Suzanne Robinson (5 page)

“Pertwee, where are you, Pertwee!”

“I’m at the wardrobe, sir.”

Pertwee, his valet, was hanging a pair of trousers in a gilded wardrobe. His orange hair was slicked down with oil, and a monocle dangled from a ribbon on his coat. As always his clothing was pristine and free of wrinkles. Nick could never understand that, since they traveled on the same trains and rode the same distances in carriages or on horses. Perhaps it was because Theophrastus Pertwee was so thin as to resemble a stick insect, or perhaps it was because his father had been a stuffy old schoolmaster.

“Pertwee, quick. I got to get dressed and see bleeding Threshfield right away.”

Pertwee shut the wardrobe door with deliberation. “Sir wished me to inform him when he lapsed in his speech or manners. Sir is now speaking as if he were a costermonger.”

“Oh, hang my speech.” Nick began throwing off his clothes. When Pertwee didn’t move from his position and began polishing his monocle, Nick threw his
shirt onto the giant four-poster bed hung with white silk damask. “Bloody hell. All right, all right.”

He took a few deep breaths and began again. His shoulders pulled back. His chin elevated, and he spoke in tones that recalled Mayfair, Grosvenor Square, and royal drawing rooms. “I shall require a bath, Pertwee, and clothes for tea. Please be quick, as I must obtain an interview with his lordship immediately.”

“At once, sir.”

Pertwee glided out of the room as if moving on oiled wheels. Nick fell to pacing around the chamber. If he tried to find his own clean clothes, Pertwee would be annoyed. Gentlemen didn’t set out their own clothing or draw their own baths. Since Jocelin had rescued him from that gutter all those years ago, he’d learned that gentlemen did bloody little for themselves if they could find someone else to do it for them.

He glanced around the bedroom. Even the bell-pull was embroidered in gold. There were flimsy little Louis XV chairs and a baroque wardrobe and chest that were more curlicue than anything else. As he looked at the ornate furnishings, that feeling came over him again. He’d lived with it for a long time now. It was a strange feeling of disjointedness.

Only recently had he discovered where it came from. Here in England he lived the life of a wealthy gentleman. His country houses were even larger than Threshfield, his town house a rival to that of any duke. He had grown used to moving among gilded surroundings. But always, deep within, he carried the east-London slums with their coat of manure mixed with coal dust and rotting garbage. The contrast between
his surroundings and the fetid slime that covered his heart gnawed at him constantly.

This was why he’d accepted Jos’s invitation to go to Texas. In that rough country the contrast didn’t seem so great. He could enjoy the hillsides covered with veils of bluebonnets; bathe in clear streams churning with white rapids; ride beneath live oaks choking with grapevines and moss; and never once hear an upper-class accent or see a carriage blazoned with a coat of arms that would remind him of what he’d sprung from.

But now he was back in a country that was a kingdom, not a nation. Back in the place where he’d been born the son of a coachman who’d drunk himself out of every position he’d ever gained and taken his failures out on his wife and children. By the time he was eight, Pa hadn’t needed the excuse of a lost position to beat his wife.

Ma would shove him and his sister, Tessie, out of their one-room apartment in St. Giles whenever Pa fell into one of his rages. Nick would always sneak back and listen to the beatings and cry—until one day when he was fifteen. That day he fled with Tessie, left her with neighbors, and sneaked back as he always had. But this time he went inside instead of cowering at the door.

This time he took a cudgel, and this time when Pa came after Ma with a broken chair leg, Nick blocked his way. The sight of his son enraged Pa further. He could still see Pa’s face, red and purple with drink and violence.

“Bleeding young shaver,” Pa had said with spittle wetting his lips. “Teach you to defy me, I will. Bleeding
prig. I won’t show no mercy. Not a hap’orth of it.”

Pa had been almost twice his size, but Nick had grown up on the streets, had survived among the dodgers and prigs of Whitechapel. He beat his father senseless, told him to get out of the apartment and never come back if he wanted to live. He and Ma and Tessie had done just fine after that. Pa hadn’t been there to drink up the profits he brought home from his burglaries and schemes.

“No mercy,” Nick said softly to himself. He sighed, went to the bootjack, and began removing his boots. “Get the job done, Nick old chap. Get it done quick and get out. You don’t belong here.”

He scowled at the bootjack as he remembered Lady Georgiana’s emerald eyes and the way she’d looked down at him from her perch on the freight wagon as if he were a fly on the Valenciennes lace of her gown. She reminded him of one of those statues. Which one was it? Ah, yes, the one of Athena, goddess of war. He could picture Lady Georgiana, with her majestic stature, wearing a bronze helmet and carrying a sword.

“I’ll wager she’d like to whack my head off with it, too,” he mused. “What a duel that would be.” What would she look like, coming at him in a flimsy white gown, swinging a short sword? Her legs would be bare except for the straps of leather sandals. Her arms would be bare too, and her breasts free …

“Holy bleeding hell, what am I doing?”

Nick snatched up the boot he’d just removed and threw it across the room. It smacked against the wall beside the door as Pertwee came through it. The valet gasped, put a hand to his throat, and closed his eyes.
Nick heard him count to ten before he opened them again to glare at his master.

“Sir’s bath is ready. If I may enter without risk to my life, I will prepare one of sir’s dress day coats. The sterling-silver studs, I think, along with the silver tie pin.”

“Sorry, Pertwee.”

“Sir is in need of a calming influence. Perhaps if sir would care to recite a little of the Plato we were reading last night.”

“Nah.”

Pertwee gave him that implacable glance Nick had grown to dread. “If you please, sir. ‘Beloved Pan and all ye other gods …’ ”

“Oh, all right! ‘Beloved Pan, and all ye other gods who haunt this place, give me beauty in the inward soul; and may the outward and inward man be at one. May I reckon the wise to be the wealthy, and may I have such a quantity of gold as none but the temperate can carry.’ ” Nick became silent for a moment. Then he eyed the valet. “You’re a bleeding mean old sod, Pertwee.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why do you put up with me?”

“I regard sir as a challenge.”

“It’s ’cause you promised Jos you’d look after me, isn’t it?”

“The marquess did ask me to take this position, but I wouldn’t remain if I didn’t consider the situation respectable, sir.”

“Thanks, old chap.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

Nick rose and grinned at the valet. “How long do
you think it takes to unload and store a red-granite sarcophagus?”

“A what, sir?”

“Never mind. Just hurry up and make me respectable. I’ve got work to do. And if I’m not quick, Lady Georgiana will have me out on my ear.”

How she wished Jocelin were here, where she could tell him what she thought of his high-handedness. She had expected him to disapprove, even to try to stop her, but she’d never expected to be pounced upon by his outrageous friend. The impudence!

Georgiana ducked under twenty yards of cream barege silk and waited while her maid, Rebecca, fastened the skirt at the back. She had been simmering near a boil for the last two hours while she’d supervised the unloading and storing of the sarcophagus. Now she wanted to get ready for tea early so that she could corner Threshfield and persuade him to oust Mr. Nicholas Ross. When she thought of this man—a near stranger—poking his nose into her personal affairs, she wanted to spit.

Her mother would never have approved of such a lapse in decorum from her daughter. It was more than irksome that men like Mr. Ross could behave with unpardonable impudence and escape with little more
than a scandalized glance. But not a woman, not the daughter of a duke.

But she shouldn’t lie to herself. She was angry at all men like Mr. Ross. Men whose appearance and charm allowed them to weasel their way into the affections of innocents. She had to admit to herself that she wouldn’t have had much patience with Mr. Ross had he been on his best behavior—not after her experience with Lord Silverstone.

She had been introduced to Lord Silverstone during her first season, along with dozens of other suitable young men anxious to marry a duke’s daughter. He was the heir to a great title, and beautiful in a pale, round-chinned way so different from the rugged Mr. Ross. Nevertheless, she had been smitten with his artistic sensibilities, his refinement, his heavy-lidded and sad brown eyes.

After one dance at a ball, Lord Silverstone had asked her father for her hand, and Georgiana had been astonished. All thoughts of independence fled her mind at the idea of becoming Silverstone’s wife. She had walked around in a fluffy daze while the duke had had a series of talks with Silverstone about the marriage settlement.

The daze had lasted until her first real conversation with Silverstone. After one of the settlement discussions Silverstone had met her in the drawing room at Grosvenor Square. As she came into the room, she bent forward a little to reduce her height. Silverstone was shorter than she was. Conscious of her shortcomings, aware that Silverstone could marry any of a number of heiresses, she had been tongue-tied.

She needn’t have worried about being able to say anything, because Silverstone embarked upon a lecture.
He was quite sure she was aware of her duty as a wife, and he was gratified that he would be marrying a girl so well trained to undertake the responsibilities of a large household. Finally she’d gathered enough courage to mention her idea of a home for children.

“Hardly a suitable occupation for a young bride,” Silverstone said. “No, there will be little time for that, what with the season and all. Establishing oneself as a major force in Society takes management, Georgiana.”

“But I want—”

“I can see we need to have a frank discussion,” he said. “I pride myself on my honesty, Georgiana. You’ll soon learn this about me. I’m not one to keep my opinions secret. Secrecy leads to misunderstandings and quarrels between a husband and wife.”

Silverstone rubbed his round chin as he gave her a severe appraisal. “I think it’s best if we begin honestly. I’ve made a sacrifice in offering for you, because, frankly, marrying you is rather like marrying the Tower or a cathedral. I’m sure you’re aware of your shortcomings in your appearance, and I’m willing to overlook them. The alliance with such a noble lineage is worth the sacrifice.”

He finished with a self-satisfied glow, hardly noticing Georgiana’s pallor or the way she’d drawn herself up from her slightly stooped posture.

“Your sacrifice won’t be necessary,” she said.

He had been gazing out the window at the carriage traffic in the square. His gaze darted to her in surprise, as if he’d never thought she would do anything but waggle her head in agreement.

“What won’t be necessary?” he asked.

“Your noble sacrifice. I wouldn’t hear of your
subjecting yourself to a lifetime of my company. Good-bye, my lord.”

“Georgiana, you’re not yourself. I shall leave and speak to you tomorrow when you’ve calmed down.”

Behind her facade of composure Georgiana felt the ache of humiliation. Why should she let this boor get away with his insults?

“I’m not going to marry you, Silverstone, and so that you’re clear on the matter, I’ll tell you why. You’re a mean-spirited little snake who hides his appetite for cruelty behind a guise of honesty. You admire frankness? Here’s frankness—you have no chin, sir, and you’re short, but neither of these mattered to me. However, I do object to marrying a self-important ass.”

Dukes’ daughters weren’t supposed to call their fiancés asses and mean-spirited little snakes, but the breach had been worth it to see the look of red-faced outrage on Silverstone’s face. The duke had been furious. And since that day Georgiana had never again given up on her plans to marry an aged suitor.

“My lady?”

Georgiana started and came out of her unhappy daydream to find Rebecca holding out the bodice to her gown. Angry with herself for indulging in thoughts that could provoke self-pity, Georgiana murmured an apology to her maid. Thrusting her arms through the tight sleeves of her bodice, she tugged on the pointed bottom hem and muttered to herself while Rebecca worked on the buttons. Then she sat before a mirror and helped the maid gather the thick lengths of her hair in coils at the back of her head.

Her hands shook with the force of her anger. If she’d been a man, like Jocelin, no one would have
interfered in her plans. All her work was threatened. She’d been devising her scheme for years. It was the result of a childhood spent watching her mother and father and gradually realizing how impossible it was to be a married woman in England.