by Isobel Carr
Ivo much preferred Lord Glendower’s sensibilities.
George would make more than a dream lover…she’d been in training her whole life to make a lord the perfect wife. If he could only bring her round he could have them both: the lady in the drawing room and the whore in the bedroom.
What more could any man wish for?
At Greely’s clock and watch shop, George explained what she needed to Greeley Senior and inspected the selection he pulled out for her.
Every inch of wall space was covered in clocks, the table tops a sea of them as well: gilt, ormolu, wood, all of them ticking until the sound was comforting, like the roar of the ocean.
‘What do you think, Dauntry?’ she asked, having whittled the contenders down to three. ‘Open-faced, or closed so he gets that satisfying snap when he shuts it?’
‘Snap,’ Dauntry ruled.
George nodded, sure the old martinet would appreciate the extra flair opening and shutting the watch would offer.
‘It’s settled, then. I’ll take this one.’ She pointed to a small one with a tortoiseshell case. ‘And a nice heavy chain, and a good fob.’
Mr Greely pulled out a suitable chain and offered her a velvet-lined tray with a selection of fobs. George looked them over carefully, and finally chose a detailed, miniature sphinx.
‘That completes our errands. Shall we go and find the children?’
She stepped out of the shop, squinting as the full light of the afternoon sun hit her. Dauntry bumped into her as she stopped abruptly. She glanced over her shoulder.
The corners of Dauntry’s lips curled up, one hand went to the small of her back, steadying her.
‘George—’
‘We’re in the middle of the street, my lord.’ She took a step away from him, shook out the skirts of her pelisse. She knew that tone. The sound of a man about to make a confession. ‘You can have your say in the privacy of the parlour, if you must.’
Fortunately, when they arrived at the White Hart the Tilehurst girls were waiting for them, all of them sitting in the parlour, reviewing their purchases. The earl gave her a put-upon look to which she refused to succumb.
Julius and Aubrey arrived as George was taking off her coat, Julius loaded down with a varied assortment of packages. They’d gotten their father a very long black carriage whip, and several packages of replacement whip ends, as well as an ingenious brass handwarmer meant to be filled with sacks of heated sand. Julius unwrapped a beautiful silk and mother-of-pearl fan for their mother, explaining that he and Aubrey had had to pool their money for it, but that it was worth it. George agreed, heartily endorsing their choice. It was just the sort of pretty bauble that Victoria would love, and the plain silk could be painted with any number of fanciful designs.
Lunch was already on the table, and the meal half eaten before Hayden and Simone came scrambling in. They set their packages down on a small side table and came over to join everyone else.
‘Sorry we’re late, Aunt George,’ Hay said, sliding into an empty seat and helping himself to some sliced beef and a few carrots and parsnips. ‘It took us longer than we thought to find everything.’
‘That’s what I assumed.’ George took a sip of her wine and eyed them thoughtfully. They didn’t look excited—or dirty—enough to have been out causing any real mayhem. Perhaps they’d actually behaved themselves? While the children finished their meals, George wandered back out to the taproom to supervise the inkeep’s son loading the gig she’d hired to carry all their purchases back to the Court.
‘Thank you, Thomas. I can always count on you.’ She slipped a guinea from her pocket and held it out to him.
The boy beamed, almost blushing, and ducked his head as he took the coin. She leaned against the wall, watching the gig fill with crates, boxes, and parcels tied up in brown paper.
Her shoulder blades twitched and she glanced across the yard. She hated the sensation of being watched. She liked the lick of fear that flickered through her even less. Before all this nonsense with the highwaymen it would never have occurred to her that the sensation boded ill, but today she couldn’t escape it. Couldn’t ignore it.
Her own half-formed fears after being attacked by the highwaymen, combined with Brimstone’s concern when she’d confided in him, suddenly welled up. Panic flooded through her. Choked her.
She whirled about and all but ran back into the inn.
Dauntry met her just inside, the children trailing behind him, loud and excited, full of chocolate and sticky buns.
George took a deep breath. She was being ridiculous. She was in Leicester, for Heaven’s sake. Safe and sound. The streets were hardly likely to be teeming with criminals.
Dauntry called for the sleigh while she bundled the children back into their coats. The innkeeper passed her, carrying hot bricks for their feet, and she ushered the children out behind him.
Dauntry was already on the box, breath fogging in the crisp, cold air. Julius scrambled up beside him while she and the rest of the children settled under the blankets once more.
She spent the drive back watching Dauntry guide Julius’s hands on the reins, trying to shake the panicked feeling of being watched. Wondering what it was he had wanted to say.
‘Tighten up on the reins, you’ve let the left one go slack.’
Morpeth’s heir blushed hotly and did as he was told, sliding the left rein between his fingers until he once again had the team riding their bits.
Behind them, the children were singing, loudly and off key. Every once in a while the song would falter and George’s soft tenor would be revealed until the children picked the song up again.
Just being near her tied him up in a knot of sexual frustration. It was disturbing. Exhilarating. Or it was when something could be done to satisfy it…
Their return to the Court coincided with that of George’s second bulldog. The viscount was just climbing down from his coach as Julius reined in their team.
Ivo frowned as St Audley helped George and the children from the sleigh. Young Thomas rattled past, driving round to the servants’ entrance, where he could unload the gig.
‘I’m so glad you’ve joined us,’ George said, sliding her arm around St Audley’s. ‘There have been far too many political discussions, if they may be so politely termed, and not nearly enough real conversation. I’m counting on you to correct that.’
The viscount laughed, sounding pleased with his welcome. As well he should be, the bastard.
‘Frivolity at your command, my dear.’
Ivo gritted his teeth and took the reins from Julius. When the boy had hopped down from the box, he gave them a sharp snap and lurched off towards the stables. Once he rounded the house, stable boys came running.
He handed the team over with relief and hurried inside, as eager for a fire and a brandy as the horses were for their stalls and a bucket of oats.
Chapter Nineteen
How desperately we all desire to know just how things progress at the Earl of G—’s country home. Alas, we were not so lucky as to be invited. Instead we must make do with the scandal available in Town.
Tête-à-Tête, 24 December 1788
‘The shooting contests are about to start. Get your coat and meet me in the gun room.’
George glanced over her shoulder at the Earl of Morpeth. He’d already laid aside the magnificent velvet coat he’d worn earlier and was now wearing a loose shooting coat of buff leather.
She glanced around the courtyard. All the sportsmen had changed already. She’d been so distracted playing second hostess that she’d missed them all slipping away to exchange their coats.
Bright winter sun poured in through the glass canopy that enclosed what was once the central courtyard of the house. Blazing fires in the enormous fireplaces on either side of the courtyard cut the chill.
George wove her way through the crowd of guests. Sofas, chaises, and chairs had been arranged near each of the fireplaces. The elderly guests had been settled upon them t
o gossip and drink the hot rum punch which was being liberally distributed by the army of footmen employed at the Court.
Once out of the courtyard, she ran lightly up the convenient set of servants’ stairs to her room. She hurriedly pulled on her fur-trimmed redingote and hat, swapped her shoes for sturdier boots, and then made her way down to the gun room. It was filled with men. They milled about, looking at Lord Glendower’s extensive collection of firearms, loudly debating who would be the winner of the various contests that day.
Sydney stood up on a bench and bellowed to get everyone’s attention. ‘All right then! There will be multiple categories today for both rifle and pistol. Targets have been erected on the far side of the house and my father is out there right now making sure everything is in readiness. Please follow Lord Morpeth out the side door; everything should be waiting for us.’
The snow had been swept aside and straw thrown down on a path out to where bales of hay had been set up on end with painted canvas targets draped over them. Morpeth offered her his arm and led her along the still slippery path.
When they reached the line of waiting footmen, all standing ready with the guns for the competition, she dropped Morpeth’s arm and tightened the tippet around her throat, shivering inside her coat as she adjusted to the cold.
Lady Glendower had clearly spent no small amount of time on the targets, which were painted to resemble flying pheasants, running hares, and playing cards.
Those inclined to the first competition claimed a rifle from one of the footmen and took their place facing the targets. The others stood off to the side, indulging in the hot rum punch that had been provided. The first rounds were fired, each shot loud enough that George could feel the sound rattle through her.
Clouds of smoke mingled with the men’s breath only to be blown away by the breeze. The second round of men took their shots, the competition quickly taking its toll on the pheasants and hares.
Morpeth took off a pheasant’s head from forty paces, and then handed the gun to a footman to reload. George stepped forward for the third round. She sighted, called out, ‘Hare’s eye,’ and fired, hitting the hare just beside its eye.
‘Not much of a lady, are you, hellion?’ Brimstone smiled at her, steaming mug in hand.
‘If I were it’d have been me dead in the mud by the side of the road, not some filthy highwayman.’
Ivo’s chest seized.
What the hell was she talking about?
George had been ignoring him since yesterday when they’d returned from Leicester. The arrival of her second bulldog had made it all too easy for her. She might as well have been cloistered.
George turned her back to him as she stepped up to take her turn. The breeze ruffled the fur of her hat, filled his lungs with the scent of summer.
When they were done here she was going to damn well talk to him if he had to drag her away kicking and screaming.
His own shot went woefully wide and he stomped over to Bennett and reclaimed his punch. The hot copper warmed his hands, making the leather of his gloves feel a part of him. Even from a dozen steps away he could hear Brimstone chuckle. An indulgent, possessive sound that made him want to bash his head in with one of the rifle butts.
The gentlemen continued to blast away while Ivo fumed. Two more rounds made it clear that only Morpeth and Bennett were truly in competition. When the smoke finally cleared and the targets were examined, Bennett was proclaimed the winner.
Ivo tried not to look surprised when George won the second contest of the day. No woman should handle a duelling pistol with such accuracy, or such aplomb. She’d bested all the gentlemen present, himself included, in only a few rounds.
Ivo glanced around at their fellow competitors; none of the men seemed put out by being beaten by a woman. Most of them were busy slapping her on the back, offering their congratulations, or trying to convince her to sell the pretty pearl-handled pistol she’d used.
The final contest of the day began, but he couldn’t seem to keep his attention on it. George was busy acting as judge, writing the men’s names down on the cards they had shot, her enjoyment of the day evident in every movement she made. She wiped the back of one gloved hand across her cheek, smearing the spots of powder dotting her face.
He wanted to wipe them off. To lick them off. To pull her behind the large tree she was leaning against, put his hand up her skirts and—the tree exploded in shower of splinters.
Ivo’s fantasies evaporated as pandemonium struck. Shouted accusations flew back and forth, Brimstone shoved one of the contestants, men dove in from all sides, some trying to prevent a fight, others joining in.
George’s face drained of colour. One hand came up to brush away the bits of wood that covered her coat. Ivo pushed his way through the crowd, shoving past the knot of tangled, angry men.
He got his arm around her waist, took her roving hand in his, and tugged her away from the tree. ‘Inside. Now.’
She glanced up, eyes huge, amber irises shimmering behind the sudden spurt of tears. ‘An accident. Nothing but a silly misfire.’
‘I’m sure it was.’ He strong-armed her along the straw path, half carrying her. ‘Happens all the time.’ He could feel himself getting angrier with every step. The sickening buzz in his chest spreading down his limbs.
‘A duelling pistol firing wide by thirty or forty feet is perfectly normal.’ Someone was trying to kill her and she hadn’t said a word. Not to him, anyway. She’d be lucky if he didn’t throttle her himself.
‘Dauntry.’ She tried to pull away. ‘Dauntry. Ivo!’ She planted her heels, dragging to a stop. ‘Slow down.’
‘Slow down?’ He jerked her into motion again, using his superior size to force her along. ‘Whoever just took a shot at you has had plenty of time by now to reload. We’re not slowing down. And if you dig your heels in again I’ll throw you over my shoulder and carry you inside a like a sack of meal.’
He dragged her into the house and shut the door behind them with a resounding boom. She yanked her arm from his grasp and stood rubbing it, watching him warily.
‘Pick a room, George. And choose wisely, because you’ve got some explaining to do.’
Her chin shot up. Her brows pinched together in displeasure. ‘I have nothing—’
‘To say to me. I’m sure. But I have several things to say to you, and in another minute or two I’ll be saying them in front of half of the Glendowers’ guests.’
Her eyes narrowed and she brushed past him. Ivo followed, his temper straining on its leash, snapping at her heels. She paused beside a door at the top of the first flight of stairs and pushed it open.
‘Sydney’s study.’ She went inside, leaving the door hanging open behind her. ‘Mine to use when I’m here.’
Ivo shut the door behind him. He looked her up and down. Tiny bits of wood still clung to her, littered the fur of her hat and tippet. Three bright specks of blood had appeared on her cheek. She was going to need someone to pick out the splinters. He reached out and plucked a large bit from her tippet. George flinched.
‘Before this goes any further, I am not engaged to Miss Bagshott. Never have been—regardless of the marquess’s claims to the contrary—and never will be.’
‘So your grandfather’s insane?’
Ivo shook his head and brushed more fragments of the tree from her redingote. ‘That’s one way of looking at it. Another is that once the old man’s mind is set, it’s nearly impossible to dissuade him.’
He turned away, eyes roving about the room. Trying to distract himself from the need to shake her. The urge to pull her into his arms and kiss her.
He needed a drink. They both did. He spotted a decanter, belly full of tea-coloured liquid, on the mantel. ‘Come and sit down by the cold hearth, have a brandy—’
‘A whisky.’
Ivo glanced back at her, decanter in hand.
‘Just so you know,’ she unwound the tippet and dropped it on to the desk along with her hat, ‘it’s whis
ky.’
‘A whisky, then. Come and have a whisky.’
George crossed the room, hands patting her crushed hair back into place, and dropped into one of the two chairs beside the fireplace. She accepted the glass he held out to her, drained it, and held it out.
Ivo filled it nearly to the brim, then set the decanter on the floor beside her. He dragged the other chair closer and sat down heavily.
‘Exactly how long have you known someone is trying to kill you?’
George let her breath out slowly as the whisky worked its way through her, warming her from the inside out. She put one hand up to her forehead, ran her fingers over one brow, smoothing it. Trying to order her thoughts.
‘About ten minutes.’
‘I heard you mention something not an hour ago about an attack by highwaymen to your damn bulldog.’ Dauntry’s voice came out in a growl, the vein in his forehead was prominent, displaying his displeasure like a dog’s raised ruff.
‘My what?’
‘Don’t change the subject. You know damn well who I mean.’
George settled back into the chair, busk pressing into her belly. She took another large gulp, half afraid she was going to drop the glass as her hand shook.
‘I’ve known for sure since the tree exploded behind me. I’ve suspected since I was held up on my way here. The way the third highwayman looked at me…I don’t know how to explain it. And it makes me think the fire that killed Maeve must have been deliberate as well.’
‘What do your bulldogs say?’
Her bulldogs. That really was what they were, Brimstone and St Audley.
‘Brimstone says he’s never letting me out of his sight. I haven’t told anyone else yet. Lady Glendower will panic. Lord Glendower and Alençon will try to lock me away for my own protection, and St Audley will second them on the action and act as jailer to boot.’
Muffled steps outside the door made her stiffen and sit up. The door opened and Brimstone stormed in, his concerned expression slackening into relief.
