by Jo Beverley
“It was as if the cats wanted to dine on her!” Dracy exploded as he entered the private parlor he and Tom Knowlton had taken at the Bull. All the way there, he’d burned over the poisoned darts some of the women had thrown at Lady Maybury during the meal.
“That Cardross woman, saying that a nunlike appearance looked odd on her. And Lady Waveney adding that it became her more than goddess garb. Why that caused smirks, I don’t know, but it was foul. Poisonous snakes, the lot of ’em, and it didn’t help that she had admirers. The Duke of Beaufort, the Earl of Sellerby, even Waveney was smiling at her in a way calculated to make his wife seethe. No wonder Lady Waveney came up with something about the theater. Did the damn woman appear on stage in breeches?”
“Lady Waveney? I haven’t had the pleasure. Have some ale, Dracy.”
“There’d be no pleasure, I assure you. A lazy, doughy sort of woman.” Dracy filled a tankard from the pitcher. “But I meant Lady Maybury. Surely she’s not in the habit of acting on stage?”
“Ah, I do remember something.”
“A private theatrical?”
“Well, no, if I remember. One of the London theaters.”
“Damnation. Someone needs to take her in hand.”
Dracy remembered Hernescroft’s comment about a switch and felt sick.
“I’d not envy anyone the task,” Knowlton said.
“No?”
“Gads, no.”
“She’s very beautiful,” Dracy said.
“But not at all comfortable.”
Knowlton was completely serious, and he was right. The scandalous Lady Maybury was not at all comfortable, but Dracy remembered Hernescroft’s astute observation. He might envy Tom Knowlton his comfortable life and comfortable wife, but he feared he’d be bored to insanity in a sixmonth by the same.
He took a deep drink of ale. Marriage to Lady Maybury was impossible in every respect, and she’d done her best to squash any stirring hope. She’d turned cool over the dinner and left him without a word or a speaking look.
But he couldn’t let it go. It wasn’t just her beauty; it was an illusion of friendship that grew out of their time on the terrace. He didn’t think he’d ever spoken to a woman with such ease and enjoyment, and with damn few men.
“Hens coming home to roost,” Knowlton said. “She was a wild one as I hear it. Took pleasure in attracting men, married or single, so of course the ladies don’t like her.”
“She can’t help being beautiful.”
Knowlton send him a worried look. “Word to the wise, Dracy. Lady Maybury is a lovely young woman. Enchanting, some say. Nothing but trouble, though, as such women always are.”
Dracy refilled his tankard and sat down. “She’s more vulnerable than you might think. She put on a performance of not noticing the looks and jibes, but I was sitting beside her. She was tense as a bow and hardly put a morsel in her mouth.”
“So she don’t like the bed she lies in, but she made it with her scandalous goings-on, and there’s nothing you can do.”
“I suppose not.”
But mind, heart, and gut summoned him anyway. Summoned him to stand by her side on the burning deck.
Whom else did she have? At best her family disapproved of her and planned to cage her so she couldn’t scandalize again. At worst she was nothing but a trading piece, and for a mere horse!
Perhaps Beaufort was a genuine admirer and would defend her, but he was young. Sellerby was a better candidate. That could be why Dracy had taken a dislike to the man. Handsome, elegant, at ease in the company even though he didn’t give a groat for racehorses, and a favorite of Lady Maybury.
“Do you know the Earl of Sellerby?”
Knowlton screwed up his face. “Court type. Too high-flying for me, but I have met him. Ah, went with some friends to his London house to see his collection of classical statues. All modern molds, but correct to every detail, he claimed, and many from statues still abroad.”
“Wealthy, then?”
“Have to be, I’d think. Thought about getting a few statues like that for my place. Annie might like it, as long as they were decently clothed, that is. I remember Sellerby mentioning a new type of plaster that can withstand the weather. Fired, like pottery. Could have a statue or two in the garden.”
Dracy doubted the wisdom of introducing classical statuary to a cozy manor house, but he didn’t say so. Instead, foolishly, he was wondering if Georgia Maybury would want such things at Dracy. If so, he strongly suspected she’d prefer the indecently clothed variety. So young, but so obviously worldly wise.
Which wasn’t a crime in a widow…
“How did things go with Hernescroft?”
Dracy realized he’d stormed here ranting about Lady Maybury’s treatment and spoken of nothing else. Now what to say?
He took a deep drink. “That’s why I’m drowning my sorrows. Gosling-go’s dead.”
“The devil you say!”
“A few days ago. Had a fit of temper and broke a hock.”
“That’s a damn shame.”
“Isn’t it, just?”
“So you keep Fancy Free?”
Dracy disliked lying to anyone and especially to a friend, but he had to prevaricate. “We’re looking for another substitution.”
“But you need a stallion, and a mature one.”
“I know that! Sorry to snap, but the past few hours have not gone as planned in any respect.”
Knowlton nodded. “Hold out for the money. Hernescroft can raise it, and then you can take your pick. They say the Duke of Cumberland’s failing, and he has a notable stud. Even Herod.”
Herod was a notable stallion, but Dracy shook his head.
“I doubt a fair price for Fancy Free would cover Herod’s price at auction. What do you think? A thousand?”
“More if the bidding’s brisk.”
But with twelve thousand in hand…
“The trouble is, Hernescroft holds the tiller. He knows now that I don’t want Fancy Free. Might even suspect that I’m softhearted enough not to want to take the horse away from its familiar surroundings. If he insists that he can’t raise the money, that it’s Fancy Free or nothing, I’m on the rocks.”
Knowlton looked aghast. “You think the Earl of Hernescroft’s up to shady dealings?”
“He simply intends that things go his way, and at the moment I can’t see my way forward. I might as well return to Dracy and put my winnings to work on the stables. Comes to a bit over three hundred.”
“There’s the roof of Dracy Manor,” Knowlton reminded him.
Dracy almost said the roof could rot, but that would shock his friend to the core. “I’ll arrange a patch or two. Don’t preach at me, Tom. One way or another, I’m going to restore the Dracy stud.”
“You need a roof over your head and food from the home farm.”
“I know, I know. But it’s a damned boring business, farming.”
“Only in the good times,” Tom said with feeling. “Can’t you settle to a quiet life?”
Dracy drank some ale, knowing the answer was no. Damn a quiet life when a spirited redheaded lay to hand, bringing enough money to restore Dracy—house, estate, and stud. A spirited redhead he admired, and who stood beleaguered by enemies, needing a strong man by her side.
He remembered Lady Hernescroft’s comment. Moths drawn to the flame died.
But what was life without risk?
Lizzie,
The dinner was vile! Why didn’t I expect that?
You were in the right, dearest, in doubting the wisdom of such long seclusion. I’ve lost my instinct for the beau monde and its ways. I couldn’t even understand half that was said. A comment made about a filly was supposed to devastate me, but it meant nothing.
It’s all Father’s fault for ordering me to go down to dinner. If I’d planned to attend I would have studied the guest list and been better prepared.
Pranks’s wife was absent, but her sister, Eloisa Cardross, ably stirred the pot. It
’s not as if I wanted the attention of so many gentlemen, but she took it as a personal attack and slashed back with a comment about my goddess costume.
Yes, I know you thought it shocking, but I was as well covered as any lady there. More!
Nasty cat.
No, not cat, ferret. She does have a rather sharp nose! Do you think she truly harbors hopes of Beaufort? Her portion will be good, but I wouldn’t lay money on her chances. Sellerby, perhaps, if he could put up with her.
He was there, pretending to be a racing man. I teased him on it dreadfully, for he hardly ever mounts a horse. Even though my mourning’s not yet over, he said a few things that could be of a wooing nature. Alas, I fear I will have to disappoint him. I have always enjoyed his company, and we share a great many tastes, but I will look for more than warm friendship when I choose again.
Georgia stopped writing before she revealed more about a lacking aspect of her marriage. Dickon had been a friend too, but never more than that. It felt disloyal to even think it, but it was true, and in that respect she wanted better.
She now regretted allowing Sellerby to write to her and, especially, replying. In the early months she’d permitted no letters from gentlemen after the first one of condolence. She’d had them all returned unopened.
When she’d heard about Sellerby’s efforts to sway the dowager in her favor, she’d written to thank him and from there slid into a correspondence. She’d enjoyed it, for he’d written all the best news of Town and he had a fine appreciation of arts and style, but it might have given him a false impression.
She was running out of space on her sheet of paper so she turned it sideways to write across, then dipped her pen.
Let me tell you of another lord—Dracy. Pray excuse the crossed lines, but I don’t want to burden you with the cost of an extra sheet.
Dracy is an original—that is certain sure. I came across him leaning so far over the terrace balustrade that I feared he intended to throw himself off. But no, he was merely seeking to identify flowers.
I suppose a life at sea doesn’t provide much experience of gardens. I’m sure I’d hate it, for I do love flowers. When I think of the ones in our London garden, and especially those at Sansouci…
But I will not pine. All that is over and I will have other gardens soon.
I expected a portly, weathered tar, but though he is browned and carries himself in a military manner, he is, in his own way, quite polished. And young. Not yet thirty, I’m sure. And with a fine, manly figure.
He has much to learn, however. Would you believe that he lifted me, without request or permission, up onto the coping so I could identify the flowers for him! It quite flustered me, for he’s very strong.
Georgia ceased writing, brushing the tip of her quill across her lips.
Despite the scar, the briskness, and the lack of stylish manner, there was something about the man. He was so firm, so complete in himself. So confident and strong.
Such a shame about his appearance.
She was ashamed of her reaction there and resolved to do better if they ever met again. As a start, she could address the subject briskly now.
The poor man is badly scarred by a burn across the right of his face. The skin there is shiny and puckered and it twists up the right side of his brow and lips as if he’s constantly in a sneer. I made a point to treat him exactly as I would anyone else, but it is a sad injury, for I believe before he must have been a very handsome fellow.
I was supposed to assist him at dinner, but he managed very well on his own. I rather think he assisted me by anchoring me. That’s a clever choice of words, isn’t it, for a naval officer? He anchored me so I could ignore the catty ladies and leering Lord Waveney. He’s married now and should desist.
When Mother led the ladies away, I had no intention of trapping myself with the cats, so I made my excuses and returned here.
I’m resolved to avoid the beau monde until I’m done with mourning, no matter what my father dictates. When I rejoin the world in Town, it will be in full glory and surrounded by friends. Face-to-face, in no time at all people will realize that their suspicions are idiotic.
Oh, talking of Town, which means gossip, I must mention that the Duke of Grafton was present, sans both mistress and wife. I’ve heard the duchess now looks elsewhere. Quel scandale, poor woman, but his behavior has been intolerable, vile man.
Talking of dukes, Beaufort flirted with me delightfully and spoke often of my return to Town, though worrying about my safety there. Fie for agitated silk weavers and the ever-restless mob. Remind me when we meet to tell you the story about Ulysses. It was a clever moment.
In the tiniest writing, she managed to squeeze in:
Fancy Free seems safe for the moment. She is to remain here until the Dracy stables are repaired, or until Father devises an acceptable substitution, but my part in that is done.
Write back soon, my dearest friend,
Georgia
Georgia folded the sheet in three and then three again and took out the black sealing wax and her gold seal. It wasn’t specific to the Countess of Maybury, as the design was a G surrounded by flowers, but Dickon had given it to her. When she married again, would it be appropriate for her to continue to use it?
She looked up at the portrait. “You wouldn’t care, would you, love?”
As if he’d spoken, she wrinkled her nose at the black. Enough of that. Though her mourning wouldn’t end for a few weeks, today felt like a new beginning. She searched her drawer and found red wax. She held it in the candle flame and dripped a blob over the join in the letter, then set the seal firmly upon it.
The seal would always be a sweet memory of Dickon, and she’d never marry a man who could object to
that.
She sent Jane off with the letter, and then, in the spirit of new beginnings, she took a clean sheet of paper and began to make a plan for her grand return to the heart of the world in twenty-four days.
To London.
To Town.
To Life.
“Not go to Town?” Georgia stared at her father.
He was sitting in a quite ordinary upholstered chair in the family drawing room but gave the impression of being enthroned. Her mother sat nearby, mirroring the style.
Georgia felt diminished by being on a settee.
Her parents had traveled to Herne from Town for this discussion, which should have warned her something was amiss. She’d planned to set off to join them tomorrow, when her mourning would officially be over.
“Too dangerous,” her father said. “By heaven, girl, you read the papers. The Spitalfields silk weavers smashed the Duke of Bedford’s windows to protest French silks, and the mob’s gone wild about taxation, harassing anyone they take objection to.”
“I don’t wear French silk, Father, and I’m not connected to any discord.”
“No, daughter.”
That was the word of God, and though Georgia’s jaw clenched with rebellion, to do more would be as futile as the mob’s violence.
Choosing her words, she said, “I can’t stay here, Father. It might look as if I skulk.”
“Which would not surprise anyone, given your behavior.”
“Where else am I to go? Some of my friends are still in Town—the Harringays and Arbutts, and Perry of course.”
“Alas, no,” said her mother. “He has traveled to Yorkshire.”
“Yorkshire? Perry? He’d be as likely to head for darkest Africa!”
“Nevertheless, it’s true. Carried there by the obligations of friendship. You may have read that the Earl of Malzard dropped down dead a fortnight ago. He left no sons, so his heir is one of Perry’s friends, all unprepared for his duties.”
“Unfortunate,” Georgia said, meaning it in many ways. She’d been depending on Perry. “The Malzards seemed a pleasant couple. Who is the heir?”
“A brother, recently sold out of the army.”
A military man, like Dracy, Georgia thought. She somet
imes wondered how he was managing on his estate. He could know as little about that as he did about the beau monde.
She pulled her mind back to her predicament.
“Perry’s bound to return south soon, Mother, and I look forward to hearing about his adventures in the wilderness, but I don’t need him to be in Town in order to return myself.”
“No, Georgia,” her father stated. “Your safety is my sacred duty. It will not do.”
“Then, where am I to go?”
She would not remain here—she would not—and this unexpected obstruction of her careful plans was intolerable. She’d disliked her year at Herne, but until now, she’d not felt incarcerated.
