Georgianne shivered inwardly. She knew Pennington’s peculiarly sweet smile masked his true nature.
“You spurned me once, Mrs. Tarrant. You and yours shall not do so in future. Should your husband meet with a fatal accident, I shall insist you accept my hand in marriage.”
Mad, he was definitely mad. One only needed to see the insane gleam in his eyes to be convinced of it. For a moment, she stared at him speechless, her hand pressed above her heart. “How dare you stand in my husband’s house threatening to—”
“You misunderstand me, my dear Mrs. Tarrant. I think soldiering is in your husband’s blood. Although he has sold his commission, sooner or later he might return to war. Who knows what the consequences may be?”
She could not bear the thought of her husband purchasing another commission at the risk of his life.
Bab, followed by Helen, burst into the room.
“See what Cousin Tarrant bought me.” Bab twirled to show off her sky blue velvet, fur lined pelisse, and matching hat. “He bought a green pelisse and hat for Helen. You should see her muff. He is so nice. Cousin Tarrant says if you have no objection, we can come out of half-mourning. Also, he promised to take us to the Frost Fair tomorrow afternoon.” Her eyes rounded. She stared at Pennington. “What is that nasty man doing here?”
Pennington’s hand tightened around the ivory skull which formed the knob of his cane. He stared at Bab. “Someone should teach you manners, child.” He eyed Helen. “Miss Whitley, I did not realise you are, in your own way, as beautiful as Mrs. Tarrant. Perhaps you could replace your sister in my affections.”
While Georgianne trembled, the door opened. His lordship must be raving mad.
“I think not,” Tarrant said from the threshold. “Go Pennington, you are unwelcome in this house.”
Tarrant entered the room, followed by Langley. At the sight of them, Pennington’s jaw clenched. Tarrant held the door wide open. He gestured to the earl to leave.
“Miss Whitley,” Langley began after Pennington left, “I trust I find you well.” His eyes conveyed far more than his words.
“No, she is not well,” Bab said. “How could she be? She had a dreadful shock when the earl said she is as beautiful as Georgianne.”
Langley’s nostrils flared. His jaw tightened. “Yes, I overheard the impertinent jackanapes.”
Tarrant’s mouth formed a grim line.
* * * *
In the hall, well pleased with his mischief, Pennington accepted his hat from a footman. He marched down the front steps and entered his carriage.
Under no circumstances would he allow his nephew to inherit his title and estates. He must avenge Tarrant and Langley’s insult. Never had he known such impotent rage as he did when they abandoned him and his men in that deserted village. Well, although one sister refused to wed him, he could marry the other one. No one would be permitted to foil him. He intended to marry the lady by fair means or foul, and father sons. After all, those green eyes of Miss Whitley’s set in a perfect oval face were as attractive in their own way as Mrs. Tarrant’s blue eyes. He grinned as he began to devise a plan to force Miss Whitley to marry him.
Chapter Nine
At one o’clock on the day after Georgianne’s birthday, the carriage drew to a halt on the embankment near London Bridge. After the groom let down the steps, Tarrant and Langley descended from the box. Tarrant handed Georgianne out of the carriage and then turned to face her sisters, who were bundled up in flannel petticoats, merino wool gowns, fur-lined pelisses, and snug fitting bonnets. With the gentlemen’s assistance, Mrs. Deane, Helen, and Bab stepped onto the icy ground.
Georgianne and her companions paused for a moment before they descended a steep, slippery flight of steps leading to the frozen riverbank.
Mrs. Deane tucked her hands into her muff. “Look at the crowds. There are so many gentle folk and cits, apprentices, and—I daresay—beggars, jugglers, and acrobats, that one can barely see the ice.”
Georgianne gazed at the colourful scene. “It is like a country fair, but larger than any of the ones I have attended. Look at all those stalls decorated with streamers and flags.”
“An astonishing sight,” Tarrant commented.
Langley smiled at Helen. “Miss Whitley, I must compliment you on your appearance, your green pelisse favours you. It emphasises the colour of your eyes.”
Helen looked demurely at Langley. “Thank you for your compliment, my lord.”
Bab tugged Tarrant’s hand. “May I go on the merry-go-round and try my luck at skittles?”
“Maybe. Hold onto my hand, I do not want you to slip. Now, Princess, tell me what would you like to do?”
“Shall we buy a memento? And perhaps we could have something to eat. This cold air sharpens the appetite,” Georgianne replied.
“By all means.”
Her hand on his arm, Georgianne made her way to the bottom of the steps where a Thames waterman demanded four pence a head.
Tarrant gave him a hard look. “Four pence, my good fellow?”
The waterman twisted his greasy cap in his hand. “Loss of me earnings, sir. Oi’ve a wife and children, not to speak of my old mother, bless ’er.”
“Robbery,” Tarrant said and paid him, although the man had most likely demanded more than a fair sum.
Bab pointed. “I want to see everything.”
The child pulled her hand out of Tarrant’s. Before any of them could grab hold of her, she darted away and, managing to keep her footing on the dirty, lumpy ice, disappeared into the throng of people jostling for space.
Sick with fear, Georgianne watched as the crowd concealed her sister’s figure from sight.
“Bab, Bab, come back,” she screamed, trying to make herself heard above the voices of the crowd.
“Tarrant, Langley, we must find her.”
“If she comes to harm I will never forgive myself.” She put impatient feet on the ice and stepped forward. With difficulty she forced her way between a crowd of people and, heart pounding, proceeded toward the place where she last saw Bab.
Her husband caught up with her and grasped her arm gently. “Wait, Georgianne.”
“Lucky heather?”
A gypsy pressed a sprig into Georgianne’s hand. Superstition sent a shiver through her. “Please buy one, Tarrant. It might help us to find Bab.”
Tarrant slipped a coin into the gypsy woman’s hand. “God bless you,” she said, handing the sprig to Georgianne.
“Georgianne,” Tarrant began, “I want you to return to shore and wait with Mrs. Deane and Helen.”
“No, I must search for Bab.”
“Listen to me. You will have a better view from there. In the meantime, Langley and I will search for her and I will ask the watermen to help us.”
“Very well.”
Georgianne returned to an anxious Mrs. Deane and Helen.
“Oh, I hope nothing bad has befallen the dear child.” Mrs. Deane moaned.
Georgianne clenched her jaw. “So do I.” She scanned the ice. “Helen, dearest, do stop crying.” She patted her sister’s back. “Your tears will not help. I am sure Bab will be found.” She pointed. “Ah, there she is. Who is she with? I cannot make them out. Look, they are going to the opposite bank. Oh no, the man is dragging her along.”
Helen sniffed. Her eyes followed the direction of Georgianne’s gloved hand. “Are you sure that is Bab?”
“I think so. The child is wearing a sky-blue pelisse.” Georgianne pressed her hand to her heart. “Oh dear, she has disappeared from sight.” She scanned the fair and caught sight of her husband and Langley. Frantic, she waved. When they noticed her, she beckoned to them.
“I saw Bab. At least I think I saw her,” she called as soon as they were within earshot.
Her husband put his arm around her shoulders. “Where did you see her?”
Georgianne pointed. “Over there. I saw a child wearing a sky-blue pelisse. A man dragged her across the ice and then they disappeared from s
ight, swallowed up in the throng of people.”
He released her. “It is too cold to stand about. Wait in the carriage with Helen and Mrs. Deane. We will search on the other side of the river.”
The men sped away while Helen shivered and stamped her feet to keep them warm.
Again, Georgianne stepped onto the ice. “Mrs. Deane, Helen, wait in the carriage in case Bab returns.”
“Mrs. Tarrant, stay with us, you cannot go alone,” her companion protested. “Seeing you unprotected, the cits and dandies will try to take advantage of you.”
Georgianne picked her way across the ice, ignoring Mrs. Deane. The cold caused her nose to run. She paused to take a handkerchief out of her muff. A thin urchin bumped into Georgianne. She cried out and tried to keep her balance. Another boy advanced. His outstretched hand reached for the sealskin muff. She spun around and almost slipped. Before he could grab the muff, Tarrant cuffed his ear and Georgianne thought he would have seized the young ruffian if he had not been obliged to put his arm around her waist to steady her.
“It is fortunate that I looked back and saw you, Georgianne.”
She gazed up into Tarrant’s grey eyes darkened by dull light from the winter sky.
“Have you found Bab?”
“I am sorry to say I have not, but do not worry, we will.”
Langley came toward them through a filmy mist that threatened to turn into fog.
“Have you found my sister? Is she with Mrs. Deane and Helen?” she called, although logic told her that sufficient time had not elapsed for Bab to return to the carriage, even if she had not been kidnapped.
Langley shook his head.
Georgianne repressed frantic tears and swallowed. “We shall find her. She will be safe. Who would hurt her?” she said, her voice fierce.
“You are shivering, Georgianne.” Tarrant drew her cloak closer around her neck and then offered his arm. “Hang onto me. The snow and ice are treacherous. I will take you home. Langley, would you stay here to find out if the watermen have any news of Bab?”
Langley nodded.
“Thank you,” Tarrant continued. “I will send out search parties, inform the Bow Street Runners that Bab is missing, and offer a handsome reward for her safe return.”
“Where shall we rendezvous?” Langley asked.
“At Half Moon Street within the hour.”
* * * *
Helen managed to stay calm until she entered Georgianne’s boudoir where she stood motionless while tears slipped down her cheeks.
“Leave us,” Georgianne ordered Elliot and turned to her sister. “Let me help you, dearest.”
She unbuttoned her sister’s gloves and put them on a chair.
“Leave us,” Georgianne repeated to Elliot and then changed her mind. “Wait, Miss Whitley is cold and tired. Please fetch hot chocolate.”
“Yes, madam.”
“Do not cry, Helen.” Georgianne untied the broad white satin ribbons under her sister’s chin, removed her bonnet, and placed it next to the gloves before fetching a lace edged handkerchief and drying her sister’s eyes. “Now, take off your pelisse.”
Georgianne removed her own outdoor garments and sat by the fire.
“How can you be so calm?” Helen exploded.
Too choked with anxiety to speak, she forced a smile intended to reassure her sister.
“How can you smile, Georgianne?” Helen broke off because Elliot entered the room, followed by two maids bearing silver trays.
Elliot picked up her mistress’s pelisse, gloves, and bonnet. “You should have allowed me to help you, madam. Look, a button is coming loose and those ribbons are crushed.”
Georgianne could have screamed with vexation. Her little sister was missing. What did her clothes matter? What would Mamma say if harm came to Bab?
The maidservants arranged the contents of the trays on a low table and left while Elliot examined Georgianne’s pelisse.
“Oh, madam, the hem is very dirty. I don’t know if I can clean it properly.”
Helen’s mouth trembled. She sat on a footstool by Georgianne’s chair and covered her face with her hands.
Georgianne poured the chocolate. She was afraid she would scream her fears for Bab aloud if she did not busy herself, and that would be of no use to anyone. Thank God for her husband’s support. No matter what the future held, she was sure she would never regret marrying him.
“Please go,” Georgianne said to Elliot whom she now disliked for fussing about clothes at such a time. She forced herself to smile at Helen. “Drink this, dearest. It will help you to feel more yourself.”
Her hand shaking, Helen accepted the cup of chocolate. “I cannot stop thinking about Bab. Where can she be? Is she frightened? Where are Cousin Tarrant and Viscount Langley? Are they still searching for her?”
“Hush, Helen, I am sure they are doing all they can to find Bab.” She pressed her hands to her temples. She could not think while Helen spoke. “You are overwrought, dearest, you must sleep.”
Strange that she, the more excitable sister, remained calm, while Helen trembled with apprehension. She drew her sister to her feet and guided her to her bedchamber.
Georgianne administered several drops of laudanum to Helen and tucked her up in bed. Unable to soothe her troubled mind, she waited until her sister’s eyes closed before she left the bedchamber. Did some horrible man abduct Bab?
Had she been mistaken? Had she really seen Bab? Was her sister lost, cold, and afraid or was she warming her dear little toes by some fire at the Frost Fair while the rest of them were all but crazy with fear?
Later, Georgianne sat in the anteroom adjacent to the entrance hall and prayed for news of Bab. In the quiet house, the ticking of the clock sounded unnaturally loud and time seemed to drag by more slowly than usual.
She needed to do something—anything—to find Bab. If only she were at her husband’s side searching for her sister.
A knock sounded on the front door. Georgianne gripped her hands together.
Barnes entered the anteroom and proffered a silver tray on which reposed a letter sealed with red wax. “Madam, a footman delivered this a moment ago.”
She ripped the wafer apart. God help her, it was from Pennington.
My Dear Mrs. Tarrant,
I am prepared to release Miss Barbara into your esteemed custody if you agree to a proposition I have yet to offer.
Rest Assured that Miss Barbara is Safe at my House. Pray come alone to Collect her. Be Certain that if you bring your amiable Husband with you, I cannot be responsible for your sister’s continued Safety. In return for…
Your obedient servant,
Pennington
Georgianne shook with rage. What did the fiend’s scrawled words imply? What could his proposition be? Did he expect her to agree to him marrying Helen? Should she wait for her husband to escort her? No, if Tarrant accompanied her, who knew what that devil, Pennington, might perpetrate.
Unable to tolerate the idea of a drop of her husband’s blood spilled in either her defence or Bab’s, Georgianne ran up the stairs and burst into her boudoir, where her dresser sat on a stool mending a torn flounce.
“Elliot, fetch my black cloak, the one with deep pockets and a hood, and find my new sealskin muff.”
“Your old black cloak, madam?”
“Yes,” she replied in the tone no servant had ever disobeyed.
Georgianne unlocked the centre drawer in her escritoire. She took out a rectangular leather box, and removed her pocket pistol. After she primed and loaded it, she put it into her large muff together with a reticule containing a purse of coins.
Through the broadsheets, she knew about the dangers the streets of London offered the unwary. Nevertheless, she must brave them. Georgianne peered out of the window at the encroaching fog. She caught her lower lip between her teeth. What to do? Tarrant had explained the impropriety of a lady travelling in a hackney. But if her sister was in danger, what did etiquette matter?
&
nbsp; With a cool head and steady fingers, Georgianne opened a carved box and took out an ornamental sheathed dagger, a present from her late father. She slipped it into the pocket of her cloak before leaving the room.
Georgianne worried her lower lip with her teeth. Regardless of the circumstances, she owed it to her husband not to create a scandal. If she sent for a carriage, the coachman and the grooms might gossip. Besides, it would be quicker to hire a hackney than it would be to order the carriage.
Her face partially concealed by the hood of her cloak, she hurried down the broad staircase to the entrance hall. “Open the door,” she ordered the footman on duty.
She stepped outside and proceeded down the street. Hidden by an enveloping mask of yellowish-grey fog, she quickened her pace, crossed the main road and darted along a lane between Pall Mall and Warwick House, to the stand where she hired a hackney.
Perhaps she should have waited for Tarrant to escort her. Should she return home? No, never would she forgive herself if cowardice led to either Bab or her husband coming to harm.
The hackney delivered her to Pennington’s imposing house in Hanover Square. She paid the driver before hurrying up the broad steps. Feverish with anxiety, she rapped the brass knocker. “How long does it take to open the door?” she muttered.
A tall footman in blue and silver livery opened it and looked insolently at her.
She tilted her chin. “Please announce me to his lordship. He is expecting me.”
The footman raised an eyebrow. Heat flooded her cheeks. The servant’s unpardonable haughtiness made it plain what he thought of a female who came alone to visit a gentleman. He opened the door wider to admit her, led her through a hall made dark with old wood panelling, and opened the door to a reception room. “Wait there.”
Georgianne scanned the small room. Light from candles in gilt wall sconces did not penetrate the dusky corners. If the earl joined her here, it would suit her purpose. She moved a wing chair and sat in the shadows opposite the door. Moments later, it opened slowly.
Sunday's Child (Heroines Born on Different Days of the Week Book 1) Page 9
