Suzanne Robinson (3 page)

Georgiana entered the gallery with its statues of pharaohs; part-human, part-animal gods; sphinxes; altars; and display cases. Crossing the long chamber, she shoved open a door with her boot and entered the workroom, her footsteps echoing on the marble floor. She went to a long table piled with more boxes, books, pottery, and various other objects and set down her burden.

“Did you find it, Ludwig?” she asked.

A domed, slightly bald head shaped like a cabbage popped up from behind a stack of books topped with a bronze scimitar. “Not yet. Oh, my heart, if I’ve lost it, Great-uncle will never forgive me.”

“You haven’t lost it,” Georgiana said. “I saw it not half an hour ago.”

Ludwig looked helplessly at the scimitar and made swimming gestures with his hands. His egg-shaped body wavered and almost toppled from the stool upon
which he was sitting. He regained his balance and tugged on his wispy mustache. Ludwig had adopted it after the style of the dashing royal dragoons and hussars in Her Majesty’s cavalry.

Taking pity on him, Georgiana said, “Let me look.”

She began searching between books and boxes, then sank to her knees to fumble among the items that had accumulated in piles around Ludwig’s stool. She vanished under the worktable and reappeared with a slim bundle of wrapped linen. The cloth was an aged yellowish brown, the bundle almost tubular and tapering at one end. Embedded in the cloth were the skeletons of insects and several thousand years’ worth of dust.

Georgiana held it out and sneezed. “Here it is.”

“Oh, my heart, you’ve found it! How did it get down there? It’s the only baby crocodile mummy we have, you know. Great-uncle bought it himself in, let me see, in twenty-four in Cairo.” Ludwig took the crocodile mummy from Georgiana, laid it on the table, and picked up a pen. He scratched an entry in a heavy leather-bound volume while Georgiana returned to her carton.

“This box contains kohl tubes, unguent bottles, a chariot whip, and canopic jars holding the entrails of the high priest of Montu, eighteenth dynasty.” She picked up a cosmetic bottle of Egyptian blue faience. “Amazing. This eye paint is thousands of years old.”

A musical tinkling caused Ludwig to gasp. He dropped his pen, fished in a pocket of his waistcoat, and withdrew a watch. “Bless my life! It’s two o’clock already and I’m not nearly finished cataloging.” Ludwig fluttered his pale hands around his ostrich egg-shaped
body, found a kerchief, and wiped his forehead. “Dear Georgiana, would you be so kind as to meet the shipment from town? You’re so good with workmen, and you know they’ll treat that royal sarcophagus like a box of tinned meat.”

“Of course, Ludwig. Don’t alarm yourself. I’ll attend to it at once.”

“Oh, thank you. I told them to stop at the front so I could meet them. You can ride with them around to this wing.”

Georgiana removed her apron, wiped her grimy hands on it, and set out on the time-consuming journey from the Egyptian Wing to the entrance to Threshfield House. She had lived all her life in grand houses, but Threshfield was unique. It consisted of a central building flanked at its four corners by pavilions linked to the main block by curved corridors. Its ground plan resembled a crab’s body.

Georgiana left the southwest pavilion, called the Egyptian Wing, went down the corridor, and entered the library. Then she crossed the huge saloon with its domed glass roof. Beyond lay the vast entry hall built to resemble a Roman atrium with its twenty fluted alabaster columns, alcoves filled with Greek and Roman statues, and white plaster friezes of centaurs, trophies, and arabesques.

She stepped carefully on the slippery Italian-marble floor and at last came out onto the Corinthian portico. Broad flights of white stone steps marched up to the portico on either side. Ludwig said the facade was made to resemble the buildings on the Acropolis at Athens. Statues of Venus, Ceres, and Bacchus topped the pediments overhead, and Georgiana looked out on a wide gravel drive and expanse of
lawn. Down the avenue bordered with ancient oaks clattered a wagon pulled by four draft horses. Across the drive someone rode out of the trees along one of the riding paths. Georgiana waved at her aunt Lavinia, who waved back.

She waited for the freight wagon, her hands clasped in front of her, on the portico. Her journey through the vast house would have been much more laborious and slow if she’d worn a crinoline. She would have had to maneuver it through doorways and control it on staircases, but today was a workday, and she wore a work dress. She had, in fact, two types of dresses: those made long enough to wear with a crinoline, and those fashioned to wear without one. When she worked in the Egyptian Wing, formality was cast aside, a luxury Georgiana had seldom experienced at home.

For the first time since learning of Jocelin’s tragedy, she was happy. She was close to achieving independence from a father for whom she felt little but contempt. Ever since she’d pried Jocelin’s secret from her mother, her rage had been growing. Jocelin had been a youth when their uncle had approached him sexually. He’d begged his parents for protection, only to be blamed for lying. Brave, sad Jocelin had been sacrificed for the sake of the family reputation, cast out as an object of disgust by those who should have safeguarded him.

When she’d learned the truth years later, she’d almost taken one of Aunt Lavinia’s shotguns to Uncle Yale. Aunt Livy had stopped her, saying that soon Yale would pay for his crimes in a grotesque manner—the progressive ravages of a disease visited on the promiscuous. Aunt Livy had refused to be more specific, but
Yale was disgustingly sick now, and the plague was eating his brain.

Imagining Jocelin’s suffering shot a stab of pain through her chest, and tears stung her eyes. She had never been able to distance herself from the sympathetic pain. She had nightmares in which she imagined horrible things happening to Jocelin while she stood by, unable to prevent them.

Georgiana swallowed hard and forced herself to think of more pleasant thoughts. She was most pleased at the understanding she’d reached with her father. Over the last year the duke had bungled his finances a bit, thus endangering the princely mode of living to which he was accustomed and to which he knew he was entitled. In return for the duke’s consent to the marriage, the earl would settle the bulk of Glairemont’s debts. She was mightily fond of Threshfield.

He was her fellow conspirator, willing to help her escape from her bear trap of a family, and asking nothing in return. However, Threshfield felt that having to live for a few years with his odd, grasping family was the sacrifice of a saint. The memory of his caustic comments upon the various Hydes in residence brought a smile to her lips as the freight wagon drew slowly alongside the double staircase.

The driver set the brake and jumped down, pulling off his cap and bowing. She listened to his description of the enormous effort he and his laborers had put forth in shifting the red-granite sarcophagus from the railcar to the wagon without damage. Walking around the wagon, she tugged on ropes and inspected the wads of padding that encased the heavy wooden crate. She was tugging on a rope that had come loose in the journey from the rail station when one of the
laborers exclaimed and pointed. She looked over her shoulder, blinked, then turned around to face the oak-lined avenue.

An apparition cantered toward her on an enormous roan horse. The man on this giant beast must have seen her, for he kicked his mount into a gallop, bent over his horse’s neck, and aimed right at her. The horse picked up speed in seconds, racing toward her and causing the men around her to scramble out of the way. Annoyed at this unaccountable belligerence, Georgiana shoved her spectacles up on the bridge of her nose, lifted her chin, and stood her ground. She regretted her decision at once, for she could feel the vibration of the animal’s hooves through her boots. This rude stranger was trying to frighten her. He’d succeeded, which made her furious.

Rider and horse thundered directly toward her down the curved gravel drive. Pebbles shot out in all directions as each hoof slammed into the ground. Suddenly, at the last moment, the horse swerved. The rider swung one leg over the saddle, clinging to the still-cantering beast, then leaped off as he approached Georgiana. He landed at a run that brought him to a standstill a yard from her. The horse continued past her at a trot. Its owner whistled. The animal stopped sharp, whirled on its hind legs, and walked slowly back toward them.

Georgiana raised her chin a bit higher and narrowed her eyes as the stranger approached. He was almost as tall as his giant of a horse, lean, as if he’d worked hard and eaten little. He swept off his wide-brimmed hat to reveal long, shaggy chestnut hair streaked with sun-bleached amber. He swept back his long coat behind a gun belt slung low on his hip.
High-heeled boots crunched gravel, and he stuck a thumb into his gun belt as he reached her. She felt a twinge of recognition, not for the man, but because of Jocelin’s description of American frontier garb.

She opened her mouth to inquire if the man had come from her brother, but he was too quick for her. A dark-blue gaze inspected her as if she were a succulent desert. Then he appeared to recognize her. His eyes crinkled, not in amusement, but in irritation.

“Well, if it ain’t old George. I been looking all over creation for you. Your danged pa wouldn’t tell me where you’d gone. Well, come on, girl. Time to pack up and swim.”

Georgiana drew her brows together, straightened her shoulders, and said, “I beg your pardon?”

“I reckon you should.”

His lips curled in a grin that was at once contemptuous and appreciative. Georgiana wasn’t the daughter of a duke for nothing. Giving this barbarian a chilly nod, she turned on her heel and spoke to the Threshfield butler, who had come out of the house upon the arrival of the stranger.

“Randall, send this person on his way.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Hold on a minute.”

Georgiana paused in her progress around the wagon. “You appear to be looking for someone named George, sir. There is no one by that name at Threshfield.”

A gloved hand settled on the revolver at the stranger’s hip. Georgiana kept her features fixed in an expressionless mask that hid her uneasiness. This man spoke in a slow drawl like the one Jocelin had returned with from America, only the stranger’s voice
was as rough as his speech—low, throaty, and tinged with a knowing familiarity that bordered on an intrusive liberty.

“Look here, George, Jocelin sent me to fetch you, and I’m going to fetch you, so pack your duds and let’s ride.”

She had been certain she didn’t know him. He was sun-brown, sweaty, and stubbled with two days’ worth of beard. His shirt was open, and she could see his chest. His chest! No gentleman revealed his chest to a lady. But he’d called her George again, and that twinge of recognition returned. Once, years ago, a man had called her George. It had been that elegantly savage protégé of her brother’s, the one whose presence turned her father’s complexion vermilion.

Georgiana studied the blue eyes tinged with sapphire, the wide shoulders. Through the chestnut stubble she could discern the shallow indentation in the middle of his chin. She let out her breath on a gasp. “Dear me, it’s Mr. Ross!”

“Course it’s me.”

“Mr. Ross,” Georgiana repeated witlessly. Then she regained her composure. He was forcing her to discuss her private affairs before servants, but she wasn’t going to let him into the house or talk to him alone. “I knew my brother would be concerned. I’ve written him a letter he’s no doubt received by now, so you’ve come all this way for nothing. I’m sorry for it, but Jocelin does tend to be high-handed. I’m not going anywhere, especially with a mere acquaintance. Good day to you, Mr. Ross.”

She turned her back to him. There was an unfamiliar sound of metal against leather, then a click. Georgiana stopped. One of the laborers swore. Darting
a glance over her shoulder, she looked at the barrel of a long-nosed revolver. Her gaze lifted to the man’s casual one. A snake’s stare had more feeling in it.

“Now, don’t get your petticoats in a twist. Jos said you’d be stubborn, and that I was to be patient, but I been clear across a continent and an ocean, and I got no use for spoiled, blue-blooded misses. Jos is laid up, and it’s plain infernal meanness to worry him like you done. So I reckon I’ll just have to take you back to Texas and let Jos see for himself that you ain’t hitched yourself to old Threshfield.”

“Why, you barbaric—”

“Don’t give me no mouth.” Nick’s gun swerved as the freight-wagon driver and Randall moved toward him. “You fellas stay put.”

There was another ominous metallic click. Everyone turned to see a woman coming toward them holding a shotgun. Georgiana smiled, and Nick’s jaw dropped. The woman had silver hair, a face devoid of all but the finest age lines, and she wore breeches, riding coat, and boots.

“Aunt Livy,” Georgiana said.

Lavinia nodded, keeping her gaze and her gun trained on Nick. “Good afternoon, my dear.”

Nick slowly holstered his gun and lifted his hands away from his body. The shotgun lowered until it pointed at the ground. Lavinia gave him a slow, appreciative examination that evoked a grin from its subject. She noticed the grin and met his gaze with intrigued curiosity.

“Who are you, young man?”

“Nicholas Ross, ma’am. I been in Texas with Jocelin for quite a spell.”

“You must have been for you to have turned gunfighter,” Lavinia replied.

“Jos sent me to fetch old George here before she up and ruined her life. He would have come himself, but he’s laid up with a busted leg. Got shot up by a drunk ranch hand. He’s riled himself up to a fever about his sister, and I aim to quiet him down.”

“How interesting,” Lavinia said. She turned to Georgiana and gave her an inquiring glance.

Georgiana hadn’t realized how furious she was until Nick Ross referred to her as George in front of her aunt. Irritation rapidly boiled over into wrath. “What presumption! I have no intention of listening to this drivel, much less complying with it.” Through her gold-rimmed spectacles she directed her most regal stare at her tormentor. “You have no position or claim in reference to me, sir. I have no intention of being ill-used by you further. Please give my fondest regards to my brother when you return to—Texas, was it?”