“And that matters to me precisely why?” Lawrence had gone nearly thirty years in complete indifference to public opinion and wasn’t about to change his ways now.
“Because . . . ” Georgie opened his mouth and shut it again, as if unsure of what to say. “Halliday is concerned that Simon’s relations will try to wrest control of the estate away from you.”
“Pardon?”
A faint grimace flickered across Georgie’s face. “One of Simon’s relations got in touch with Halliday, wanting to know whether there was any case to be made that you might be mad. Halliday wrote a letter to a friend of my brother’s, who offered to send me to look into matters.” He laughed, dry and mirthless. “Of course, if word gets out that you’re harboring a confidence artist under your roof, that will only help Simon’s uncles get you declared incompetent. Which is why I need to leave. I need to hide somewhere else. Now.”
Lawrence’s mind scrambled to make sense of this. Of course one of Simon’s relatives—probably the same uncle who had taken down Isabella’s portrait—would try to have Lawrence declared insane. It was only a wonder that it hadn’t happened yet. He settled on the one aspect of Georgie’s narrative that didn’t directly involve him. “Hide?”
He watched as Georgie took a breath and seemed to come to a decision. “I came here not only to spy on you but to hide from the former associate I mentioned. I betrayed him, so he needs to make an example of me.”
“He wants to harm you?”
Georgie’s gaze cut away to the floor.
“To kill you?”
“I owe him.” He said this so baldly, speaking of his own anticipated murder with such matter-of-fact ease, that Lawrence was momentarily stunned. “I planned to swindle a very sweet, slightly daft old lady. But I couldn’t go through with it.”
“This sounds like honorable behavior.”
Georgie waved a bored hand, a tired dismissal of the idea of honor.
“Nobody is coming to Penkellis to murder you. London street criminals don’t creep into old castles to dispose of their enemies.”
Georgie looked at him with raised eyebrows. “He has to. Mattie Brewster can’t be known to tolerate double-crossers.”
“Go abroad.”
“I have no money.”
“You have the jewels. I’ll give you ready money, if that’s what you’re talking about.”
Georgie shook his head. “My brother and sister live in London. And you’re here. There’s no life for me on the Continent. But if I stay here, I’ll put you all in danger, and I won’t do that.”
And you’re here. That made it sound like Georgie would stay, if not for this Brewster bastard. “I’ll come too,” he said rashly. “We’ll tour the Continent. Your criminal friend can’t possibly hunt you across Europe.”
Lawrence had been to London as a young man and to Exeter twice to visit his tutor. Those trips had been . . . deeply unpleasant. Christ, the idea of going so far as the village church sounded ghastly. Even in the safety of his study, he could imagine narrow streets, strange buildings closing in on him, unfamiliar people like so many rocks in his boot.
But he would do it for Georgie. Just like he had gone downstairs last night to see Simon. And that had turned out fine, hadn’t it? Better than fine.
“Let’s not make promises we can’t keep.” Georgie laid a hand on Lawrence’s arm. “Neither of us is in a position to make any promises at all.”
Lawrence wanted to protest. There were a dozen promises already forming on the tip of his tongue. He wanted to promise to love and protect Georgie as best as he could, as long as he would let him. He wanted to promise to follow Georgie to the ends of the earth or anywhere else he needed to go.
But Georgie was right. He wasn’t in any position to make those promises. He could barely walk downstairs to greet his own son, and his entire body flinched at the prospect of having to venture even farther.
For all he had come to depend on Georgie, he knew that Georgie could not depend on him in return.
So instead of uttering useless promises, he nodded his head in bitter assent.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Georgie slipped through the corridors that had become as familiar to him as the narrow alleys and back passageways of London. He kept his footsteps silent, even though there was no reason for secrecy. Some habits were hard to break.
He tapped on Simon’s door. The child was supposed to be resting after lunch, but Georgie doubted that would last long. Sure enough, he heard the sound of giggles and scuffling coming from within, and when he pushed open the door, he found Simon and Barnabus engaged in a heated debate over the fate of a long black sock.
When the dog noticed Georgie, bearer of treats and giver of excellent head scratches, standing in the doorway, he immediately let go of the sock, causing Simon to tumble backwards in a riot of laughter.
“Down,” Georgie ordered the dog, who obeyed as best he could while wagging his tail at top speed. Georgie realized with a start that he would miss this furry mongrel. When he finished with a job, he never let himself shed a tear over the places and people he would never see again, but he already knew that his usual defenses were of no use to him at Penkellis.
He’d miss ramshackle Penkellis, with its senseless tangle of corridors and decayed greatness. He’d never see it in the spring, when the overgrown garden must teem with masses of wildflowers. He’d miss getting to know Simon better, and he wished he had time to figure out why the child had seemed so unwell the first few days after he arrived. He’d never hear Janet and Mrs. Ferris’s explanation of what stolen cauls had to do with smuggling rings. He’d never know what Lawrence’s next project would be.
Maybe the problem was that it didn’t feel like the end of a job. Not only was he walking away empty-handed for the first time, but he felt like he was about to leave the best part of himself behind. At Penkellis, he had gotten a taste of what life would be like with a purpose, with a sense of belonging, the very things he had scorned in his flight from the gutter. He had never understood what use fine feelings were to a man who was half-starved.
But now he thought he did.
That was why he couldn’t take the jewels. It would have been so easy to slip them into his coat pocket and get on the next ship for Calais, or even go back to London and use the rubies to buy off Brewster. But then every time Lawrence thought of the necklace, the ring, the gaudy watch fob, he’d wonder if Georgie had really gotten what he came for after all. And Georgie didn’t want Lawrence to remember him as a glorified thief who had made off with the family jewels.
He cleared his throat. “I thought you might want to visit the stables to see Mr. Medlock’s carriage and horses,” he told Simon. “You’ll need your warmest clothes.”
Georgie didn’t need to bring Simon to the stables, nor did he need to make sure that there was enough hay and straw for the horses and that the servant who had been press-ganged into service as a stable hand was competent in his new position. But he wanted to. These small tasks had made him feel like he belonged here, and even though he had known all along that this was an illusion, he wanted one last time to feel needed, to pretend that this was his home.
They set out for the stables, Barnabus trotting alongside. The snow fell heavily enough that when Georgie looked over his shoulder, their footprints were already covered by fresh snow. Lady Standish and Lord Medlock would be stuck at Penkellis until tomorrow at the earliest. As soon as the snow melted enough to pose no danger to carriage wheels, they’d be on their way to London.
Georgie would be gone before then. He needed to reach Mattie Brewster before any gossip did. Otherwise there was the risk that Brewster’s men would come to Penkellis, and Georgie couldn’t let that happen. It was time for Georgie to pay for all the wrong he had done, and the price would be leaving Penkellis.
“Listen!” cried Simon, tugging at Georgie’s sleeve.
At the sound of snow-muffled hoofbeats, Georgie went rigid, imagining it was Mattie B
rewster coming for him. But Brewster couldn’t have found him yet, and even if he had, he’d hardly come on horseback, least of all on the huge black stallion that was bearing down on them.
But still Georgie’s heart pounded in his chest as the rider brought the horse up short in front of Georgie and Simon.
“Blast it all, why don’t you watch where you’re going?” the rider shouted from his mount. “I nearly trampled both of you. Can’t see a damned thing in this storm.” Muttering what sounded like foreign profanities under his breath, he swung off his horse and came to land in front of Georgie and Simon.
He was tall and wore a magnificent, many-caped greatcoat. His hat had been the height of fashion before being ruined by the snow.
“I suppose one of you will tell me where to find the stables?” Even through the falling snow, the man’s sneer was visible. “Assuming there are stables, and I’m not meant to leave my horse tied to a tree in the middle of a blizzard.”
Simon gave a small gasp and squeezed Georgie’s hand. “Uncle Courtenay!” he squealed. “You’ve come!”
“Courtenay is where?” Lawrence bellowed, causing the housemaid to take a step back. He had never seen her before in his life, this neatly dressed servant who had the temerity to knock on his study door and announce that the kingdom’s greatest reprobate was here at Penkellis.
“In the blue room, my lord. Mr. Turner ordered that he be put there until better accommodations could be sorted out.”
“Better accommodations—like hell he is.” The last Lawrence had heard, Isabella’s wastrel brother was in Constantinople, where he had fled his creditors. Even the Antipodes would have been a good deal too close, as far as Lawrence cared. “He’s not staying another minute under this roof.” Courtenay had always been a blackguard, an infamous scoundrel, for as long as Lawrence could remember. Christ, he had been friends with Percy, which would have been bad enough—birds of a feather, and so forth. But where Percy had contented himself with duels, drunkenness, and domestic cruelty, Courtenay dabbled in political radicalism, overt sedition, and orgies of depravity.
Lawrence brushed past the servant and made for the blue room, his heavy steps causing the candle flames to dance in their sconces. The blue room, his arse. Georgie had given up his own room? Infuriating. To be sure, Georgie had no need of his own room—he had spent the last two nights in Lawrence’s bed, and Lawrence had no intention of letting his lover sleep anywhere else. But for Georgie to give up his claim to a bedchamber, and for the comfort of such a one as Courtenay, offended sensibilities Lawrence hadn’t even known he had. Courtenay could go to the local inn or bed down in a cow shed, for all he cared.
He absolutely ought not to be anywhere near Lady Standish or her prig of a brother, certainly not even in the same county as Simon.
The blue room, however, was empty, its door standing ajar, with no trace of either Georgie’s or Courtenay’s belongings within. Lawrence strode downstairs, taking them two at a time. He was dimly aware of footmen and housemaids scattering as he approached, but he paid them no mind. Never had he cared less how many strangers were present in his house, how much noise they made, and whether they interfered with his work. His only concern was finding Courtenay and throwing him into the nearest snowdrift.
“I was expecting a shambles, dear Laurie.” The voice was cold, urbane, and tinged with a vaguely foreign accent.
Lawrence spun on his heel to find Courtenay himself leaning against a pillar in the great hall.
“Don’t call me that,” Lawrence spat, as if forms of address could possibly matter in these circumstances. But Courtenay had always taken a patronizing, elder-brotherly air, and Lawrence would be damned if he’d allow it under his own roof.
“Of course, you’re Radnor now.” As Courtenay spoke, he emerged from the shadows. “I dare say you hardly remember me,” he drawled.
“Go to hell, Courtenay.” The bastard had to know perfectly well how notorious he was.
“So you do remember me.” A cruel smile twisted Courtenay’s lips. “How flattering.”
“Get out of my house,” Lawrence ground out.
“No shelter for a weary traveler? That’s not quite in keeping with the spirit of the season, I fear. And to think, I came all this way to make sure my nephew was in good hands.”
Lawrence snorted. “Since when do you give a damn about Simon? Or anything but your own pleasure?”
“I could ask you the same thing, now, couldn’t I? For how many years have you been living like a hermit in a ruin of a house? When my idiot sister wrote that Simon was to come here for his holiday because her own brats were breaking out in measles, I half expected to find him alone among the rocks and the sheep or whatever it is you have in Cornwall.”
Lawrence narrowed his eyes. How did Courtenay know anything about his house or his habits? He raised an eyebrow. “You can see for yourself that the house is perfectly habitable.” He had never been so grateful for Georgie’s machinations. “And I have guests in the parlor this very moment, so if you’ll excuse me.” He gave a slight, insignificant bow. “Oh,” he said over his shoulder, “you’ll find that the Fiddling Fox in the village offers acceptable lodgings.”
“Have you grown too respectable for your old friends, Lawrence?”
There was something about the man’s tone that made Lawrence halt and turn around. “We never were friends,” he ground out.
“A pity, that. But I’m the only friend Simon has, let’s not forget.”
“How dare you—”
“Enough.” The facetious drawl was quite gone from Courtenay’s voice now, replaced by something that in a less despicable man might be called earnestness. “I know he’s never been here before. I know he’s never had so much as a letter from you.” They both knew Lawrence couldn’t deny it. “And now you’ve taken a fancy to acknowledging him. That’s all well and good. But when I found out that my daft sister had sent Simon to you, I traveled night and day to get here.”
Lawrence reeled at this information. “You traveled—why?”
“Because until an hour ago I was under the impression that Penkellis was no better than a lunatic asylum, and you no better than a bedlamite. I have to say I’m delighted to be wrong so I can get out of here as soon as the weather permits. I wasn’t looking forward to having to throw my nephew over my saddle and take him back to France. My mode of living doesn’t quite accommodate children, as you know.”
Before Lawrence could contemplate why Courtenay knew anything about the goings on at Penkellis, the parlor door opened and Julian Medlock stepped out.
“Radnor, I hate to be a pest, but the tea is quite cold. Good God, is that—” He put his quizzing glass up to his eye. “Heavens above, it’s Lord Courtenay.” He took a step back as if there were a live tiger in the hall. “Eleanor, stay where you are. Don’t come out.”
Lady Standish promptly appeared by her brother’s side. “I should think Lord Courtenay has better things to do than interfere with middle-aged matrons, Julian.”
Courtenay didn’t even look in their direction. “Simon and your secretary are in the kitchens, drying off your dog. I mention that in case you were wondering whether I’d murdered and disemboweled them, all for want of better amusement.”
“You can’t mean for that fellow to stay here,” Medlock protested, still peering through his quizzing glass. “He’s a menace.”
“We’re all snowed in,” Lawrence growled, not making any effort to make his tone amicable. “I didn’t ask any of you lot to come here, so you’ll all have to make do. If you’re worried that Courtenay will lure you into orgies or opium eating, then lock your doors.” He stared at Medlock until the man retreated into the parlor.
“And as for you,” he said, turning to Courtenay, “did you write to my vicar?”
“You may not remember this about me, Laurie, but I’m not much in the habit of corresponding with vicars. Not in my line, you know.”
“Damn you. Did you write to Halliday in
quiring about my mental competence, or didn’t you?”
Courtenay regarded him appraisingly. “I couldn’t very well let Simon live with a lunatic, now could I? And I was a good deal too far away to see for myself, so the vicar seemed the best bet.”
“What exactly did you tell him?” A suspicion was forming in Lawrence’s mind.
“I told him that he’d assure me of your mental competence or I’d see to it that you were quietly thrown in an institution and your property made over to your heir.”
That would explain it. Halliday, prone to worry on the best of days, would have gotten it into his head that Lawrence was in grave danger. “Why do you care?”
“Simon is my nephew. I wasn’t going to let him run loose in the company of a mad recluse.” He spoke like it was a matter of course, as if ten years earlier he hadn’t thrown his younger sister into far worse society than Lawrence ever could have been.
“Would that you had so much concern for your relations’ safety when Isabella was alive.” It had been Courtenay who had introduced Isabella to the man who got her with child.
Courtenay’s nostrils flared, but other than that he betrayed no sign of anger. “You think that doesn’t weigh on me? She was my sister, my friend. And Simon is all I have left of her.” He looked sincere, but appearances could be deceiving where Courtenay was concerned. “And listen here, Laurie. I’ll gladly murder anyone who harms him, you included.”
Lawrence met the man’s challenging glare with one of his own. “Good.”
For a moment, Courtenay held Lawrence’s gaze, then gave him a single nod. Lawrence nodded in return, as if they had struck a truce.
Lawrence went down to the kitchens to tell Georgie about their unfortunate new arrival, but when he pushed open the baize doors there was no sign of the secretary. Servants bustled about, Simon sat on a stool by the fire, eating a scone, and Barnabus sat by the garden door, but Georgie wasn’t there.
The Lawrence Browne Affair Page 20
