Percival sighed with happiness. “And what about you, Howard? Are you ready to enjoy your first Christmas back on English soil?”
His cousin grimaced. “I suppose so.”
“Dear me. Do excuse the impertinence, but that is the tone of a man who needs the companionship of a woman with a specific set of skills. Immediately.”
“Are you saying I need to get fucked, Percy?”
Actually, he could think of several things far more agreeable from the Percival and Charity Grenville point of view, but indulging in some coarse colonial-style banter to ease Howard’s uncharacteristic irritableness would be the sensible thing to do. “Well…I’ve always found a good fuck to be soothing for the soul, your grace. Also rather helpful in clarifying the mind.”
A faint smile touched Howard’s lips. “That is true. How fortunate you are to have Beth, the woman you love so dearly.”
Somehow Percival managed to keep a straight face. Love? Beth had been chosen five years ago, on Charity’s recommendation, for her lineage and her meekness. He enjoyed punishing her, but rarely bedded her for pleasure, much preferring to assist with breaking in the fresh, young, and deliciously unwilling virgins that Kildaire had always managed to provide at his house parties. Love had nothing to do with it. Yet another example of Howard’s complete unsuitability for the Mannering title. Dukes didn’t speak or even think of something as lowborn and unworthy as love. They selected an impeccable and biddable lady from an appropriate family to be their duchess, a beautiful and expensive whore to be their mistress, and used female servants as they pleased.
“Indeed,” he agreed piously. “Mrs. Grenville is a rare delight. But this is not about me, Howard. You have taken on a great many burdens. Don’t you think it is past time you enjoyed some of the benefits of your position and wealth?”
The duke shook his head. “I don’t want an official mistress. I don’t like the thought of sex as a transaction.”
Good grief. He’s even more pathetic than I first thought. And definitely one of those revolting liberals.
Percival nodded gravely. “Ah. I see. You wish to find a duchess.”
“Not just a duchess,” said Howard gruffly, a faint blush staining his sculpted cheekbones. “A true wife, who is a lover and a companion. Someone to talk to about all kinds of matters, as well as share a bed and other adventures with.”
Ugh. Percival could practically hear the violins playing. The only thing that kept the nausea churning his stomach at bay was the thought of practicing his stoic and saddened expressions in the looking glass over the coming weeks, in preparation for Howard’s eventual funeral. “The perfect woman. Tell me, cousin, did you have a preference in looks and character? Perhaps I could introduce you to someone suitable.”
For the first time, Howard smiled with genuine enthusiasm. “Not too petite, for obvious reasons. Blonde hair. A lady who laughs. Not some dimwitted little miss, but a woman grown. And I’d like her to be practical, too. Perhaps she teaches, or sews…”
Percival froze in dismay as a very odd look came over Howard’s face. Was he remembering something? Damnation. That sort of nonsense needed to be halted at once.
“Good gracious. Blondes are so insipid. Vastly overrated. Present company excluded, naturally. Nowadays every man worth his salt in England is choosing a…redhead. Yes, that is what you need, Howard. A delightfully spicy redhead. I should warn you, too, that no English ladies sew or teach anymore. Frightfully unfashionable now. They all like, er, fencing and playing whist.”
“They do?”
“Quite. The realm has become really rather progressive.”
Howard frowned. “Can’t say I’ve seen any evidence of that. There still seems to be great factions of English society trapped in the Dark Ages when it comes to the law and traditions and beliefs and so forth.”
Well. He’d thought his good mood couldn’t be spoiled today, but the current duke’s revolutionary talk was certainly making a bold attempt. Not just a liberal, but probably one of those ghastly reformers who thought that everyone should be able to vote, even men without money or property. Time to divert the subject back to a suitable woman.
“If you wish it, I’m sure my wife would be more than happy to introduce you to some of her charming and wellborn friends from the neighboring parishes. Or perhaps we could travel to Edinburgh—”
“No,” said Howard. “I’m going to London.”
“London? Why would you want to go at this time of the year? It is just as freezing as here, except absolutely filthy to boot. And dull. No one of note is there, the city is practically deserted. At least wait until the start of the Season.”
“I can’t do that, Percy. I want to take my seat in the House of Lords. There is so much for me to learn and I’m eager to begin.”
Percival sucked in a deep breath as his fists involuntarily clenched. It wasn’t Howard Grenville’s seat! It was Percival Grenville’s! No way could this ruffian be allowed near that sterling example of English tradition.
And yet…in London, there were so many unscrupulous criminals just waiting to be purchased. So many disasters waiting to happen with horses and carriages and carts traveling at ridiculous speeds amongst such a large population. Keeping Howard away from Emily wouldn’t be a problem either—from all accounts, she didn’t venture out into proper society very often. Lady Westleigh would be reducing her visits and parties as she got closer to her time. And as George had been very helpfully murdered, there was no chance of the two men coming face to face. Also, he could follow up on new information he’d received about Sir Malcolm possibly being abducted and taken to Calais. Why anyone would want to taunt a feral beast like the magistrate with such an inflammatory action, he had no idea.
Perhaps this could work out very well after all.
“You are right, Howard. You absolutely should shoulder your responsibilities. Beth is suffering a cold at present, so should remain here. But I—and dear Aunt Charity, no doubt—would be pleased to accompany you and ensure your transition into proper English society is a smooth one.”
“I would appreciate that. But I must warn you, I am looking to depart before the New Year.”
Percival inclined his head. “You are head of the family. It is your decision. To London we go.”
~ * ~
Gloucestershire
Louisa was in hell.
Had been for several days now, since the moment she’d heard the commotion and screams of maids announcing that something terrible had happened. Never in her life had she scrambled out of bed so fast, her clumsy gait only getting faster and faster in the hallway as she identified the source as a room near George’s.
And then, the worst horror of all. The source not only being George’s room, but the reason for the screams, because he lay still as death on the floor in a pool of blood.
The sounds that had escaped her mouth. She hadn’t even known she was capable of such chilling, inhuman wails, as she collapsed beside him and cradled his head in her lap. Begging him to open his eyes, to speak to her. Shaking in terror when he didn’t, when his skin grew paler and cooler, when bright red blood soaked her nightgown and his faint pulse became even threadier.
Her father had moved swiftly that morning. He’d summoned the local magistrate and legal clerks, and lured every physician in the county with purses bulging with guineas. All had agreed poor Mr. Howard must be treated as best they could here, before being carefully transported to London to be seen by the best surgeons. Everyone in the manor had been questioned. That bastard Lord Kildaire had put up an almost believable façade of shock—until the half-burned remains of a bloodstained shirt was discovered in his fireplace, along with a dagger matching the size of George’s wounds stuffed at the bottom of his trunk. He’d been hauled away in a manner quite unbefitting his station.
She knew George had survived the journey to London. But since then, not a word.
And she couldn’t keep asking every hour like he was George Edwards, the
man she’d so willingly surrendered her virginity to, like he was the man she loved. It could only be casually. Mildly. A proper young lady expressing appropriate Christian concern for a vague acquaintance, her former comportment tutor, Mr. Howard.
“Louisa, your supper is getting cold.”
Blinking, Louisa stared across the table at her mother. Even that took effort. Every part of her body felt numb. “I’m not hungry.”
Margaret Donovan frowned. “Do not be so ungrateful. There are starving people who would welcome such a full and varied plate in front of them.”
Anger churned her belly further. “Wasn’t it you who informed me ladies do not eat until they have a ring on their finger? I’d have thought you might welcome my lack of appetite.”
“Don’t be impertinent—”
“Now, now,” said Bertram Donovan, surprisingly firmly. “I don’t like to hear bickering at the table. Louisa, just a few bites to please your papa, then you may be excused. You are looking a little under the weather.”
Louisa glanced down at her plate. The fish in a delicate cream sauce would have her casting up her accounts, as would the potatoes dripping with parsley butter. In the end, she choked down two forkfuls of plain green beans, then pushed her plate away. “Has there been any news from London?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Louisa,” snapped her mother. “We are eating. I don’t want to hear another word on that nasty matter.”
But her father nodded. “I received a letter today. Mr. Howard is now in the care of that physician you recommended…what was his name…ah yes, Dr. Murray. And he is recuperating at Hastings House, as you suggested. I must say, I was surprised to read of Lord Standish’s ready willingness to take the man into his home. I know the marquess provided a glowing reference, but my secretary wrote that his lordship showed a great deal of care and concern, as though Mr. Howard was a friend rather than a servant.”
Louisa swallowed hard as she mentally scrambled for yet another plausible lie. Of course the obvious place for George to have gone was to Caroline and Lord Westleigh’s well-guarded and luxurious townhouse, but they didn’t know “Mr. Howard,” or about the gambling debt that led to his job in Gloucestershire. As one of the references, Lord Standish had seemed the best choice. And his home would be safe.
“Lord Standish probably knows all kinds of people from his work with the War Office. Perhaps they are friends, of a fashion.”
“Perhaps. But the note also said that the padding Mr. Howard was wearing saved his life. Now, while I will be forever glad that damned bounder Kildaire did not succeed in his grisly task, why on earth was Mr. Howard wearing such a thing? Why would anyone pretend to have a fleshy belly?”
“I…uh…” mumbled Louisa. “What do you think, Mother?”
Margaret Donovan sniffed. “I’m sure I don’t know. But, Mr. Donovan, ours is not to question the ways of men connected to high society. The Prince Regent himself has a fleshy belly—perhaps the tutor was just attempting to emulate him.”
Barely managing to suppress a hysterical laugh at the thought of George ever copying anything Prinny did, Louisa instead nodded frantically. “I think you may be right.”
“Of course I’m right. But now we have a far more important topic to discuss than the unfortunate Mr. Howard. And that is Louisa’s future husband.”
She stilled. “Surely you don’t mean Lord Kildaire. The man is awaiting trial for attempted murder!”
“We do not know the full story. Men have duels all the time; this could have been something like that. Perhaps Mr. Howard owed the marquess money. Or had wronged him in another, er, more personal way.”
Bertram pursed his lips and firmly shook his head. “Whatever the reason, you don’t indulge in that sort of flim-flam under another man’s roof. Most unacceptable. Made a damned mess of the bedchamber rug and scared the maids. If there is a need to settle a grievance, a gentleman travels to a deserted clearing with a second and uses a pistol in the time-honored manner. Not a dagger in a guest chamber. So I don’t want to hear any more talk about Kildaire as a potential son-in-law.”
Even though his reasoning couldn’t be more flawed, Louisa wanted to crawl across the table and hug her father tightly. Finally, a silver lining for the darkest and heaviest of storm clouds. “Indeed, Papa.”
“If you insist, Mr. Donovan,” said Margaret thinly. “But I hope you have an alternative suggestion, then. The New Year will very shortly be upon us, and our daughter has neither suitors nor comportment tutor.”
Hell and damnation. Was there any way a young lady could petition parliament for a divorce from her parents? The two of them were stark raving mad, firstly discussing Kildaire’s crime like it had been a minor and rather petty thing, and secondly leaping straight back into planning her future, as if she hadn’t undergone a terrible trauma less than a week ago.
The words “Forget marriage, because by the by, I am no longer a virgin” sprang to her lips, but never in a thousand years would she betray George. Their exquisite hours together would remain a secret forever. She could only hope and pray he would recover fully and forgive her for the inadvertent role she’d played in his suffering.
“Why do we need an alternative suggestion? After everything that has happened, can we not just forget about suitors and betrothals and so forth for a while?”
Her father, damn him, shook his head. “My dear, you know that I am firmly of the belief that when a setback occurs, you must get straight back up and try again.”
“I didn’t fall off a bloody pony!”
“Language,” snapped Margaret. “It certainly did not take long for Mr. Howard’s good work to be undone. He had you speaking like a lady.”
Indeed. Teaching me words like cunny and clitoris.
The thought spun dizzily inside her head, and she missed George even more. What if he didn’t recover? What if she never saw him again? Never heard his laugh, never went toe to toe with him in an argument or felt the warmth of his kisses and security of being held in his arms?
“We should go to London,” she blurted, in a panic.
“Why?” asked Margaret, but her tone was curious rather than forbidding.
“Because…pre-Season house parties will be underway soon, and they will offer opportunities to meet gentlemen. And,” she continued, hoping she wouldn’t be hit with a lightning bolt for the Banbury tale she was about to tell, “Belinda and I could visit Hastings House in the guise of enquiring about Mr. Howard’s welfare. Lord Standish is, ah, so very handsome, and, er, exceedingly eligible. And he’s never stabbed anyone as far as I know. I could…get to know him a little better, in a private setting.”
Bertram nodded approvingly. “What a good idea. As a matter of fact, I was going to suggest London myself. Another snippet of gossip from the city is that Grenville House is being aired out.”
“You don’t mean…” said Margaret, gasping.
“Yes, my dear. The new Duke of Mannering himself is arriving from the north any day now. In fact, he might be there as we speak. Every unmarried woman in the country will be chasing him, but if we can return Louisa into the heart of the ton, she will surely have a chance. Perhaps her friend Lady Westleigh, or even the dowager countess, could arrange an introduction.”
Gritting her teeth at this unexpected turn, but needing to be as close to George as she could get away with, Louisa nodded. “I’m sure either lady would oblige, Papa. To London, then. As soon as possible.”
~ * ~
London
George was having a rather agreeable dream. Instead of his familiar, lumpy, too-short mattress, he was warm and comfortable in a big bed, with sheets that caressed his skin like water, a soft eiderdown quilt, and perfectly plumped pillows. His room didn’t smell of damp, or cheap paint either, but of herbs, fresh and clean. All that was missing was Louisa. Whispering outrageous words in his ear. Spread out naked under him, urging him on with breathless cries as he pleasured her with his tongue and fingers and cock. Where the
hell was she?
“Louisa,” he said, trying to reach for her. Except for some reason he couldn’t move, and a dark frisson of fear interrupted the dream.
“Did you say something, sir?” said a soothing but unknown female voice to his left.
Well, of course he’d said something. He wanted Louisa. Immediately.
“Tell her to hurry up and get back into bed with me where she belongs,” George mumbled. Christ, he sounded awful. Pathetically weak and hoarse. “Now.”
“Thank God,” said another voice, male this time, familiar and strangely uneven. William? But how could that be? “Oh, thank God. Did you hear that? He’s talking. George, open your eyes, damn it. You worried a decade from my life.”
Worried?
This was all entirely too fucking bizarre now. No Louisa, he couldn’t move, and there were upset men in his much-improved room.
Blinking, he attempted to open too-heavy eyelids. Shit. Not good. Like in the past, when he woke up after violence…
A hiss of rage escaped as jarring, jumbled memories pounded his head.
Kildaire. A dagger. Pain. Terrible, agonizing pain.
“Where is he?” he rasped, his gaze darting about. “Where is that Irish bastard?”
“Easy now, Mr. Edwards,” said a third voice, calm and male, as briskly expert hands sponged his hot forehead, then spooned some wonderfully cool water into his dry mouth. A physician. Or more accurately, the best and most expensive physician in England, Dr. Geoffrey Murray. The man who had tended Stephen back to full health after his horrific injuries in a clifftop fight with two quite demented men. “First things first—how are you feeling?”
Rake to Riches (The London Lords Book 2) Page 16
