He could tell the moment when understanding dawned. “It’s not you painted in double? You had a twin?”
“I had a twin.” Hugo paused, mustering the always difficult words. “He died of pneumonia when we were eighteen.”
Her eyes went wide—then filled with an emotion so pure, so sincere, that he had to look away from her. “Oh, Hugo, I didn’t know.”
“There was no reason you should.”
“That’s why—you—the hospital? Why did you not tell Sir Joseph Banks about this?”
Hugo leaned against the wall and bumped the heel of his boot against the baseboard. “Because it’s a personal matter. It’s not relevant to my pursuit of hospital funding.”
“He was unmoved by logic and evidence. The personal is all that is relevant.”
He ventured a glance at her and immediately wished he had not. “See? This. This is why I don’t tell people. They treat me differently. Your expression has gone all melty.”
“How can I not treat you differently? I think better of you now. You are acting not out of obstinacy, but out of the deepest desires of your heart.”
“Don’t be so certain about the obstinacy,” he muttered. “Look. Miss Frost.”
“Georgette.”
“Fine. Georgette. Do you still want to find your brother? Get the Royal Reward?” Abrupt, yes, but some subjects had been spoken of enough for the day.
Her mouth opened, as though she were on the verge of speech—then slowly she nodded.
“Then don’t allow the servants to unpack your things,” he said. “We will leave for Derbyshire by the next mail coach.”
Chapter Four
Georgette had traveled by hackney within London. She had taken a stagecoach to the environs of the city a time or two. Thanks to Lord Hugo, she even had been stuffed into a ducal carriage. But never before had she traveled in a Royal Mail coach.
Excitement, anticipation, eagerness—all of these bubbled in Georgette’s veins. Even the name of the coaching inn was fascinating: The Swan with Two Necks. The inn, with its two stories of galleries and a gabled roof atop, enclosed a bustling courtyard on three sides.
The archway leading into the courtyard was constantly threaded by one conveyance or another. Coach after coach pulled up and pulled out; mail bags were loaded up or tossed down; luggage was stacked and strapped; people clambered atop the coach or spilled from within.
Sunset colored the sky in jewel-bright reds and oranges and golds, a warm smile over the busy travelers. How strange it seemed to set off on a journey near nightfall—but so it was, Hugo had explained, when one traveled by Mail. Speed was of the essence for the nation’s post, and lantern-lit coaches made far better time on empty nighttime roads than on the bustling thoroughfares of daylight hours.
“‘The setting sun,’” Georgette quoted, “‘and music at the close, as the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last, writ in remembrance more than things long past.’”
“Music at the . . . what?” At her side, Hugo frowned down at her. “What are you talking about? No one is playing music.”
“It’s Shakespeare,” said Georgette. “I’d have been kicked out of the bookshop long ago if I hadn’t known Shakespeare’s work.”
“Shakespeare,” he scoffed. “Only a determined romantic could think of verse at a time like this, when we’re surrounded by horse droppings.”
He was not wrong about this. The scent of horses, of manure and sweat, pervaded the courtyard. “When is verse more needed than when one is surrounded by horse droppings?”
He stared at her as if she’d spoken an unfamiliar language—but then his mouth curved. “‘A hit, a very palpable hit.’ If it makes you forget the droppings, Madam Bookworm, quote all the Shakespeare you like.”
She looked about the courtyard for their coach, hopping on her toes. At Willingham House, Georgette had traded her bulky, ancient trunk for a smaller leather valise a servant found in the attics. Hugo—now wearing a fresh coat and a caped greatcoat, having stopped at his bachelor apartments in a hotel—had brought the same sort of luggage, along with the long leather case that held his precious hospital plans.
“Do try not to tread upon my feet,” Hugo said. “You appear to be under the impression that this is a noble quest. It is not. It is an errand, albeit a long one.”
“You may call it what you like, and I may think of it as I choose.” She craned her neck. Was that the right coach, with its four chestnuts ready to spring? No, that one was to go southeast.
They held tickets for the Manchester coach, which would slip through the towns of Derbyshire—including the infamous Strawfield, from which her brother, Benedict, had sent his most recent letter. At four pence the mile, the tickets had cost a sobering three pounds each.
“It’s of no consequence,” Hugo had said, and paid for her ticket as well as his. “Don’t be top-lofty; I owe you a ticket. You’ve told me so today at least a hundred times.”
She had no intention of being top-lofty when a sum such as three pounds was involved. Her small store of money, tucked inside her reticule and knotted into a pocket of her gown, would soon be exhausted otherwise.
At last they spotted the coach to Manchester. Four horses stood ready to set off, a mismatched quartet by color but all equally eager. Their ears were pricked and their hooves danced as trunk after trunk and parcel after parcel was loaded atop and behind the coach. Passengers with cheaper tickets climbed onto the outside of the coach wherever they could find space.
Georgette clambered inside and took a front-facing seat. Hugo sat across from her, carrying the long case for his papers.
Theirs was not a noble quest, maybe, but it was more than an errand. Perhaps it was an adventure? How odd that earlier today she had thought Lord Hugo Starling had brought an end to her travels, her plans to secure her own future. Now he was thoroughly a part of both.
Odd, indeed. Yet not uncomfortably so.
Not for the first time today were they alone in a carriage, but this time they seemed far more alone than before. The bustle outside made of the clean but spare interior a cocoon. The opposite seat was very close, and Lord Hugo somehow seemed closer still—as though he owned the air around him. Every time Georgette breathed, she borrowed that air, and it traced her face and body, gentle and warm. It was good not to be alone.
It was good to be alone with him.
She drew back her feet. Hesitated. What ought she to say? Thank you for not being as stuffy and stubborn as I thought? For being . . . rather nice? And not at all bad-looking?
She had better say nothing at all.
“You should have a maid.” Hugo was turning this way and that on his seat, looking for a place to stash his leather case. “We should have brought a maid along.”
“Nonsense,” Georgette said. “We didn’t have the time to argue your parents into letting one accompany us. And we’ll end in meeting my brother, which means you’re traveling in his stead.” He looked skeptical, but she added gamely, “So really, you’re like family. For this journey.”
“That doesn’t make sense at all.” Hugo gave up on stowing his case and held it lengthwise across his lap. “I’m thinking of your reputation.”
“Not as much as I must,” she said drily. “Didn’t you say I might trust you to act as a gentleman, though?”
He searched her with eyes made dark by the fading light of the setting sun. “Yes,” he finally said. “You can. Though I can’t promise the same for other travelers.”
“I wouldn’t expect you to promise anything on behalf of others.” Was she disappointed or reassured?
She was a fool, that’s what she was. She needed to remember her purpose, which was to find stolen coins, then her brother. The means of independence; the only remaining person who might be presumed to care about her.
Her purpose was certainly not to evaluate the attractiveness of the man across from her.
“Never mind that,” she blurted in response to her own thoughts. “Let’
s think of what we can rely on instead. Have you a sheet of paper and something to write with?”
He drew both from his leather case, then handed them to her. She spread the creased foolscap across her knees, flat as she could, and began writing dates with the stub of a pencil. “Today is the twenty-ninth of May. That leaves little more than a month until the first of July, when the gold sovereigns are released. If the money has not been found by then, the Royal Mint will withdraw the proffered reward.”
“Fine. I ought not to be away from London even that long.”
“But how long before . . .” She scribbled a few more notes. “About, say, seven miles the hour . . . we’ll arrive in . . . hmm.”
“Do show me what you’re writing,” he said. “Calculations accompanied by muttering are alarming for the observer.”
She switched seats, took up the leather case on his lap, and gave him her paper and pencil as she slid onto the squabs next to him. “I was trying to determine how many days are left for searching. See?”
“You must account for the time wasted on travel.”
“I’ve tried to. Though travel time needn’t be a waste.”
“Needn’t it? The coins are not in this coach.” He took back his leather case, then rested her paper atop it and skimmed the numbers.
“It’s not a waste if you’re doing something you enjoy.” For example, she enjoyed sitting next to him now that his clothing was clean. He smelled of shaving soap and starch, and the angles of his body were determined and stern. She didn’t mind the sternness as much as she’d thought, though, tempered as it was by flashes of humor.
Hugo gave the paper back to her. “I’ll have to trust your calculations. It’s too dim for me to make out the numbers. I’d need my spectacles.”
“You wear spectacles?”
“Sometimes. When reading. They are a common accessory among those who study by candlelight for years on end.” He offered the pencil back to her. “So. Thirty-three days from today, the gold sovereigns are released. No later than that date, I will return to London.”
“But—”
He held up one finger. “First, we’ll find your brother.” Another digit. “Next, we’ll find out what he has learned about the stolen coins in Derbyshire. Third, I’ll join his search.”
Georgette folded her arms.
“Oh, God. You always fold your arms when you’re about to disagree with me. What is it?”
“You’ll join his search? It was my idea, Hugo. I’m not to be abandoned at this point.”
“You won’t be abandoned. You’ll be with your brother. I’m seeing you to him, as I promised.”
“Bullheaded man.” How had she thought he was pleasant to look upon? He would be pleasant to kick in the shin. “That’s not a promise I sought nor extracted. I intended to arrange my own travel, to pursue my own aims.”
“You can. Only now I’m helping you.”
“Yes, but on your terms, not mine. I never asked for your help, and I don’t want it.”
He looked bewildered. “Everyone wants help.”
Not if you ask for it, time and again, and it isn’t given.
She hardly knew her elder brother. Benedict had gone to sea when she was only three years old and he twelve, and his returns home had been no more than occasional. For years, then, it was just Georgette and her parents. Her mother and father were little more than an outgrowth of their books; both expected their daughter to be the same. To have no human needs, no hunger, no fatigue. No desire for friendships other than those to be found within the pages of a book.
She had met their expectations less well than they wished, but better than she ought to have. Ah, well. A child would do anything to get her parents’ notice and affection, even pretend she didn’t covet it. Still her parents gave her up for their own ends: not for leaves of rampion, as Rapunzel’s did, but for leaves of paper, printed and bound.
“I don’t need help,” she repeated. “And I’m going to keep traveling, chasing the gold, until the last second. I don’t want to go back the way I came.”
He blinked, long lashes softening a hard look. “But you can’t flit around rootless. You need a purpose.”
“Finding the stolen gold is my purpose.”
“But by the first of July, the hunt will be over one way or the other. Then what will you do?”
“More than a month away. Surely I’ll have another purpose in mind by the time we attain that date.” She kept her tone flippant.
“That’s not how a purpose works,” he argued. “You can’t decide to have one without caring what it is, and then—”
“Not everyone goes through life like you, Lord Hugo, with a gold signet and a bespoke leather case of bespoke-er plans.” Her fist clenched on the pencil. “I said I wanted to find the stolen sovereigns. My brother is a means to that end. But if I can find the sovereigns without finding him, then that’s what I’d want. More than the other way ’round.”
He only looked at her, as though deciding something. She wished she had roused his temper; had baited him into displaying an emotion toward her other than patient exasperation.
“You always worked so hard,” he said. “In the bookshop, I mean. I never took you for the sort that didn’t concern herself with other people.”
His tone was patient now, but not exasperated. He sounded as though he were truly curious.
So she answered, this time without flippancy. “I wasn’t that sort until recently. My parents are dead, the family shop sold. My traveling brother returned to England without visiting me. On my twenty-first birthday, I will become homeless and impoverished. I chose to leave before then so I could have the dignity of leaving before being booted out. I’m not entirely without resources, but no one is concerned about me.”
He drew back, brows knit. “Georgette, that cannot be—”
“It is. And once I realized that, what had I to lose? Why not put on breeches and set off on my own? Why not lay aside what and who I’d been, if being Georgette Frost wouldn’t help me in future? I can’t live on companionship and promises. I have to secure my own future.”
He let her finish without another word. Then he smiled—an expression both awkward and sweet. “You have been wanting to say that for a long time.”
“I have.” She felt like a balloon, punctured after it had been tested beyond its strength.
“I . . .” He hesitated.
“Don’t say anything trite or pitying. Please. If you do, I will have to stab you with this pencil, and I’ll be sent to jail, and that would prevent me from finding the stolen coins.”
“Maybe you can stab me in July, then,” he murmured—distracted, of a sudden.
Georgette followed the turn of his head, only to see that they were about to have company in the coach. Two women, middle-aged and in the neat dress of the middle class, were stowing odds and ends in their baggage. They clutched their belongings tightly, clambering into the coach one after the other.
“Oh, isn’t this nice!” said the thinner one in the feather-trimmed bonnet, settling herself with a hamper on her lap. “I never traveled inside before.”
“It’s not so bad being a widow, is it now?” The second woman, who had rosy cheeks and a bonnet trimmed in bright silk flowers, shoved her bag along the floor against the far side of the coach. “You get what the mister left you in his will and you spend it how you wish.”
With a huff and a heave, she settled onto the seat beside her companion, and the carriage door was closed behind her. “Well! Edna, look. We’re to have company for the journey! This is pleasant, I must say.”
“How do you do?” Hugo said politely. “I—”
“Have you ever traveled inside before? We were saying—well, you heard us saying, I’d wager! Yes, it’s such a treat to have the shelter of the coach. A body can’t catch a wink of sleep riding atop the carriage.”
“Quite so,” said Hugo. “I—”
“I’m Mrs. Drupe,” went on the rosy-cheeked woman mer
rily. Through the wall, Georgette heard a whip crack and a quick clamor of voices, and the coach lurched into motion. “And this is my sister Mrs. Brundadge.”
Hugo didn’t speak this time—certain, no doubt, that he’d be interrupted once more. A pity. Watching a duke’s son be silenced time and again was the funniest thing Georgette had seen this evening. She knew she shouldn’t laugh, and with a heroic effort, she managed to stay silent. But she couldn’t keep her sides from quivering.
Hugo must have felt this, for he elbowed her in the ribs.
Possibly it was an accident, caused by the movement of the coach. But probably not.
“We’re both widows,” said the thinner sister. “Having the time of our lives! We’re off to visit our sister—for we’ve another one—actually, two others, but we don’t speak to the youngest, because she—”
“Edna,” clucked the first to speak. “We mustn’t be talking our friends’ ears off! What will they think of us?”
Georgette would have paid half the money to her name for an engraving of the look on Hugo’s face when the woman called him “friend.” She elbowed him in the ribs right back. It was not an accident.
“They’re not thinking of us at all.” The thinner sister dimpled. “All wrapped in each other, aren’t they? Look at how they sit so closely! You are newlyweds, yes?”
Hugo pressed himself against the far side of the carriage seat, quick as a blink. “Not. Newlyweds.”
He didn’t have to sound so offended by the notion. Before Georgette could do more than open her mouth, Hugo said, “No, no. I am Mr. Hugo Lark, and this is my cousin Miss Snow.” He shot a dark look at her. “Ah—my mute cousin.”
Her mouth fell open. His dark look shifted to her elbow.
That rat. He had elbowed her first.
She opened her mouth again to speak, prepared to put the lie to mute cousin.
“If she ever were to speak,” Hugo added, “it would mean she had a brain fever and should not be paid any heed.”
“Oh! What a pity,” said Mrs. Drupe. “She’s mute, you say? Tut! Well, you can’t think of wedding her, then, can you? Poor dear! But I do love a newly wed pair. So happy! Not that I’m not happy in my widowhood. Why, I . . .”
Passion Favors the Bold Page 5
