Connie Mason & Mia Marlowe - [Royal Rakes 02]

by One NightWith a Rake

  “That’s lovely, my dear,” he said with approval.

  “But it’s so plain,” her mother complained.

  “The better to complement her beauty,” her father countered. “Georgette doesn’t need anything more.”

  Lady Yorkingham took the red gown from the modiste’s hands and held it up before herself. “But I want Georgette to wear this one.”

  “Very nice,” her father said diplomatically. Then he cocked his head. “Seems to me I remember another young lady in that very shade of red. Someone who could carry off that bright hue because her own coloring was—and still is—so very striking.”

  Georgette’s mother blushed to the tips of her ears. “You remember.”

  “Of course I do. I’ll never forget it. You were beautiful in your wedding gown, but when you donned that red traveling ensemble, all I could think was what a very lucky fellow I was.” He checked the time on his filigreed watch and then returned it to his pocket. “I also remembered that you love the opera, my dear. We have a box reserved for tonight, so if you don’t wish to miss the overture, I suggest you leave Georgette to her fitting and prepare yourself for an evening with me.”

  Lady Yorkingham’s mouth gaped in surprise for the space of several heartbeats.

  “Of course, my lord,” she said, collecting herself swiftly. “Georgette, I’ll trust you to work with Mme. Reynard on the red gown as well.”

  “Yes, Mother.” Slightly bewildered, she cast her father a look of pure gratitude as he escorted her mother out.

  What on earth had possessed the marquis? Her father never surprised her mother like that. And she knew full well he loathed the opera. Why was the marquis suddenly behaving like an anxious-to-please suitor instead of a man who’d been married for nearly thirty years?

  Georgette disappeared behind the dressing screen and let Mercy help her out of the delectable pink confection. In the interests of peace, she’d let the modiste fit her for the red gown as well.

  But if her mother insisted she wear it for the ball, Georgette fully intended to spill a cup of chocolate on it while the string quartet was tuning up.

  Thirty-one

  It was well after midnight before Lord and Lady Yorkingham returned home. The performance of Don Giovanni was acclaimed a triumph and the applause at the last curtain call had lasted a full quarter of an hour.

  Nathaniel knew this because he overheard Lord Yorkingham grumbling about the way his hands went numb over all that clapping as he escorted his wife to their door. Lady Yorkingham nagged him for lack of appreciation of the arts. The marquis finally pulled her close and kissed her soundly to hush her scolding. After that, they hurried in, giggling like a pair of newlyweds.

  Nate snorted and settled back in between the bare bushes in the Yorkingham’s small front garden. Anyone trying to enter the town house from the rear would encounter the footmen and bootblack boy who made out their pallets in the kitchen. Nathaniel had made a nest for himself with his garrick so he could keep an eye on things in the front. Since the lord and lady of the house hadn’t noticed him there in the darkness, he felt certain his hiding place was secure.

  No one with evil intent would spy him there either.

  He’d been expected to return to Yorkingham House hours ago, but he couldn’t muster the courage to cross the threshold. If he slept under the same roof as Georgette, he didn’t trust himself not to slip into her chamber and shag her silly.

  If he was willing to cheerfully murder Mr. Alcock in a duel for trying to ruin her with his agent’s smarmy report of their afternoon tryst, the least Nate could do was keep from being caught actually accomplishing the deed.

  The time since he left Georgette that afternoon had been spent productively. First, he went back to his Cheapside flat to collect his mail and order the payment of several bills, including his long-suffering tailor. He’d neglected the business end of his life of late. It was soothing to do something which required only logic with no troubling compressions of his gut.

  His friend Lord Rhys Warrington had sent him a letter and Nathaniel pulled it from his waistcoat pocket to reread it by the yellow light of the gas lamp on the street outside Yorkingham House. After Rhys explained that he’d married Lady Olivia Symon rather suddenly—almost by accident, really—he penned the most interesting part of the missive.

  Since I married Lady Olivia, Mr. Alcock tossed me a crumb of information that could lead to our full vindication. According to Alcock, Nathaniel’s friend wrote, there is a witness who can attest to the plot to deliver fraudulent intelligence to us prior to the battle at Maubeuge. The man’s name is Sergeant Leatherby, but he took ship for Portsmouth before I could locate him.

  He is willing to testify, but is justifiably concerned for his safety should he do so. If you have the ability to travel to Portsmouth to apprehend him, I urge you to do it. I am still on my honeymoon and my bride would not appreciate me playing enquiry agent at this stage in our marriage.

  If I can aid you in any other matter, call on me.

  Nate refolded the letter. Rhys could do nothing to help him now. But at least the information in the letter was a start toward protecting his family from Alcock’s spite.

  He looked up at Georgette’s dark window.

  He needed to protect her from other things. From her fearless meddling in sordid places. From the man in the tweed coat and deerstalker he’d noticed entering Sadie O’Toole’s new brothel. The gentleman moved in Georgette’s circles. Nate had seen him about town in fashionable haunts and remembered his name.

  But he needed confirmation before he made an accusation.

  That evening, Nathaniel had retraced his steps and revisited O’Toole’s red door, going in this time. He hired the girl with the freshest bruising on her neck for an hour. But instead of bedding her, he spent the time in her squalid chamber convincing her to tell him all she knew about the man in the deerstalker and tweed jacket.

  “’Is name? Ye don’t think the gentlemen gives us their real names, do ye, guv?” the whore had asked him, casting him a jaundiced gaze. “The other girls and me, we just calls him Mr. Handy.”

  “Because he’s useful?”

  “No, Gawd love ye. It’s because he likes to use his hands on us, and not in a good way neither, if ye catch me meaning.” She pulled back the hair she’d let tumble around her shoulders in hopes of covering the mottled purple at her neck. “He likes to choke us.”

  Her gaze dropped to her lap. “He watches, like a snake, while me eyes go dark. Then when I comes to myself, he’s got his thing inside me, pumpin’ away like there’s no tomorrow.”

  Nate poured her another shot of the whisky he’d brought with him, but didn’t interrupt her tale.

  “The trick is to lie still as the dead and take shallow breaths whilst he does his business, ye see,” the girl said. “It goes a lot faster that way. If ye move, he starts over by putting yer lights out again.”

  The girl went on to say that the rumor around the whorehouse was that Mr. Handy had killed a girl in Sadie O’Toole’s last brothel. Maybe more than one. The whores thought Sadie must have the goods on him because he was free with the blunt every time he came to visit. Which was far too often for the working girls’ comfort. In any case, Mr. Handy was the one putting up the coin for Sadie’s renovations, so he pretty much got to do anything he wanted with anyone he wanted.

  And in his own private room too.

  When his hour was up, Nate told the girl about his House of Sirens on Lackaday Lane and offered her a place there if she wanted out of her current life.

  The girl covered his hand with kisses and promised to present herself to Mrs. Throckmorten as soon as she could steal away the next morning.

  Nate still didn’t have enough proof to go to a magistrate with his suspicions, but he’d be on the watch since “Mr. Handy” was accepted by the ton. He’d protect Georgette from him with his heart’s blood if necessary.

  But most of all, Nathaniel needed to protect Georgette
from himself. He would bring her only grief, only disgrace, and he couldn’t bear to taint her life with it.

  Nate realized with an ache in his gut that he wanted the best for her. Georgette deserved to wear a crown. She deserved every happiness.

  Even if it wasn’t with him.

  That meant he had to step aside and let her match with the Duke of Cambridge proceed. When she wed the royal duke, he’d probably slip into the nave of Westminster to stand and listen to her vows echo in the soaring arches overhead. It would make him go dead inside, but making certain of her future with the royals would be the last good thing he could do for her.

  Then he’d go in search of Sergeant Leatherby in Portsmouth for the sake of his friends and their happiness.

  There could be none for him.

  So this is what love really is.

  He thought he’d known when he was betrothed to Anne. When he lost her, he’d wallowed in grief and self-pity. He’d mourned for the future he’d imagined with her, for his solitary march through the years after she’d gone.

  But he realized now that it had always been about him.

  Nothing in his experience prepared him for setting himself aside like this. He was desperate to see everything made right for Georgette, damn the consequences to himself.

  He was losing the woman he loved again. But this time, there was nothing left of him to worry over.

  Nate pulled his garrick around his shoulders and turned his back to the wind.

  ***

  “Rise and shine, my lady,” Mercy sang out, cheerful as a cricket.

  Georgette pried her eyelids open and then, when Mercy threw back the draperies, squinched them tight again against the glare of light. The sun was a disgustingly low yellow ball on the eastern horizon.

  “What are you doing up so early?” she mumbled, covering her face with one of her pillows.

  “None o’ that now.” Mercy lifted a corner of the pillow, peeping under the down-filled case at her. “Have ye forgotten what day it is today?”

  Georgette had been trying to. She’d pushed the future away with both hands, but it rushed toward her now like a runaway coach and six.

  “The ball for the royal duke,” she said flatly.

  “Oh, right. I suppose it is, at that,” Mercy said. “But it’s also the Ladies’ Maids’ Ball, remember? I asked ye last week could I have the evening off so Mr. Darling can take me. Do ye mind it now?”

  Georgette nodded sleepily.

  “So we needs to get ye ready a tad earlier today so’s I can see to meself later. Oh, would ye look at those eyes?” Mercy made tsking noises as she threw the covers back and took Georgette’s hands to urge her up. “A body would never guess ye’ve been abed.”

  She very nearly hadn’t been. After tossing about under her coverlet, sometime during the dark hours, Georgette had slipped from her chamber and padded to the guest wing.

  Nathaniel’s bed was undisturbed.

  She’d settled into the wing chair by his banked fire, waiting for him to return. At some point, she fell into an exhausted light slumber and jerked herself awake when dawn turned the sky a sickly pearl. She managed to return to her own room without discovery, but she nearly bumped into a pair of maids as they slipped into some unused chambers to scrub the hearths. Every room in Yorkingham House must be beyond reproach when a royal duke came calling, whether he’d ever enter the chamber or not.

  “Well, I’ve buckets of things to finish afore we’re both ready for this evening’s doings,” Mercy said, “but let’s see what a little witch hazel and a bit of paint will do for that puffiness.”

  Mercy poked and prodded and fussed at Georgette, repairing the damage of a sleepless night. After half an hour of Mercy’s ministrations, Georgette looked amazingly bright-eyed, but nothing repaired the confusion in her heart.

  Where was Nathaniel? And why did he leave her to face what was coming by herself on this day of all days?

  Alone in the dining room, Georgette pushed the buttered eggs and sausages around her plate without bringing the fork to her lips. The room was so empty, the scrape of her fork on china was loud enough to make her cringe.

  “Where are my parents?” she asked Mr. Rigsby when he tried to present her with a rack of toast.

  Mr. Rigsby’s ears flushed a deep scarlet. “My lord and lady have elected to take a breakfast tray together in my lord’s bedchamber.”

  That was unusual enough for even the unflappable Mr. Humphrey, who stood watch over the dining room from the corner, to involuntarily arch a surprised brow.

  Evidently her father’s evening at the opera had turned into something much more. Georgette covered a small smile with her napkin. It was about time her parents stopped being strangers with each other.

  She was happy for them, but she really could have used their company to divert her thoughts from the coming ball. Though on further reflection, she realized if her mother were there, all she’d be chattering about would be the evening’s festivities.

  What she really needed was Nate.

  “Has Lord Nathaniel had breakfast?” she asked, hoping he’d returned after she’d given up and made her way back to her chamber.

  “No, my lady.” Mr. Humphrey stepped up to refresh her tea. “To my knowledge, Lord Nathaniel did not return to Yorkingham House last night.”

  Her belly twisted itself in knots.

  He loves me, Georgette reminded herself. He’d practically sung it as they came together in his string bed. But he’d been so distant after that idyllic interlude, and he hadn’t even bothered to tell her good-bye.

  What had happened?

  She wondered if he was pursuing Vesta and Mr. Bagley’s killer without her. If so, he might be in danger. Or would her presence only hamper his investigation? Usually, the idea that Nathaniel might be better off without her in tow never entered her mind.

  She pondered it now.

  He does seem to have to spend an inordinate amount of time carting me off over his shoulder.

  She frowned down at her plate and decided to abandon the cause of breakfast.

  Georgette wandered through Yorkingham House with no idea how to fill the time till she had to dress for the ball. Mercy had wheedled her into promising to go in search of a new bonnet to complement the cast-off gown Mercy would be wearing to the Ladies’ Maids’ Ball that evening, but they couldn’t even set out till Mercy finished a few chores.

  If Georgette was at loose ends, the rest of the household bristled with activity. In the ballroom, her mother’s army of workers was busy festooning the grand space with reams of red silk, lace-trimmed hearts, and papier-mâché flowers. Cook was in upheaval in the kitchen preparing the dainty dishes destined for the sideboards set up in an anteroom off the ballroom. Mrs. Thistle had marshaled every maid in Yorkingham House to polish the brass and scrub the floors till she could see her reflection in the gleaming marble and hardwood.

  The daughter of the house was about to become a future royal duchess. His Highness might make his formal declaration that night in Yorkingham House. The very air vibrated with expectancy.

  Yet if a certain second son would only say the word, Georgette would blithely run off to Gretna Green with him without a backward glance.

  Thirty-two

  Lord Roger Fishwick strolled into White’s at half-past nine in the morning with only a slight wobble in his walk. True, he wasn’t entirely sober, but he wasn’t as drunk as usual after an all-night carouse either.

  A few gentlemen were engaged in a card game, but for once, Lord Gobberd wasn’t among them. Instead, that overblown windbag had commandeered one of the stuffed chairs by the large window, the better to see and be seen as he read his freshly ironed newspaper and slurped down his morning coffee.

  At least he’s a useful overblown windbag, Roger thought. Anything the teeniest bit scandalous about anyone was sure to have caught Gobberd’s notice, and he wasn’t shy about sharing his knowledge.

  Roger slid into the chair opposite
him and signaled to the waiting footman to bring him a steaming cup.

  “The Jamaican brew, and step lively,” he ordered. Tea simply wouldn’t do. A pot of chocolate was for women or men with no hair on their chests. To keep Roger awake and upright, it had to be Arabica beans so stout they could lift the cup and carry it across the table on their own.

  Gobberd peered over the top of his paper, his slanting gaze taking in the bedraggled state of Roger’s neckcloth and the grubbiness of his cuffs.

  “Haven’t found your bed yet, I see, Fishwick.”

  “No matter,” Roger said with a cheerful snort. “I found someone else’s.”

  Gobberd laughed heartily at that. “I knew there was a reason I liked you, son. You remind me of me.”

  A much younger and fitter version of you, Roger thought as the footman brought his coffee. Unfortunately, the servant jostled the cup in the saucer as he set it down and spilled some of the precious brew. Roger gave him a blistering tongue-lashing and the fellow backed away, apologizing profusely and promising to bring a fresh pot, not just a fresh cup.

  “And a plate of biscuits too, while you’re about it,” Roger said with an imperious glare. Once the fellow hotfooted it back to the kitchen, Roger turned back to Lord Gobberd. “What’s wrong with the help this morning?”

  “That poor fellow isn’t one of the regulars,” Gobberd said. “The usual wait staff has the day off to prepare for that blasted Ladies’ Maids’ Ball this evening. The whole city’s in a boiling stew over it.” Gobberd cleared his throat loudly and, to Roger’s stomach’s discomfort, snorted wetly. “A lot of nonsense, if you ask me. Does a real disservice to the lower classes. Gives ’em airs above their station.”

  The substitute footman came back, walking with such care it looked as if he scarcely drew breath. Roger took a sip of the coffee.