“Besides the fact she’s Georgie Black’s sister,” Lydgate pointed out.
Xavier’s next words arrested him. “She inherits Cloverleigh, did you know?”
Beckenham’s hand tightened on the shaft of his pen.
He did know. Cloverleigh was not only a very tidy, lucrative estate, it had been part of his own lands once upon a time. His grandfather had been a madman, a gamester and a wastrel who’d lost a massive sum to Georgie’s grandfather in a game of deep basset. The old villain had paid his debt by carving off the unentailed portion of his estate.
Beckenham’s guardian, the Duke of Montford, was the one who had convinced Georgie’s father that an alliance between Georgie and Beckenham would be advantageous. Without a son to inherit, and only a distant relative living in the Americas next in line for that honor, it seemed reasonable for Sir Donald Black to make Cloverleigh Georgie’s dowry.
Of course, the broken engagement put an end to Beckenham’s hopes of making his estate whole again. But now, there was a chance.…
No. He couldn’t do it. Lydgate was right. He couldn’t court Georgie’s sister.
“Out of the question,” he said. “It would be awkward in the extreme to wed the sister of the lady who jilted me.”
Worse, he’d be obliged to see her, wouldn’t he?
A fierce longing gripped him. Despite Georgie’s rejection at the Marstons’ ball, he still couldn’t get their heated encounter on the night of Xavier’s party out of his head. The soft, smooth feel of her skin, the way she’d trembled under his hands, shuddered at the touch of his mouth, his tongue.
A good thing he was sitting at Xavier’s desk, because the hard, hot bulge in his trousers would betray him otherwise.
Why couldn’t he purge Georgie Black from his thoughts?
The task was made more difficult because he heard about her in Brighton wherever he went. Even on a short walk on the seafront at an unfashionable hour, he’d come upon a crowd of gentlemen coming to blows over a spyglass, of all things. He wouldn’t have paid them any heed, except that one of them had the infernal impudence to jostle him.
The young buck begged Beckenham’s pardon, which won him a reprieve from a fist in the face. Upon Beckenham’s inquiry as to the reason for the affray, the young buck told him word had it that the divine Miss Black currently inhabited one of the bathing machines below.
Thus, the heated argument about who should have a turn at the spyglass for the purpose of a rare and stimulating sight.
Refraining from picking the group of youths up by the scruffs of their necks like a litter of puppies and pitching them into the sea, Beckenham had stalked away without a word. Worse, he’d been obliged to exercise considerable restraint to stop himself glancing hopefully toward the bathing machine in question.
This ridiculous obsession must be curbed immediately. He did not doubt that marriage to another lady would cure him. He was not the sort of man who panted after another woman once he’d committed himself.
For that matter, he probably dwelled more than usual on his scorching encounter with Georgie because he hadn’t bedded another woman since that night. It wasn’t healthy to go without for so long.
And yet, the thought of seeking a lover in Brighton was strangely abhorrent.
He realized Xavier was speaking and switched his attention to the present.
“As I’ve said to you before, it is immaterial to me whom you marry, but my sources tell me the girl is exactly what you’re looking for. And she brings the land with her. From a practical standpoint, you couldn’t do better, if you ask me.”
Beckenham was about to point out that he hadn’t asked Xavier, only to recall before the words were out of his mouth that, actually, he had. That’s why he’d come to Brighton in the first place, only his initial purpose seemed a matter of a lifetime rather than weeks ago.
Xavier tilted his head, his lazy gaze oddly penetrating. “If you wish, I’ll arrange with Lady Arden for an inspection of the merchandise. If you don’t like what you see, no harm done.”
Beckenham swallowed an objection to Xavier’s boorish phrasing as he realized his cousin meant to deride his own businesslike approach.
He was forced to see the merit of Xavier’s argument. He’d long ago convinced himself it was his duty to retrieve what his grandfather had lost at the gaming tables. That was why he’d agreed to marry Georgie, after all. He ought to take the chance to restore his estate while he could. If Violet married another man, the opportunity would be lost forever.
Beckenham possessed a vast fortune and impeccable lineage. He didn’t need his bride to bring anything with her save a good family name and an agreeable disposition. But Cloverleigh … Yes. That was certainly a powerful inducement.
In his mind’s eye, Georgie mocked him for his pompous deliberation.
Somehow, that settled it.
“Very well,” he said. “Thank you for the recommendation.” Putting Miss Violet on the list did not mean he would definitely marry her. But he’d be a fool not to at least consider the girl who inherited Cloverleigh as a bride.
Xavier appeared thoughtful. “I’d say I’m happy to be of service if I didn’t feel so much like a horse trader. Either that, or a pimp.”
He smiled, made an ironic bow, and headed for the door.
“You know, Lydgate, I find myself positively avid for the day when the great Marquis of Steyne must finally wed,” Beckenham remarked while his cousin was still in earshot.
Xavier turned, his long fingers gripping the doorknob. Silkily, he said, “Why Beckenham, how kind of you to take an interest in my nuptials. But I believe I shall manage the business of a bride without help from either of you.”
With a slight smile, he left the room.
Lydgate gave a dramatic shiver. “Can you imagine it? I wouldn’t like to be in that poor girl’s shoes. He’s a handsome devil but a damned cold fish.”
“Why didn’t Montford ever choose him a bride?”
But that was a question even the Idle Intelligencer couldn’t answer. “Let’s get on with this, shall we? Now for the itinerary.”
Beckenham sighed. “Must we?”
Lydgate moved to stand next to Beckenham and leaned over the desk so he could spread the closely annotated parchment before them. “It’s all mapped out for you. I propose we begin with Hendon. Three of the ladies on your list will attend that party, so you will kill three birds with one stone, so to speak.”
“Which ladies?” said Beckenham.
“Miss Priscilla Trent, Miss Jane Harrow, and Lady Elizabeth Fanshawe.”
None of these ladies were known to him. “Very well, then. I trust you can procure us an invitation.”
“Consider it done,” said his cousin. “But not ‘us,’ Becks. You. I have other fish to fry.”
Beckenham raised his brows. “Another of your schemes, Andy?”
For once, Lydgate’s breezy aspect turned cold. “Best you don’t know, old fellow.”
Beckenham turned to eye him steadily. “You’d tell me if you ever need—”
“What? Am I an infant running to his cousin to kill the big bad wolf?” Lydgate scoffed.
“You are assisting me with my quest,” said Beckenham. “I only offer a helping hand with yours.”
The fire in Lydgate’s eyes died to a smolder. “Now you make me feel ungracious. Thank you. I know I can rely on you in a pinch. Always could.” He shook his head. “It won’t come to that, however. I’m best when I work alone.”
This work, Beckenham surmised, was risky. He wasn’t sure if Lydgate would do anything downright illegal, but from what he’d let fall over the years, the work he did was dangerous. If he were caught, no one would come to his aid.
No one but his very powerful family.
Yes, that counted for something. That counted for a lot.
He passed the list back to Lydgate. “Very well. Let’s put everything in train.”
“I can’t help feeling I’m assisting in a tra
vesty,” sighed Lydgate. “Do you truly want a bloodless, calculated alliance? What about falling in love?”
A sudden, excruciating pain locked around Beckenham’s chest.
He lowered his gaze to the paper Lydgate held. “Love?” he snorted. “Love is for poets and dreamers, Lydgate. My marriage will have nothing to do with love.”
Chapter Nine
Lady Black held up a scrap of paper she had torn from a newspaper advertisement as their carriage drew up opposite the Star and Garter. “Listen to this, Georgie. It says shampooing or the Indian medicated vapor bath is a cure to many diseases and giving full relief when everything fails; particularly rheumatic and paralytic, gout, stiff joints, old sprains, lame legs, aches and pains in the joints.”
Georgie kept her skepticism to herself. Of all the cures Lady Black had tried, this was hardly the most outlandish. It was, perhaps, the most exotic, but that might make it more interesting.
Taking her silence for doubt, Lady Black shook the paper in her face. “When everything fails, Georgie. And if the King patronizes this Mahomed fellow, then I am sure he must be good enough for me.”
In spite of herself, Georgie was curious about the methods employed by the latest charlatan to induce their monarch to part with his money. She didn’t promise to partake of whatever strange techniques might be used there, but she wouldn’t mind taking a look.
The building was an unremarkable structure, save for the large lettering that covered one story: MAHOMED’S BATHS. ORIGINAL MEDICATED SHAMPOOING; HOT COLD DOUCH & SHOWER.
The interior of the establishment was breathtaking—quite literally. The air was as moist and sultry as a subcontinental clime, redolent of scents that were as foreign to Georgie as the murals of jungle scenes and brightly plumed birds that covered the walls.
A very dapper brown-skinned gentleman greeted them with a wide smile. “Ladies, welcome, welcome! What a pleasure and an honor it is to have you here.”
He introduced himself as the proprietor of the establishment. Mr. Sake Deen Mahomed was dressed in a sober English style, rather than in a manner befitting his surroundings. But his colorful personality more than compensated for the lack of flamboyance in his attire.
Mr. Mahomed saw Georgie eyeing the battalion of crutches, back braces, and walking sticks that adorned one wall of the foyer.
He laughed. “Miss Black, you are astonished at my decorations. I do not wonder, for it is an amazement, is it not? After taking my special vapor baths and shampooing treatments, my clients no longer have need for such aids. They throw them away. This—” He waved a hand at the wall of medical apparatuses. “—this is a testament to the efficacy of my unique methods. The Turkish baths? Pah!” He dismissed the Turkish baths with a happy sneer. “My remedies are formulated from the ancient medicines of India. Passed down through generations of healers. To me.”
This last was said with a flourish so full of good-natured conceit that Georgie grinned back at him.
Mr. Mahomed listened to Lady Black’s myriad symptoms with a thoughtful air, then handed her a list of treatments, recommended some of them, and waited with attentive courtesy while she perused and debated with herself.
When Lady Black finally chose the vapor bath, shampooing, and a massage, Mr. Mahomed clasped his hands together in the manner of someone restraining his applause. “My lady, you are as discerning as you are gracious.”
He looked up and beckoned to a neat English woman dressed in a plain flannel gown. “Polly will take care of you. She is trained in every procedure. I myself personally have seen to this. You are in excellent hands with Polly.”
Georgie found herself so delighted and amused by Mr. Mahomed’s ebullience that she also agreed to every procedure on her stepmother’s list.
By the end of it all, she felt wonderfully renewed, her body so relaxed, she might have melted into the floor. There was something immensely pleasant about having one’s head massaged. She’d never known that before. She emerged feeling revitalized and clean and deliciously scented.
Considering her stepmother’s similar state of bliss, she understood why Mahomed’s Baths had become the rage. Georgie even persuaded Mr. Mahomed to sell her a couple of vials of his precious medicated “shampoo.” She still did not believe in the curative effects of these treatments, but if they might take one’s mind off one’s woes even for a short time, the exorbitant price was worth it.
Whatever its effect on her physical health, the visit to Mahomed’s left Georgie in a more positive frame of mind in which to contemplate her future.
On long walks by the sea, she made plans. She could not have Beckenham, but that did not mean her life was over. There were any number of ways a single woman of good fortune could make herself useful in the world. And of course there would be the excitement and activity involved in launching Violet on the Ton next spring.
The pressure of worrying about Violet’s possible romance with Pearce had eased a little, since Georgie knew him to have left again for Bath. She’d taken the extreme and regrettable precaution of keeping an eye on Violet’s mail, but all Violet received were letters from her school friends and various relatives, so that was all right.
Georgie wasn’t complacent, however. She knew there would be a reckoning with Pearce but until that day, she would need to plan for life after her twenty-fifth birthday.
She returned from one of her seafront promenades to hear voices in the drawing room.
Her stepmother appeared on the landing. “There you are, Georgie. Come and hear the news.”
She hesitated before following. News usually meant a visit from Mrs. Makepeace, whose company she routinely avoided. Ever since she’d heard of Beckenham’s sudden reappearance in Georgie’s life and his equally sudden disappearance, Mrs. Makepeace had cross-questioned Georgie until she’d felt like the accused in a murder trial.
It was not Mrs. Makepeace but Lady Arden who called on them today.
She rose and embraced Georgie warmly. “My dear,” she said, drawing back and searching Georgie’s face in that disconcertingly sharp way she had. “Does the sea air not agree with you? You look peaky.”
“I am well, thank you, my lady.” Georgie accepted a cup of tea and sat facing the window as the other ladies settled themselves. “News? What news, pray?”
Lady Black sat upright on her couch, wide-eyed and pregnant with what was presumably the latest gossip, her customary languor fallen away.
She clasped her hands to her breast. “Beckenham! Oh, it is too good to be true.”
Georgie hoped she had not betrayed herself at the mention of his name. Beckenham had left Brighton without a word to her. What else had she expected?
Georgie made an effort to look politely interested. “What about the earl?”
“You haven’t heard?” Lady Arden smiled blandly. “I had not thought to be first with the news. You and Beckenham appeared so … cozy at the Marstons’ ball.”
“You were mistaken, ma’am,” was the only response Georgie gave to that piece of sophistry. “Lord Beckenham and I were civil to each other, as the occasion demanded, nothing more.”
Georgie knew Lady Arden sought to draw out the suspense, but of course her stepmother was a stranger to the subtler forms of social torture.
“The Earl of Beckenham is going to take a wife,” burst out Lady Black.
“He has embarked on a tour of England,” said Lady Arden, smoothing her skirts. “Acquainting himself with all the eligible ladies in the country, if you please.”
Suddenly, Georgie felt as if she stood in the middle of a blizzard, her vision clouded by whirling flurries of white. Her insides turned to ice.
“They say he is fêted and fawned upon wherever he goes,” Lady Arden continued. “My sources tell me he is beginning in the north and working his way down England. Rather like a king on his progress, don’t you think? I trust none of his poor hosts will bankrupt themselves to entertain him. He was ever a man of plain tastes.”
Both la
dies watched Georgie closely, perhaps expecting her to rend her clothes and wail.
“What do you think is the meaning of this sudden start, Georgie?” asked Lady Arden.
Georgie swallowed hard. Seconds ticked by before she could force herself to say, “A timely decision. Lord Beckenham must be nearing thirty, I would suppose.” She knew to an hour how old he was. “It sounds like an efficient way of going about finding a bride,” she managed. “Lord Beckenham is nothing if not efficient.”
She took a hasty sip of tea, scalding her tongue, then looked up at her companions. They both watched her. She hoped she’d managed to pull the wool over their eyes, but Lady Arden’s eyes missed very little.
Belatedly, Georgie realized the significance of that avid expression on her stepmother’s face.
Oh, no. Lady Black had been given false encouragement by Beckenham calling on them in Brighton. She intended to throw Georgie’s hat into the ring, offer her up as a candidate. That’s why Lady Arden was here.
Deliberately, Georgie set down her cup and saucer on a piecrust table beside her. “Ma’am, I know what you’re thinking,” she began a trifle unsteadily, “but pray, I beg you, put it from your mind.”
“And what do you think you have to say to it, my girl?” demanded her stepmother with a snort.
Georgie blinked. “My lady, my betrothal to Lord Beckenham is firmly in the past. I could not possibly throw my cap at him now.”
“You, Georgie?” Lady Arden blinked, putting a hand to her breast. “Oh, my darling girl. Have no fear. I wouldn’t dream of putting you forward as a prospective bride a second time.”
“My goodness, no,” Lady Black tittered. “One might say that chicken’s neck is wrung.”
One might, if one were a vulgar, hateful baggage, thought Georgie savagely.
She fought to regain control over her emotions. But the heavy blow of hearing Beckenham would marry, coupled with the dawning notion about the precise cause of her stepmother’s excitement, held her speechless.
“We mean Violet to have him, of course,” said Lady Black. “And there’s not a moment to lose.”
The Greatest Lover Ever Page 11
