?” Nick asked as Evelyn stumbled from the room.

The door slammed, and Nick settled back to finish his tea. He would have to follow Georgiana into town. All for the best, since he could more easily get her away from the family in some shop and make her understand her danger. Even she would have to see reason now that the threat came not from Lady Augusta, but from someone more competent.

Nick found the earl and gave him an ultimatum to retract his lies before sundown tomorrow or face retribution, then embarked on his quest of Georgiana. Worthbridge was a little less than an hour’s ride on horseback from Threshfield. He arrived before noon and stabled his horse at a livery behind a bookseller.

The town was a great deal smaller than London but boasted a large and busy mercantile district, the main avenue of which was called the Quadrant. Like the Strand in the capital, the Quadrant was a long street bordered by small shops, each unique, most with a bowfront of windows divided into panes. Nick stood at one end of the Quadrant and surveyed the bustling pedestrians, the carriages, wagons, street vendors, and noisy children who skipped in and out of the traffic. The place was ablaze with color from the neatly displayed wares in the windows and from the hand-painted wooden name boards that hung over the shops.

He had emerged onto the Quadrant in front of the bookseller’s. At this end of the street lay shops of interest to a gentleman—hatters, a narrow, cozy shop on the corner devoted to snuff and cigars, a boot maker, and farther down, a whip maker. Out of the door of the whip maker’s establishment stepped Lady Lavinia, accompanied by an obsequious proprietor. Nick moved quickly into the doorway of the bookseller.
If possible, he wanted to catch Georgiana alone and talk to her without anyone’s knowing. Lady Lavinia seemed to be by herself. She nodded to the whip maker and proceeded down the street, vanishing in the crowd.

Once she’d gone, Nick stepped out of the shadows and crossed the street. His best method of locating Georgiana was to find the Threshfield carriage and search the shops near it. No doubt the vehicle would progress slowly around the district with its occupants, for he couldn’t imagine either Prudence or Georgiana loping along the dusty road like Lady Lavinia.

He found the Threshfield carriage, identifiable by the coat of arms on the door, sitting outside a glove shop. Strolling by, he glanced in the windows displaying fine French gloves, hand-sewn English gloves, and lace mittens. He caught sight of a close-fitting bonnet trimmed with ostrich feathers and loops of ribbon in the Regency style. Lady Augusta, its wearer, was examining a pair of long gloves of the type she wore with her gowns that had short puffed sleeves. A martyred footman stood nearby holding boxes and packages tied together with twine. Nick surveyed the rest of the shop, but Georgiana wasn’t there.

Walking down a few doors, he spied Prudence leaving a silk mercer, accompanied by another footman. Nick saw a pair of hands reach into the shop window and remove a bolt of sarcenet covered in a design of giant peonies. He imagined the stunted Prudence in fifteen yards of enormous flowers and almost winced. Nick walked behind a street vendor carrying brushes festooned around him on frames. Prudence marched down the street toward him without regard to those in her path, expecting everyone to move out
of her way. Prudence charged through hapless groups of shoppers, trailed by her footman, and vanished into a jeweler’s. He wouldn’t expect Georgiana to be anywhere near Prudence.

His way clear, Nick left the vicinity of the brush seller. “She’s got to be somewhere near.”

He spotted a shawl shop and ducked inside. Not there. He tried a bonnet shop, dodging in and out of rows of lace-and-muslin caps. No luck. He tried the laceman and embroiderer, hearing talk of ruchings and rouleaux, edgings and cockades. Still no Georgiana.

Growing frustrated, he left the frills behind. Standing beside the shop window, he glanced up and down the street again. Two doors down sat an apothecary shop, its windows glittering with giant bottles of blue, green, and red waters. Delft drug jars took prominent place in the bow window. Next to it sat a china warehouse, with its plates and cups stacked outside in pyramids.

Between mountains of porcelain, a gleaming Indian-black curl caught his eye. Georgiana walked between the displays to the corner and turned down a side street. Nick strode after her. The side street was clean but devoid of the more popular shops. At the dead end, tucked away, with a small elegantly lettered sign, lay the establishment of Nan Tussett, Stay Maker. Nick slowed as he saw Georgiana’s shimmering gray skirts disappear inside the shop. He came to a halt as he neared the place and caught a glimpse of twill foundations, long lengths of bone, and inside, discreetly, the lacy top edge of a corset.

Hesitating, Nick glanced around to find himself alone on the street. A pair of ladies turned the corner,
saw him, and retreated. Nick grinned, pushed back his hat, and plunged into the stay maker’s shop. Georgiana was talking to a woman who looked not so much dressed as upholstered in black bombazine over stays that could have squeezed the girth of a man-o’-war.

Nick removed his hat and threaded his way toward them through rows of counters and between two tables. At the tables a dozen young women bored holes in stay backs. The proprietress saw him first and stopped in midsentence to gawk at him. Georgiana turned, widened her eyes, and reddened.

“Mr. Ross, your presence in this establishment is most unseemly.”

Nick bowed to them. The proprietress glanced from him to Georgiana, muttered some excuse, and scurried toward a curtained doorway. Several of the apprentices giggled and whispered behind their hands. Nick caught one of them looking at him and winked at her. This produced a cascade of twitters. He gave the lass one of his teasing smiles before turning back to Georgiana.

She wasn’t there. Her crinoline swayed gently as she scudded between the tables, past the counters with their frilly corsets, and out of his sight. He replaced his hat, tipped it to the accompaniment of more giggles, and hurried out of the shop. Three long strides brought him to her side. Slipping his hand into the crook of her arm, he pulled her up short.

“Whoa, there, young George. I got to talk to you.”

Georgiana twisted her elbow out of his grip and straightened her shawl on her shoulders with hands clad in kid gloves. “I’m quite busy, Mr. Ross. I should
think you’d have more sense than to seek me out in so forward a manner.”

“Bleeding hell, why is it you talk like some dried-up old boarding-school mistress?”

“I don’t know what you mean, sir. Nor do I care to. Good day to you.”

He stopped her by grabbing a hunk of the seemingly endless yards of her skirt. Twisting around, she tried to yank the fabric from him.

“Really, Mr. Ross. This is childish.”

“You’re not going anywhere until you listen to me. I got things to say.”

Tethered, fuming, Georgiana gave a last futile jerk at her skirt, then subsided. She put her back to him, stiff with outrage. He glanced around the deserted side street. Removing a glove, he slipped his hand beneath her shawl and dragged the backs of his fingers down her back while keeping hold of her skirt with his other hand.

She jumped and whirled around to face him. “Mr. Ross!”

“Nick,” he said softly.

She shook her head violently. “Oh, no. The last time I called you that, I—you—we …”

He sighed and let go of her gown. “You’re right, love. This isn’t the time. You thought about last night?”

He hadn’t believed it possible for a woman to turn the color of a ruby, but Georgiana almost accomplished it.

“Sir, how odious of you to speak to me of what should remain unspoken.”

“What? Oh, strike me blind, woman, I’m not talking about that. I’m talking about the railing.
Someone’s trying to kill you, love. You got to scarper.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You got to leave. Now. Today, before they try again. Somebody in that family of bedlamites is trying to make sure you don’t become Countess of Threshfield. It’s all that old skeleton’s fault for telling them you’re going to have his heir.”

“You’re mistaken, Mr. Ross. It’s only Lady Augusta up to her usual tricks.”

Nick’s retort died on his lips as a woman turned the corner and came toward them. Seeing him, she crossed the street and averted her face until she reached the stay maker’s and went inside. Nick drew closer to Georgiana and lowered his voice.

“This ain’t Lady Augusta’s doing. Too subtle, too much like an accident.”

Georgiana tugged on the sleeve of her glove, her brow wrinkled. “Perhaps.” She appeared to think upon his point, then straightened her shawl and tugged her bonnet to the correct angle as if girding for some feminine battle. “You may be correct, and if you are, I’ll not be chivied out of a hole like some fox and run away.”

“Oh, I see,” he said, his temper rising along with his fear for her. He should have expected her to do the opposite of what was reasonable. “You’d rather risk bashing your little skull open on the pavement below your balcony and spilling your meager brains.”