by Kim Bowman
“You are quiet, Mrs. Markham,” the duke said after a long while.
Georgina traced the seam of her lips with the tip of her tongue. “I didn’t realize you’d asked a question.”
His lips dipped down, giving him an almost boyish look of annoyance. “Should I be clearer? I’m asking you to reconcile with your father.”
She closed her eyes. The sound of her father’s fists meeting her flesh echoed in her memory. A faint tremor racked her body. “No,” she rasped. After the hell she’d endured at his hands, she could never return. If she did, he would inevitably kill her with no more thought than squashing a nagging insect. “I can’t.”
Mr. Archer seemed to grasp the direction of her unspoken thoughts for he again broke with propriety and claimed her fingers. His touch was gentle and warm. He interrupted the duke, who was about to speak. “I know you are afraid of him, Miss Wilcox.”
“Markham,” Stone corrected.
Mr. Archer ignored him. “We need your help. We’ve learned that Robert Emmet has returned to Ireland and is preparing to assemble his army. The good of the country is at stake.”
She pressed her fingers against her temple and rubbed. It would seem all Emmet’s efforts were about to come to fruition. What could she possibly do to prevent the Irish insurrection?
“We need you to guide us to Emmet,” the duke explained.
“How do you presume I do that?” She’d lost all access to information the moment she’d freed Adam and fled her father and Jamie. “The only reason I had knowledge in the first place was because my f…” A loud hum filled her ears as the enormity of what was being asked of her sunk in.
The duke leaned forward. “We need your help.”
She heard the duke’s words as if from a distance. “No. I won’t.”
I can’t.
Seeing him again would result in her death. She was sure of it.
“Miss Wilcox, a number of good, loyal Englishmen have died at the hands of these Irish revolutionaries,” Archer said.
He exchanged a glance with the duke before continuing. “Our country is on the cusp of war with France. A battle with Ireland would be disastrous.”
Georgina directed her eyes to the ink black velvet curtain. Her mind raced. She couldn’t go back there. She’d waited her whole life to escape her father and Jamie’s cruel machinations and now with the mission presented to her, they’d undo all hope of freedom?
A chill wracked her frame as she remembered the day Adam had escaped, and the beating she’d received.
“Your father is a traitor, Miss Wilcox, and he knows the date and location of the planned event,” the duke said quietly, having correctly interpreted the reasons for her hesitancy.
The pit in her stomach grew. All her life she’d known someday she would have to make a decision, that secret notes handed off to the butcher’s son were not enough to right Father’s wrongs. The time to make that decision had finally come.
“What will you require of me?” she asked, the question flat to her own ears.
The duke exchanged a look with Stone.
Stone spoke. “Hunter recently contacted you, asking for your support.”
She tried to conceal a flash of surprise. “How do you—?”
“It is our responsibility to know. The next time you are contacted, meet them. We will provide you with papers containing information. I want you to pass them along to your father. That should solidify your reconciliation.”
The muscles in her body strained. Leaning forward, she rested her elbows on her knees and buried her head in her hands. She’d not seen her father since the day she’d freed Blakely. She picked her head up. “This will never work,” she said finally.
The duke frowned.
She recalled her father’s earliest suspicions and then the moment he’d discovered her role in freeing Adam. “My father will never confide in me. I betrayed him for a second time.”
“He will,” the duke insisted.
“You don’t know,” she lashed out. “You don’t know that my father never trusted me, that he abandoned me to my own devices. Why should he take me back?”
The duke dusted his hands together. “Because he believes you are an angry, jealous wife. Everyone knows of your discontent from the papers and mention of your husband’s former love.”
Georgina blanched, and dug her fingers into the palms of her hand until she left crescent moons of silent hurt.
The duke seemed immune to her pain. “And you forget. Your father is in desperate need of the information in your possession. The ton has already done a remarkable job brandishing about the recent scandal with Markham. Therefore, your father will see what he wants to see. That is your weapon.”
He fell silent.
Georgina broke the quiet. “How do you presume I obtain Emmet’s plans?”
He inclined his head. “Why, the same way you did in the past, my dear.”
She nibbled on her lip. “My husband—”
“Can’t know.”
A lock of hair fell across her eye. She brushed it back. She couldn’t keep this from him. Not when secrets and lies had already destroyed their fragile happiness.
Georgina shook her head. “I can’t lie to him, Your Grace.”
Archer cleared his throat.
Georgina looked at him.
“Your husband will not let you take on this role,” he pointed out gently.
Bitterness coated her mouth with a filmy layer of regret. She saw herself bent over Lord Ashton’s balcony while Adam took her with punishing strokes then coldly walked away. “You are wrong. My husband will not care.”
“He is angry, but he cares a great deal for you. I’m sure of it. If your husband were to know what we proposed, he’d not allow you take on this mission. No man would,” Archer concluded.
They’d not seen the black hatred in Adam’s eyes, or heard the vile things he’d said.
“When you are done, when your father has been brought to justice, your husband will forgive you,” the duke said.
Georgina managed a small smile. Adam would never forgive her.
But mayhap if I do this, I can prove to him that I am loyal.
Hope stirred within her breast.
“I’d ask that I be able to write my husband a note,” she said, her words a faint whisper.
The duke frowned.
Stone interjected. “What kind of note?”
“An explanation. If anything happens to me, I’d want him to know that I was not disloyal in this. I’d want him to know that I was loyal to the Crown.”
Archer’s mouth flattened. “Nothing will happen to you.”
Georgina waited for the duke to speak.
The nobleman’s eyes were uncharacteristically somber. “I will see that it reaches him.”
Georgina leaned back, sucking in a breath. “How will I be in contact with you? How will I know what information to give? How—”
He held up a finger, silencing her barrage of questions. “Suzanne is to be trusted.”
Her brow wrinkled. “My maid?”
“The very same. All correspondences will go through Suzanne. She will serve as your emissary. When you receive your summons from Fox and Hunter, she will accompany you.”
It would appear the duke had thought out every detail.
He rapped on the ceiling, and the conveyance came to a fluid stop.
She reached for the window curtain. This time no one stopped her, and she peered outside. “Where are we?”
Stone answered her question. “The Dials.”
She drew in a shuddery breath. No member of the nobility would find himself in the Seven Dials, or if he did…well, then whatever had brought him here would be less than reputable.
“Do you know what I find interesting, Mrs. Markham?”
Georgina inclined her head. “No, but I suspect you’ll tell me.”
Stone stifled a chuckle with his hand.
“You’ve not once wondered about your own
fate. You’ve not asked what will happen to you.”
Georgina studied her lap. His words weren’t altogether true. Since Adam had leveled the threat of Newgate at her, she’d not been able to shake the images of a dank, dark cell from her mind.
“You’ve done nothing wrong,” Archer murmured.
Tears blurred her vision. Adam had suffered unimagined horrors at her father’s hands. As had Archer. And others. She clenched her eyes tight.
Two lone drops trickled down her cheeks. “I am guilty by my birthright.”
The duke looked at her with an indecipherable expression. “You’re not responsible for your father’s actions. But you are responsible for yours.” He nodded to Stone, who in turn opened the door.
Stone and Archer jumped out.
The duke lingered then took his leave without a final word.
As the carriage pulled away, returning her home, she watched the duke disappear into the faint London fog, unable to quell the sense of doom that lingered in her heart.
Chapter 23
Georgina sat on the small window seat, staring out at the steady stream of rain beating against the glass pane.
She touched her finger to a single droplet and, through the thin barrier, traced its slow, winding path until it disappeared.
Thunder rumbled in the far distance, making the glass tremble under her hand.
She made the mistake of glancing down at the paper on her lap. Her throat worked reflexively. It had been a fortnight since Adam and Grace had been discovered in flagrante delicato as the scandal sheets had reported, and still the story would not die. The gossips reported on everything from Adam’s long nights, to Edward Helling taking separate quarters from his wife, to scorn for Georgina — a mere nurse, a shameless nobody who had dared to enter the upper echelon of society. The papers quite gleefully reported that Georgina’s misery was a product of her self-serving desires.
Oddly, they were correct.
Just not in the way they believed.
Georgina had selfishly scratched and clawed for every sliver of happiness she could, and for her efforts, she’d been punished by the harsh echoing silence of loneliness.
She had no friends.
She dined alone.
She slept alone.
Even the somber staff eyed her with equal parts anger and pity for what she’d wrought on their lord and master. Georgina sighed, the faint breath stirring a single curl that had fallen over her eye. Adam deserved their allegiance. Not the daughter of a traitor and murderer.
Georgina squeezed her eyes shut tight. Her chance of redeeming herself in Adam’s jaded eyes was slipping through her fingers. God, how she missed him. She missed his smile, his laughter, his gentle touch, his kind words. This cold, callous man he’d become was not someone she recognized—and in the lies she’d perpetuated through her silence, she’d created this dark, divide between them.
Time was proving that Adam could not move forward because he was stuck in the past, and she feared that was where he would always remain.
“Mrs. Markham?”
Georgina stiffened.
Suzanne stood in the doorway.
“Yes, Suzanne?”
“I’ve brought you your book.”
Book?
Since her world had fallen apart, Georgina hadn’t read anything but the London Times and various other scandal sheets. “Thank you, Suzanne. If you could bring it upstairs, I don’t much feel like reading right now.”
Suzanne frowned. “Mrs. Markham, I must insist. You need to do something.”
She opened her mouth to dismiss the maid then the determined glint in Suzanne’s brown eyes registered.
The maid thrust a book toward her.
Georgina swung her legs over the side of the seat, her muslin skirts rustling as her slippers touched the floor. She accepted the offering.
The thick leather volume shook in her hands as she studied it. It contained the duke’s message.
It is time.
Only moments ago, she’d dreamed of this diversion. Now, she wanted to drop the book, run to her chambers and hide under the thick coverlet upon her bed.
Mouth dry with fear, she looked up at Suzanne.
“Do you need anything else, Mrs. Markham?”
Just my husband. Oh, and if you can managed it, his love and devotion.
“That will be all.”
Suzanne pivoted on her heel, but then paused and turned back around. “One more thing, miss.” She reached into the flat pocket of her crisp white apron and extracted a thin envelope. “This arrived for you a short while ago.”
Georgina stared at the unmarked envelope. And knew.
She forced herself to take it, knowing without even opening it what it contained.
“When did this come?” she managed to ask.
“A young beggar came round. Said he was given a six-pence if he gave the letter to Mrs. Markham.”
Georgina swallowed. “Thank you, Suzanne.”
The maid lingered, her deep blue eyes clouded with what appeared to be a blend of pity and compassion. “You are a good woman, Mrs. Markham.”
You are a good woman, Georgina Wilcox.
She fought the urge to clamp her hands over her ears and drown out the words
I’m not. My misery is testament to my lack of worth.
“Thank you.”
Suzanne left, pulling the door closed behind her.
Georgina looked at the ivory envelope and the leather volume. She first opened the book, her fingers flipped through the pages, then stopped. A single piece of parchment had been tucked inside. Mindful that she sat in the window in full view of anyone who happened to be in the gardens on this miserable spring day, she stood and crossed over to the hearth.
A small fire popped and hissed, though the flames failed to warm her.
Georgina set the book on the mantle then opened the single sheet she’d retrieved from inside the copy of the cleric poet Pádraigín Haicéad’s work.
A note will arrive. Fox and Hunter will request a meeting at Ye Olde Bookshop.
You are to go. They will be looking for 3 names. You are to give them the following: Marcus. Roberts. Mooring. You know no further details than those names found in a secret compartment in your husband’s chambers. Burn this when you’ve committed it to memory.
Georgina crumpled the orders into a tight ball and threw it into the blaze. The orange and red flames nipped at the edges of the paper before swallowing the sheet.
She gave herself another moment in front of the fire to gather her courage. But she could not ignore the second missive, though she knew what it contained. Georgina broke open the non-descript seal with badly shaking fingers, withdrew the note, and then she began to read.
My dearest Georgina,
I hope you’ve thought hard on what I said. Your husband does not deserve your loyalty, and I believe you know that. We are looking for three names. These men are members of The Brethren of the Lords, the secret organization your husband belongs to. If you obtain the names, you are to meet us in three days at the spot we last met.
Ever Yours,
Jamie
She tossed the parchment onto the embers and the charred remnants of the duke’s note.
“Hello, wife.”
Georgina cried out and spun around.
Adam leaned against the wooden frame, his arms folded under the broad-expanse of his muscular chest.
Fear rivaled joy. The damning scrap of paper being licked apart by the flames crackled.
“A-Adam.” She tossed her chin back, though, determined to not be cowed by the steely set to his jaw..
He shoved away from the door and kicked it closed behind him.
Georgina remained rooted to the floor and prayed the note from Jamie would be destroyed by the time he reached her.
Adam stopped before her. His towering form cast a shadow over her. He snagged a strand of her hair and rubbed the curl back and forth between his thumb and forefinger. “You a
ppear guilty of something, wife.”
How did he manage to make the word wife sound like a curse?
She snatched the strand back, wincing at the tug on her scalp. “According to you, I’ve been guilty since first we met.”
He inclined his head. A smile played on his lips. “Ahh, how very true.” He peered over her shoulder into the fire. His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, but when he looked at her, his gaze was curiously blank.
She gripped the edge of her skirts. “What do you want, Adam?”
He clasped her cheek with his right hand and caressed her.
In an attempt to stop him, Georgina touched her fingers to his wrist. “I said what do you want, Adam?”
He bent down, and the potent bite of whiskey was so strong on his breath, she nearly tasted it. “Is that an invitation, dear wife?”
The haze of passion lifted. Georgina slapped his hand away. “You are drunk,” she said, the words bearing more than a faint trace of accusation.
He sketched a mocking bow. “As I have been since I discovered my lovely wife is a—”
“Have you come here merely to hurl insults at me?” She had wronged him, but she would not grovel, nor would she spend the rest of her life wallowing in shamed remorse. “I’ve not seen you in a fortnight. Something must have prompted you to seek me out.”
~~~~
Adam stood in silence. A log crumpled in the hearth, sending off a smattering of sparks and embers. His wife was nothing if not astute.
He had sought her out, and not to exchange barbs. Against his logic and better judgment, he missed her. He missed the sound of her voice, the satiny smoothness of her skin. He even missed the defiant tilt to her chin when she challenged him. Loneliness, greater than anything he’d known during his captivity, gripped him until he felt like an empty shell of a man.
In the dead of night, when he returned from his clubs, he would wander up to Georgina’s chambers and sit at the edge of her bed, watching as she slept. Every night, her head thrashed violently against the pillow and a piteous whimpering escaped her lips. And every night, he would stroke the sweat-dampened strands of hair off her brow until she stilled.
When dawn broke over the horizon, he’d slip from her rooms, his wife none the wiser, and head to his office to waste his hours trying to convince himself he was wrong about her. Georgina could not be a scheming temptress sent to trick secrets out of him. He had to be wrong. When he managed to convince himself of it, he’d reach for the damning file and punish himself with the truth of her birth.
