“It’s cold,” he complained. When the footman started to remove the tray, Roger stopped him with a glare. “Leave it. I’ve no hope you’d get it right even if you did try again.”
“Not to mention that he’ll probably spit in your cup next time,” Gobberd muttered behind his paper. “It’s only coffee. Why so particular?”
Roger swallowed back his reply. “Only” coffee.
Gobberd’s use of “only” whisked him back to his childhood when it seemed all he heard was “only.” It had been only his marks in school…only his seat on a horse…only the way he spoke with his mouth full…
Only. Only. Only.
His parents tried to control everything about him, all the while trying to make it seem as if it was for his own good.
As if they cared.
He knew better.
They treated him as though he were merely an appendage of themselves, as if his accomplishments were theirs. And as if his failures somehow redounded to them as well. Oh, how they made him pay when that happened.
But as Roger moved through his awkward boyhood, he found his own ways of taking control. He found that he liked it.
Craved it, even.
Of course, when his parents found his little experiments with power, the skinned frogs and singed cats, they’d tried to threaten him into stopping. Once his father had even beaten him, but when Roger gutted his favorite hunting dog the next day in a way that made it seem as if the hound had run afoul of a wild boar, the threats and beatings stopped.
His parents walked warily around him after that.
They should have known better than to try to deny him, so he’d simply wrestled it from them.
Control.
And now that his parents were dead, he was the one who held all the power in his life.
Finally.
Roger studied Lord Gobberd over his cold coffee. If he didn’t understand how vitally important it was to have absolute control over every aspect of one’s life, Roger couldn’t explain it to him. Gobberd was content to bobble along through life like so much bloated flotsam.
Not Roger. He’d do one better than control his own life. He’d make certain of the fate of those around him as well. It was the “only” thing to do.
“Not much doing here this morning. I don’t see any of the regulars,” Roger said.
He’d hoped to run into Lord Nathaniel Colton again, without Lady Georgette at his side this time. Though the man had technically done him what others saw as a “good turn” when he paid for his care that day Roger had stumbled into White’s, it grated on Roger’s nerves that others thought he was beholden to Colton in some way. He’d never surrender that sort of power to another. Colton needed to learn that.
“Why is this place so dead this morning?” Roger asked.
Gobberd glared at him over his paper, clearly annoyed at the interruption. “Probably because there’s also a ball for the Duke of Cambridge at Lord Yorkingham’s this evening.” Lord Gobberd flipped to the next page and scanned the headlines. “Didn’t you receive an invitation?”
“Of course,” Roger said quickly. He hadn’t, but Gobberd didn’t need to know that. “Yorkingham’s country seat abuts my own property. Our families have been friendly for years.”
Less friendly since his parents died rather unexpectedly and Roger came into the barony in his own right. But again, that was information Lord Gobberd didn’t need.
“I find it odd that it requires an entire day to prepare for an evening’s entertainment,” Roger said.
Lord Gobberd gave up and laid his paper aside. “According to all reports, this will be no ordinary evening. Odds highly favor that the Duke of Cambridge will make an official proposal to Lady Georgette at the ball. Check the book, if you doubt me. I’ve put fifty pounds on the lady’s nose myself. She’ll be the first filly out of the gate in the ‘Hymen Race Terrific’ if the betrothal and marriage come to fruition.”
White’s ledger of wagers was full of any number of items on which its members might hazard a bet. Whether or not Lady Georgette Yorkingham would become a royal was high on the current list, just under whether or not a horse named Blanchington’s Fancy would throw a shoe during its race on Saturday next.
“Hmm, I would have said the lady was taken with Lord Nathaniel Colton, not the royal duke,” Roger mused. He’d noticed the way Georgette and Colton sneaked glances at each other at the Daventrys’ musical evening and drew his own conclusions. “They’ve been seen together in public quite a bit.”
“Doesn’t signify. He’s only serving as an escort because of his past relationship with the family.” Gobberd shook his head, setting his jowls swaying, and resumed reading his paper. “But if Colton has feelings for the lady, he’s in for a rough evening.”
Wonder if there’s a way I can make it rougher, Roger mused as he bit down on one of the biscuits. The shortbread was stale and he pushed aside the rest in disgust.
“Speak of the devil,” Gobberd said, lowering his paper. “Or should I say ‘devil-ette.’”
Lady Georgette strolled past the large window at White’s, accompanied by her maid. The girl was chattering happily and Lady Georgette seemed to actually be listening.
As if a servant might possibly have something worthwhile to say.
“That maid seems an insolent bit of baggage,” Roger said. “I require mine to be seen only when absolutely necessary and heard not at all.”
“An old-fashioned view, I fear. Nowadays, women confide a good deal in their maids. Almost make companions of them,” Gobberd said with a derisive snort. “Were I a betting man—and I am—I’d lay odds that Lady Georgette takes that young chit to the palace with her when she marries.”
“Surely not. The royals undoubtedly have plenty of servants already.” Roger squinted at the maid and recognized her. “Besides, I have it on good authority that the young woman used to sell herself in Covent Garden.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Lord Gobberd said. “Word is Lady Georgette is spearheading a misguided effort to save soiled doves, you know. Stands to reason her maid is one of her ‘successes.’ See how she seems to dote upon her.”
Roger followed the women’s progress down the street. They did seem more like friends than employer and employee, heads together conspiratorially as they ducked into a milliner’s shop. Perhaps that unnatural attachment between them was something he could use.
A plan began to take shape in his gin-soaked brain. It was brilliant in its audacity. He’d exercise control over a woman who’d snubbed him and a man who thought he was beholden to him. Roger would even tweak the nose of the royal duke by denying him a bride in the process.
Now that was power.
Roger rose so hastily, his chair toppled over behind him.
“Where are you haring off to, Fishwick?”
“I just remembered some…some matters of my estate to which I must attend.” He dashed out of White’s. There was so much to do.
Of course, if he managed to pull it off, no one could ever know it was his work.
But he’d know.
And that would be enough.
***
“Oh, milady, it’s the finest thing I ever had in all me livin’ life.” Mercy clutched the hatbox to her chest as they walked back to the waiting Yorkingham carriage. “And no one’s ever worn it before me. Meanin’ no disrespect, I’m sure. I’m tickled to pieces to be wearing that old gown o’ yours this evening. But to think I’d ever have a brand new bonnet to go with it…”
She teared up and couldn’t finish her thought.
“It’s all right, Mercy. You don’t have to take on so. I know it pleases you,” Lady Georgette said.
Suddenly serious, Mercy cut a glance at her employer. “I wish ye knew what pleases yerself.”
“How do you mean?”
Mercy sighed. She’d broached this subject with milady any number of times with no success whatsoever.
Well, in for a penny…
“Th
is Duke of Cambridge fellow—”
“I believe you’d ought to refer to him as ‘His Royal Highness,’” Lady Georgette corrected.
“Yes, o’ course, ah…him. Ye know next to nothing about His Royal Highness yet ye’re set to become ’is bride. It don’t seem right, do it? Ye’re as smart a noble lady as ever I’ve met.” Mercy thought that might be damning Lady Georgette with faint praise since she’d observed no real sense in any of the wellborn women she’d crossed paths with, but she couldn’t very well say that. “This turn of events can’t be pleasing to ye. Not really.”
Lady Georgette’s lips compressed in a crooked line. “I know I’ve encouraged you to speak your mind, but this time you’re out of line, Mercy.”
“Maybe. But ye’re about out of time. I know ye fancy Lord Nathaniel. I dares ye to tell me different.”
Milady looked away. “You can’t possibly know what’s in another person’s heart.”
“Sure ye can. People are far easier to read than books. Everything they think or feel or think about feelin’ shows on their faces. Some more than others, to be sure, but it shows all the same,” Mercy said. “If ye’re not far gone on Lord Nate and have been for some time now, why…I’ll eat this cunning little bonnet you just bought me!”
Lady Georgette laughed. “Since it goes so well with your gown, you’d better not.” Then all traces of mirth left her features and she lifted her chin. “Whatever I may or may not feel for Lord Nathaniel makes no difference. Sometimes, we aren’t able to please ourselves, however much we may wish it.”
“But—”
“There is no but. Trust me when I say this is the way things are and the way they’ll stay.” Lady Georgette’s lips tightened in a hard line, and the chin she’d just jutted upward quivered for a moment. “In any case, the question is moot. Lord Nathaniel has left Yorkingham House.” Her voice trailed away to a wisp of sound. “He has left…me.”
Mercy could have kicked herself. In her excitement over her own ball and the special evening she was planning with Reuben, she’d completely missed the fact that she hadn’t seen Lord Nathaniel at the house that morning.
“Well, then, the man’s a bigger fool than Mr. Darling ever thought about being, and that’s saying something.” Mercy linked arms with her employer and put her head down into the stiff wind. “Come, milady. Let’s forget about men for a bit. Lord knows they forget about us often enough. We needs to get ye home and into a nice hot tub for a long soak. And I don’t want ye out of the water till ye’re good and pruney!”
***
The way the maid clutched that hatbox told Roger it didn’t contain something for her mistress. Lady Georgette had been as foolishly indulgent as he suspected she was and had bought something brand new for her servant.
Gobberd was right on that score. Such unnecessary generosity did nothing but create a soft underclass that would soon begin to feel itself ill-used if it wasn’t coddled and pandered to.
But Lady Georgette’s largesse played right into Roger’s hand, so he couldn’t find too much fault.
As soon as Lady Georgette and her maid disappeared around the corner, Roger ducked into the milliner’s shop they’d just exited. Festooned with lace and feathers and a rainbow of ribbons, the place positively reeked of femininity. Scents of linen and talc, with an undernote of glue and the faint metallic tang of mercury, tickled his nostrils.
“My lord,” the shopkeeper said with a deferential curtsy.
She was a fine-boned, swan-necked woman, and ordinarily he’d be very much interested in her. However, just now he had another woman in his sights. He could always return to this shop on a later date to further his acquaintance with the milliner.
“How may I assist you this day?” she said.
“I require a bonnet,” he said, looking at those he thought might fit in the hatbox he’d seen Georgette’s abigail carrying. “A special one. One very like the bonnet you just sold. Do you by chance make duplicates of your designs?”
“Oh, no, milord,” the shopkeeper said, her wing-shaped brows arched in scandalized surprise. “All my creations are originals. Think how horrified a lady would be to discover another woman had the same bonnet as she.”
Not to mention that the lady would never buy so much as a fichu from that particular milliner’s shop again.
He picked up a simple bonnet. “Yes, quite. But I have in mind a harmless little joke between friends. What if I offered you a ridiculous sum?” He named a price that was easily five times the going rate for ladies’ headgear. “Could you fashion an exact duplicate of the one you just sold? And it must be exactly the same, mind.”
The milliner nibbled her bottom lip, clearly tempted.
“I promise that your customer will never know you did it,” Roger said, holding a handful of coins before him in an open palm.
“How can you promise that, milord?”
“Because by the time Lady Georgette sees the bonnet, it will be flat as a flitter. This is part of a jest, you see,” he said. “A harmless prank. But the bonnets must start out identical or the joke will fall”—he gave her his most winning smile and a self-deprecating shrug—“flat. Come. Take my blunt.”
Her eyes flared with longing as she gazed at the handful of gleaming coins. Most shops traded on credit. They were constantly cash-strapped, even if they served the most exclusive clientele, because they had to wait for their wellborn customers to deign to pay their bills.
The milliner snatched the money from him. “Return in three hours,” she said as she escorted him to the door and flipped over the sign, indicating that her shop was closed. “I’ll have it ready by then.”
Thirty-three
By eight o’clock that evening, Georgette was fretting like a colt on a lunge line. She fidgeted in the upstairs parlor while the guests were being announced one by one in the ballroom below. Her mother had decided it would create a grander moment if Georgette descended the curving staircase and processed into the ballroom accompanied by a fanfare of strings and brass. She was even supposed to make her entrance after the Duke of Cambridge arrived.
“That will probably upset all sorts of precedence,” Georgette had argued. What she really wanted to do was find a quiet alcove in the ballroom and hide till the whole thing was over. The way her mother was arranging matters, every eye would be upon them when she and the royal duke met for the first time.
“That’s as may be, dearest, and I’ll admit it’s a calculated risk, but we want the duke to see you at your regal best,” her mother had insisted. “What’s more imperious than being the last to arrive?”
Since Lady Yorkingham had given in on the matter of the red gown and reluctantly admitted the shimmering pale pink was the better choice, Georgette decided to allow her mother this small victory. Besides, the fact that she was about to upstage the duke might just irk him enough that he’d cast his royal eyes elsewhere.
She wished for that with all her heart.
As much as she wanted to please her parents, she was beginning to realize she could never accept the royal duke’s suit. Court life would suffocate her. She wasn’t cut out to be a princess, but she’d be powdered and pressed and squeezed into the mold of one.
If she said “yes” to His Royal Highness, she’d be forever saying “no” to her real self.
Her parents would be devastated, but however much she loved them, she couldn’t live for them. The ton would consider her addlepated. She didn’t care. Even if she lived out her years as an eccentric spinster, at least she’d still be Georgette.
She might not have Nathaniel, but she’d still be herself.
Georgette parted the curtain and gazed down on the street where carriages lined up past the corner. The queue of equipages curved around the bend in the street beyond. Bejeweled women swathed in fur-trimmed capes and men with starched neckcloths and silver-headed walking sticks disembarked and made their stately way into burgeoning Yorkingham House.
If she were ever going to make a
break for it, now was the time. But where would she go?
One needed a prospective bridegroom in order to steal away to Scotland. Where did a lady go when she wanted to steal herself?
Maybe Paris…
Her imagination whirred like a windmill in a gale.
She’d go to Paris. It wasn’t a permanent solution, but it was a start.
To travel in safety, Georgette would need some portable wealth. She was wearing a strand of pearls with a ruby clasp. The locked jewelry chest in her chamber held a diamond brooch and a pair of emerald earbobs that were so heavy it hurt to wear them for an entire evening. The matching choker was fashioned of goodly sized gems. All told, the contents of her jewel box were enough to keep her comfortably for years.
“Maybe I can start a ‘House of Sirens’ type rehabilitation school for the demimonde of France,” she whispered to herself. Then because she couldn’t bear to give up completely on the dream of personal happiness, she added, “And maybe Nathaniel will come find me there.”
She dropped the curtain and turned away from the window, only to almost run headlong into Roger Fishwick.
“My lord, what are you doing here?” Georgette stumbled back a pace in surprise. She hadn’t heard his footfalls behind her and she was sure she’d not seen his name on the guest list.
“My apologies.” He executed a perfectly correct bow, but the bead of perspiration trickling from his temple marred the image of gentility he was trying to project. “I didn’t mean to intrude on your privacy, and truth to tell, I had the devil’s own time getting past your staff, but I had no choice. I had to see you.”
A pompous blast of Purcell wafted up to the second-story parlor. The duke must have arrived. At any moment, the Handel tune that was her cue to appear would sound with a squeal of trumpets and full-throated strings.
“Now is not the most opportune—” she began.
“Oh, I know,” Roger interrupted and started pacing, wringing his hands as he went. “Do you think I don’t? This evening is supposed to be your great triumph, and believe me, the last thing I want to do is interfere.”
Connie Mason & Mia Marlowe - [Royal Rakes 02] Page 24
