by Anna Bradley
At least, it had been at first.
Lately the silence had taken on an oppressive quality, and it was about to become even quieter still. Sophia and Lord Gray were off tomorrow to spend a month in Oxfordshire, Cecilia and Lord Darlington were leaving for Kent at the end of this week, and Emma was going off to stay in Lady Crosby’s townhouse in Mayfair on some mysterious business of Lady Clifford’s.
The evenings, when the four of them used to read horrid novels aloud to each other, were especially quiet now that Georgiana was the only remaining member of the Swooning Virgins Society. Could it even properly be called a society, with only a single swooning virgin left?
“Very well, Georgiana. If you won’t say it, I will.” Sophia pulled her feet out of Cecilia’s lap and heaved herself into a sitting position. “I miss our cozy evenings together. But Tristan and I will be back in London soon, and we’ll get ices together every day then, Georgiana.”
“Yes, of course we will.” Georgiana knew her friends did miss her. It was just that they were so busy now, with new and exciting lives to live, whereas she, well…she’d never done well with being left behind.
Still, there was no sense pouting over it. Georgiana straightened her shoulders, impatient with herself. “There’s no need to fret about me, though I do confess it’s not as amusing to read horrid novels to oneself. It’s far more entertaining when Cecilia does the voices.”
“Well, you’re in luck, then.” A sly smile lit Emma’s face as she drew out a book she’d tucked between the seat and the carriage door and held it up triumphantly. “Mrs. Parsons’s The Castle of Wolfenbach. A wicked count and an impoverished orphan, and even pirates and a kidnapping!”
Georgiana seized the book from Emma’s hand. “I’ve wanted to read this for ages!”
Emma winked. “I thought Cecilia might read it to us this afternoon.”
“Indeed, she will, but not here. This carriage is too cramped, and I’m dying for a proper sprawl.” Sophia stuck her head out the window. “Tristan, my love, we’re ready to return to Great Marlborough Street now. Will you and Lord Darlington be perfect angels, and take our glasses back to Gunter’s?”
* * * *
It was well past dusk by the time Georgiana returned to Maddox Street and settled down to work in Lady Clifford’s tiny study.
She, Sophia, Cecilia, and Emma had spent the day at Sophia’s townhouse in Great Marlborough Street, lounging in the library. They’d whiled away the hours, laughing and gasping over Mrs. Parsons’s story and overindulging in warm biscuits slathered with Sophia’s housekeeper’s delicious quince preserves. Georgiana had sworn her fealty to Mrs. Beeson the first time those heavenly preserves had melted on her tongue. She was so stuffed she’d had to waddle home, but it had been a delightful afternoon.
If she had felt just a twinge of melancholy when they all parted, she’d scolded herself back to equilibrium quickly enough. The time would fly by, and if she did grow restless, she’d simply turn to Mrs. Parsons or Mrs. Radcliffe for adventures. She didn’t need more excitement in her life than that. She preferred things calm, quiet, and in their proper order. In any case, she had enough to keep her occupied without wishing for distraction.
She turned up the lamp sitting on the desk beside her and bent over the school’s account book, ignoring the cramp in her neck. She’d been poring over the book for too long already, but the blasted numbers refused to cooperate.
They’d never done such a thing before. Never, since Georgiana’s love affair with numbers began, had they ever disappointed her. They’d been her constant companions for as long as she could remember. Now, all these years later, her lover had forsaken her.
That is, her lovers. Yes, that was more appropriate, given the rule of infinites.
It had all started innocently enough, but what began with simple figures in single digits soon grew into sums. From there it was a quick progression to multiplication and division, and then…well, once a lady succumbed to algebraic and geometrical delights, there was no turning back.
After twenty-five years, surely it wouldn’t end like this?
She dragged the account book closer and arranged its bottom edge so it was perfectly in line with the edge of the desk, as if right angles could somehow change the figures swimming in front of her.
Savings per annum were listed in a neat row on the left side of the page, and savings to date in her precise script on the other…she squeezed her eyes closed as her finger landed on the number at the bottom right side of the page.
Was it too much to hope she’d misread it?
She popped her eyes open, and her shoulders sagged. It was too much to hope.
She passed a hand over her aching eyes, hunched once again over the accounts, and focused on the long columns of numbers. They were burned into her brain already, but she ran her finger down the rows once again, quickly adding up the pence, crowns, guineas, and pounds in her head as she went.
Again, and then again, until the figures blurred on the page and she shoved the book aside with a groan. It was no use. No matter how she calculated it, there wasn’t enough money.
Since Lady Clifford had mentioned securing a second building, Georgiana had been floating along on visions of a spacious new school with girlish voices echoing throughout, but the numbers had betrayed her.
Her lover had proved as faithless and fickle as any other.
She eyed the open book in front of her. Perhaps one more look would reveal—
“My dear child, it’s not good for your eyes to read in such poor light. Take heed, Georgiana, or you’ll end up with a permanent squint.”
Georgiana glanced up from the account book to find Lady Clifford standing in the study doorway, a familiar expression of exasperation tempered with affection on her face. “I’ll fetch another lamp.”
“Not now, dearest. I need you in my private parlor. We have a visitor.”
“A visitor?” How long had she been poring over the account book? Georgiana glanced at the window and saw darkness pressing against the glass. “Now? It’s the middle of the night!”
“Indeed. Rather curious. You’ll think it even more so when you see who it is.”
Georgiana rose from her chair, her curiosity piqued. Lady Clifford was as calm as ever, her face placid, but there was a rare air of anticipation about her. “Who is it?”
“Not the sort of visitor who’s accustomed to being kept waiting.” Lady Clifford turned, throwing a glance at Georgiana over her shoulder. “Come along, and see for yourself.”
Georgiana followed Lady Clifford down the darkened hallway and into the cozy sitting parlor she used when she wished to be private. Their visitor was seated in the chair closest to the fire, her back to the door.
“I beg your pardon for the delay, Your Grace.” Lady Clifford took the seat opposite their guest, and gestured Georgiana toward a small settee tucked into the corner.
Your Grace? Georgiana sucked in a quick breath. There weren’t many people in London who could claim such an exalted title, but surely it couldn’t be—
“This is Miss Georgiana Harley, Your Grace. I’ve asked her to come because I believe she’s just the young lady to assist you with this business.”
“Of course,” the lady murmured, her gaze catching Georgiana’s as Georgiana hovered beside the settee. “How do you do, Miss Harley? Please do sit down.”
Georgiana wasn’t one to be intimidated by a grand title, but then it wasn’t every day one found a duchess in one’s parlor in the middle of the night. She fumbled an awkward curtsy before dropping down onto the settee with a graceless thump. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Grace.”
She’d seen the Duchess of Kenilworth a few times before, but always from a distance. She was younger than Georgiana had realized, her pale face smooth and her hair as yet unburdened by any strands of silver. It was an unusual dark aubu
rn color, the same color as…
As her brother’s.
Lord Haslemere, the rogue. How a scapegrace like Lord Haslemere could be the brother of the petite, ladylike creature sitting here with her hands folded daintily in her lap defied explanation. There was a similarity in their features and coloring, but no brother and sister could be less alike.
Despite her small stature, the duchess had a regal air that befitted a lady of her station, whereas her brother was a libertine of the first order, and looked every inch the part with his wicked dark eyes, disheveled hair, and that intolerable drawl.
After Georgiana’s encounter with him in Covent Garden three months ago, he’d managed to creep into her thoughts more often than she would have liked. Just when she’d banished the memory of his smirking lips at last, he’d appeared on the doorstep of the Clifford School with Lord Darlington, who’d come to declare his love for Cecilia.
She hadn’t seen the man since then, nor did she wish to. Nevertheless, he persisted in haunting her thoughts.
Why shouldn’t I wish to make you my mistress?
Georgiana’s teeth snapped together as she recalled his mocking drawl. He’d only said that to fluster her. It had worked, too, which made it even more intolerable. She didn’t get flustered, ever. She didn’t stammer, or fumble or blush for any man, but especially not for a man like him—
“Her Grace has come hoping we might help her find an old friend she’s been searching for,” Lady Clifford said, interrupting Georgiana’s thoughts. “She hasn’t met with any success on her own.”
“Of course.” The duchess hadn’t seen fit to bring her brother with her tonight, so there was no reason at all Georgiana should be thinking of him now. “We’ll be pleased to help however we can, Your Grace.”
“The lady’s name is Clara Beauchamp.” A peculiar, wary expression crossed the duchess’s face as the name left her lips, as if she were unaccustomed to speaking it aloud, and feared she’d be overheard.
Lady Clifford’s expression remained carefully blank, but Georgiana recognized the slight arch of her eyebrow, and she knew she and Lady Clifford were wondering the same thing. If this were a simple matter of finding a missing friend, why had Her Grace come to them in the middle of the night, alone? A duchess didn’t sneak about in the darkness unless she had something to hide.
A duchess with a secret, then. How intriguing.
“Miss Beauchamp and I met some years ago,” the duchess went on. “We kept up a correspondence for a time, but then her letters stopped, and I haven’t heard a word from her since. She, ah…she seems to have disappeared.”
Lady Clifford nodded. “I see. When was the last time you heard from her?”
The duchess hesitated, then murmured, “Six years ago.”
Six years? Georgiana’s eyebrows flew up. “That’s, er…quite a long time, Your Grace. Forgive me, but something must have happened to prompt your search. Did someone see her, or was she—”
“I did. I saw her, or…” The duchess’s troubled dark eyes met Georgiana’s. “Or I thought I did.”
“Well, that should make this easier.” Lady Clifford gave the duchess an encouraging nod. “Where was this?”
“On Albemarle Street. She was in a carriage outside Lady Tilbury’s townhouse. It was dark, and I only got a glimpse of her. At first, I thought I’d imagined it, as Lady Tilbury never leaves her country estate in Herefordshire, but then I recalled she arrived in London this week with her grandson. The child is sickly, so she’s come to consult with Doctor Cadogan regarding his health.”
“Clara Beauchamp was—or is—acquainted with Lady Tilbury, then?”
“Lady Tilbury was a dear friend of Miss Beauchamp’s mother. I thought if Miss Beauchamp was in London, Lady Tilbury’s house would be the first place she’d go.”
“You said you only caught a glimpse of her. Are you certain it was her?”
“I can’t be entirely certain, Miss Harley, but I believe it was her. Miss Beauchamp’s hair is a very fair shade of gold—nearly white. It’s distinctive, and difficult to mistake.”
Lady Clifford considered this, then asked the question that was hovering on Georgiana’s lips. “Do you have any reason to suppose Miss Beauchamp is in danger?”
People didn’t, after all, simply vanish for six years for no reason, regardless of whether they popped back up again.
“No, nothing like that.” The duchess’s reply was too quick, then she bit her lip, as if afraid she’d given herself away. “But she may be in some financial difficulties. I thought if I could find her, I might be able to help her.”
Georgiana and Lady Clifford glanced at each other. This wasn’t the sort of business the Clifford School typically involved themselves in. If the lady had been a victim of foul play, then perhaps—
“I understand you don’t…that your services aren’t generally…I realize this is a small matter.” The duchess twisted her hands in her lap. “But I thought you might be persuaded to grant me this favor in the interest of a future friendship between us.”
Georgiana took the duchess’s meaning at once. Lady Clifford didn’t take money for her services, but she did accept patronage. Her connections to the titled and powerful citizens of London had proved invaluable to the Clifford School. If they did agree to help the duchess locate Miss Beauchamp, they would continue to enjoy her support even after the matter was settled.
The Duchess of Kenilworth’s patronage was nothing to scoff at.
“If that’s not of use,” the duchess went on, “perhaps my friendship with Lord and Lady Darlington might persuade you?”
Ah, now that made some sense, at least. Lord Haslemere and Lord Darlington were good friends, and the duchess had become friendly with Cecilia through her brother.
“I believe we can come to some arrangement, Your Grace.” Lady Clifford gave the duchess a reassuring smile. “You mentioned Lady Darlington. Does she know about your search? Did she recommend you contact us regarding Miss Beauchamp?”
“No! That is, I didn’t mention anything about Miss Beauchamp to Lady Darlington. She knows only that I have some business I wish to see resolved, nothing more.”
“I take it, then, that this matter requires…discretion?”
“Indeed, Lady Clifford, it must be kept strictly between us. The duke is very busy, and I don’t wish to worry him with something so insignificant.”
“What of your brother, Lord Haslemere? Does he know of it?” Georgiana could feel Lady Clifford’s eyes on her, but she kept her own gaze on the duchess. Surely, it was a reasonable question? She only wanted all the facts at her disposal, nothing more.
“He does not, and it must remain that way. Indeed, I insist on having your promise you won’t breathe a word about any of this to a soul, and in particular not to Lord Haslemere.”
“Of course not, Your Grace.” Lady Clifford’s tone was soothing. “We keep all our business private.”
The duchess let out a relieved breath. “Thank you. Fortunately, he’s at his country estate in Surrey and intends to remain there for the time being to see to some repairs on the house. It should be easy enough to keep it from him.”
Lord Haslemere wasn’t returning to London for the season?
Cecilia had told Georgiana that Lord Darlington expected Lord Haslemere in London this week, but of course the duchess must know her brother’s intentions better than anyone. The news that he would not in fact be returning to London caused a peculiar pang in Georgiana’s chest.
Relief, no doubt.
The ton would be in fits of despair over the loss of their favorite, but for Georgiana, it was a stroke of good luck. Yes, that sinking feeling in her belly was definitely relief.
“What more can you tell us about Clara Beauchamp, Your Grace?” Lady Clifford asked. “Where she resided last, to start with, as well as the names of anyone acquainte
d with her who might know where she’s gone.”
“I mentioned Lady Tilbury already. She’d be the most likely to know where Clara is.” The duchess fidgeted with her skirts, her gaze on her hands. “I’m afraid I don’t know anything about her whereabouts.”
“I see.” Lady Clifford went to her desk, withdrew a slip of paper, and dipped her quill. “Is there anything else you think might prove useful?”
“She didn’t have many friends, I’m afraid. Her father was landed gentry, but not aristocratic, and well…you know how dismissive the ton can be.” The duchess’s face clouded.
Lady Clifford sat at her desk with her quill poised over her paper. “I do, yes.”
“But as I said, Lady Tilbury may know what’s become of her.” The duchess cast a hesitant glance at Georgiana. “Lady Wylde is hosting a masque ball the day after tomorrow. Lady Tilbury is her neighbor, and will no doubt be there. Perhaps Miss Harley could attend, and see what she can find out from her ladyship.”
Georgiana’s heart crashed into her slippers at the words “masque ball,” and “Lady Wylde.”
Lady Clifford didn’t bother to write the name down. There was no need. For good or ill, everyone in London knew who Lady Wylde was.
Mostly ill.
Lady Wylde was a voluptuous, red-lipped siren whose wealthy and aged husband, Lord Wylde, had the good grace to expire only three years into their marriage, leaving his lady in possession of a handsome fortune, and her freedom.
She’d made good use of both.
She wasn’t the only merry widow in London, of course, but more than one London drawing room buzzed with whispered accounts of Lady Wylde’s many dramatic liaisons with the young, handsome, and fashionable gentlemen of the ton. If the rumors could be believed, her ladyship was also vain, spiteful, and addicted to wagering and ugly gossip. Despite all this she was, predictably, received by everyone in the ton. Her masque ball was likely to be a crush.
“Will you attend the ball, Your Grace?” Lady Clifford asked, setting the quill aside.
The duchess shook her head. “No. The duke doesn’t care for Lady Wylde. Perhaps Miss Harley can attend with Lord and Lady Darlington?”
