The Mistress' House

by Leigh Michaels

  Julian tucked the sheet more closely around Georgie. “Good morning, Mason. You know, I’d been wondering why Thorne has a different butler these days. Now I’m really wondering, since you and Mrs. Mason are obviously still in the business.”

  “We wanted a quieter life,” Mason said. “Of course, sometimes it’s not much quieter.” He stepped aside, but only to let another newcomer in.

  Julian stifled a groan. “Perkins? Is that you? What the devil are you doing here? If you’ve chased me down to discuss that canal of yours again…”

  Perkins drew himself up straight and took in the scene. “I have not chased you down to discuss anything, my lord. I have come to retrieve Miss Baxter and take her to her uncle, which is what Mrs. Mason was kindly coming to tell her when she discovered… you.” His tone made it clear that no explanation would be adequate.

  Julian couldn’t blame him. Still, he had to try. “Yes. About that, Perkins…”

  Perkins plowed straight on. “Considering the circumstances, I have no alternative but to report what I have seen.” He turned away so sharply that Julian wouldn’t have been surprised to see a hole where his heel had drilled into the floor, and strode down the hall.

  Julian wanted to swear. “Mason, kindly tell the troops to go away. Mrs. Mason, I’m getting out of bed now so I can catch Perkins and talk some sense into him. You can either watch or leave—it makes no difference to me.”

  Mrs. Mason said something under her breath, caught the maid by the arm, and retreated. Mason glowered at Julian for another moment before he left, too, closing the door behind him with a bang. Julian pushed the sheet back and rolled out of bed, reaching for his clothes.

  Georgie seized a pillow and flung it at him. “Don’t you dare leave me alone here!”

  “Darling, I’ll come right back, I swear. But I have to stop Perkins before he gets to your uncle. That’s all there is to it.”

  “Mrs. Mason will scold me!” She wasn’t so much angry as frightened, he realized; her eyes were huge and brimming with tears.

  “I’ll tell her not to. But Georgie, that’ll be nothing compared to what your uncle has to say, if I don’t stop Perkins.” He stepped into his breeches, ignoring shirt and boots and cravat and coat, and pulled the bedroom door open.

  He almost ran Mrs. Mason down right at the top of the stairs. She drew herself up tall and opened her mouth, and Julian held up both hands in surrender. “Scold me all you want,” he said. “I deserve every word of it. But not her. And not me, either, ’til later—if you please. Then I’ll listen for as long as you want to yell at me. Right now, I beg you—just move out of my way.”

  Her lips compressed to a thin, rigid line, but she moved. He ran down the stairs and stopped at the bottom, for Mason was just closing the front door.

  “He’s already gone?” Julian said.

  “Indeed he is. And I must say that in this case I agree there was no reason to delay. Nothing you could possibly say would remove the need to inform Miss Georgiana’s uncle of the situation.”

  Julian sighed. “No, I suppose not.”

  “I must say, Master Julian, I’ve seen a lot happen in my time in this house but never anything like this. Debauching an innocent young girl like Miss Georgiana in her own bedroom… It hurts me to think you capable of such a thing.”

  Obviously Mason had no idea what his innocent Miss Georgiana was capable of, Julian thought, or he wouldn’t be so certain that Julian had been the one doing the debauching.

  However, not only did a gentleman not kiss and tell, no matter what the circumstances, but in this case Mason was right. The fault was Julian’s and only his. No matter how enticing Georgie had been, he should never have given in to the temptation. He should never have exposed Georgie to anything like the disdain, the horror, the shock that she would have to face now.

  “I’ll fix this,” he told Mason.

  “You might begin by putting on a shirt,” the butler said stiffly. “I expect Mr. Perkins will be back at any moment with his lordship and Sir Rufus.”

  His lordship? Oh, damnation—Thorne was likely to get involved in this, too? Julian swore under his breath and went back upstairs to get dressed.

  Georgie had gotten out of bed and wrapped herself in a gold brocade dressing gown that made her hair look as intensely red as a bed of glowing embers. He suspected she was just about as dangerous, too—though for the moment his Lady Flame seemed subdued.

  Under other circumstances, the garment would have set Julian’s blood pounding, for she’d tied it so carelessly around her waist that it kept slipping off one creamy shoulder. And it was a trifle too short, so her slender bare feet and tiny trim ankles peeked out from under the hem. Why hadn’t he noticed before that her feet were as gorgeous as the rest of her? Maybe if he’d been given another night to explore, he would have worked his way there, he told himself as he put on his shirt.

  Georgie sat down at the dressing table and began to brush her hair, almost as if she didn’t know what else to do with her hands. “You know the Masons,” she said. It didn’t sound like a question.

  “Yes. Have since I was a child, when I visited Thorne at his various homes to play. I used to swipe food from the kitchens, and then I’d run to one or the other of the Masons for protection when Cook got angry.” The story didn’t matter; he was talking to try to ease the frozen look on her face. “It’s a bit of a surprise to see them here, though. I thought they’d retired to the country, since they aren’t working for Thorne any longer.”

  “Yes, they are. Working for Lord Hawthorne, I mean.”

  He frowned. That was a bit of a stopper. “They’re not on your uncle’s staff?”

  She shook her head. “No. This is Lord Hawthorne’s house.”

  Thorne owned Number 5 Upper Seymour Street? But why? Julian’s eyes fell on the velvet bed hangings and he wanted to groan. Of course. No wonder Georgie’s bedroom looked like a high-class bordello.

  “He called you my lord,” Georgie said.

  “What? Who?” Julian shook out his cravat. Since he hadn’t actually slept in it, how could it possibly look so wrinkled?

  “Perkins. He said he hadn’t chased you down to talk to you about canals, and he called you my lord.”

  “Oh, that. Yes.”

  “You’re a lord?”

  “Uh, not really. It’s only a courtesy title.”

  She was staring at him in the mirror.

  “My grandfather holds the real rank. Mine is a lesser title, traditionally used by the heir.”

  “I thought you were a soldier.”

  “I was. I am. But when my cousin died—he was really the heir, you see—then I… well, I’m the Marquess of Silsby now.”

  She reached out blindly, and her hand closed on a crystal inkwell.

  “Georgie?” he asked tentatively.

  She drew back her arm. “You’re Silsby?”

  “Uh… yes.” Wrong answer, apparently. He ducked as the inkwell shot past his head and splintered against the cream silk wallpaper. “Georgie…”

  Mrs. Mason pounded on the door. “What’s going on? What was that bang?”

  “Nothing important,” Julian called. “Miss Georgiana had a bit of an accident with the inkwell.”

  “Again?” The housekeeper stormed into the room.

  Georgie burst into tears and flung herself into Mrs. Mason’s arms. “I’m so sorry,” she wailed. “About… about everything!”

  That was a facer, Julian thought. Not that he didn’t deserve it, of course.

  Mrs. Mason patted Georgie’s shoulder and smoothed her hair. “There, there, dear. You poor motherless child. No wonder you let him do this to you…” The housekeeper glared at Julian. “You will make this right, Master Julian. I mean—my lord.”

  Julian gulped and felt about six years old again. He finished tying his cravat, put on his coat, rubbed a hand over his stubbly beard, and stepped into his boots. Absentmindedly, he picked up a no-longer-hot bun from the tray the mai
d had hastily set down as she retreated, and pulled off a bite. He suspected he was going to need all the sustenance he could get before Thorne and the uncle showed up.

  Which, judging from the racket rising from downstairs, was right about now.

  He took a deep breath and started down to face the music. Perkins was just inside the door, and Thorne and a stout man with a very red face were standing in the center of the hallway.

  So this was Georgie’s uncle. He looked like the sort who would try to—what was it she’d told him? Sell her to the highest bidder: that was it. He’d matched her to a man who was no prize but who was quite rich…

  That doesn’t matter anymore, he reminded himself. Because she wasn’t going to marry the highest bidder—she was going to marry Julian.

  Of course, that whole thing about the money might be a bit of a problem, especially if the Old Man kicked up rough about this turn of events. If he refused to give Julian an allowance…

  He wondered how Georgie would take to being the wife of a half-pay Army officer. Perhaps it was a good thing he hadn’t sold his commission just yet… Or, instead of being able to invest in Perkins’ canal, perhaps he could get a job helping to dig it.

  Perkins was fluttering around the two gentlemen, and Mason was trying in vain to take their hats. Thorne looked up as Julian approached and bellowed, “What the hell do you have to say for yourself, Julian?”

  The roar set Julian’s teeth on edge—especially coming from Thorne, of all people. The hypocrite—he was the one who’d set up this house for a mistress in the first place.

  He sauntered down the stairs. “Hello, Thorne. Best night’s sleep I’ve had in years. No; to be absolutely accurate, it was the best half a night’s sleep. If you all would go away—”

  He shouldn’t have said it, of course. The stout gentleman with Thorne was spitting, he was so angry. Julian watched him warily. It was hard to tell with the big fellows; some of them were nothing more than windbags, while others packed a considerable punch.

  Julian maintained a cautious distance and bowed. “Sir, I regret that we meet under these circumstances. I wish to assure you that I have the greatest respect for your niece—”

  The stout gentleman thrust out his chin and took a step forward, fists clenched. “Fine way you have of showing it, you blackguard!”

  Thorne sighed and moved between them. “Julian, this is Sir Rufus Baxter. Sir Rufus, allow me to present my graceless cousin, the Marquess of Silsby.”

  The stout gentleman had already started to speak. He stopped mid-word and suddenly looked like a fish out of water, gasping for oxygen. “You’re Silsby?” he croaked.

  “Is there something funny about my title?” Julian asked. “Because your niece said exactly the same thing just a minute ago.”

  “He’s your cousin, Hawthorne?” The stout gentleman’s voice rose shrilly. “This is the first you’ve said about that. I thought you were acting in the best interests of our ward, but now I find that instead you were—”

  “She’s your ward, Thorne?” Julian’s head was beginning to ache. Could this whole situation possibly get any worse?

  “In a manner of speaking, she is,” Thorne said. “Sir Rufus, much as I regret at the moment that I am required to claim him—yes, Silsby is my cousin.” He turned on Julian. “This is why you wanted a key to my house? You idiot! I had her tucked away on purpose, but you—”

  “Keeping her for yourself, were you?” Julian asked coldly. “Thinking to make her your mistress?”

  “I should call you out for that, Julian.”

  Sir Rufus sputtered. “You, too, Hawthorne?”

  “No,” Thorne said firmly. “Do you think I’m mad? I’d slice my own throat before I’d take on that whirlwind for a mistress. You utter fool!”

  “Well, then,” Julian said, “if you don’t want her for yourself, why did you… What do you mean, you had her tucked away on purpose?”

  “The Old Man was pushing you into marriage. I was just giving you a hand—so you’d have an option.”

  Julian shuddered at the reminder. “I’ll have to talk to him, of course,” he said drearily. “As soon as possible. I don’t suppose I can persuade you to stand as my friend there? I do apologize for what I said, Thorne—”

  Thorne stared at him. “I stashed her here in this house, with the Masons to look after her, to keep her out of reach. To keep her away from you, Julian.” He added bitterly, “At least, I thought that’s what I was doing—giving you the chance to make your own choice of a wife.”

  “My own choice?” Julian said blankly. “I’ve made my choice.”

  “You certainly have,” Thorne said. “You fell smack into her wiles. But come to think of it, so did I. She came to me for help, she said… and I was stupid enough to believe her. So I did what she asked and kept her away from her guardian—thinking that if I made her vanish for a while, he wouldn’t be able to press for an early marriage.”

  Sir Rufus started gasping like a fish once more. “You deliberately… you… Sir, I regret to inform you, you’re no gentleman!”

  Thorne ignored him. “But it seems that all I really did was hide her right where she could lie in ambush for you, Julian.”

  “I really must insist that you stop insulting Georgie, Thorne.”

  “Georgie? You’re calling the whirlwind Georgie? Julian, you prize idiot, haven’t you been listening at all? She’s the shrew the Old Man picked out for you!”

  Julian had been listening; he just hadn’t wanted to hear what Thorne kept on saying. “Georgie’s the one who owns the piece of land the Old Man wants?”

  Thorne nodded. “She inherited it from her father. It’s about the only thing she has, too—so it was very clever of her to turn it into a title. What I want to know is how she figured out who you are, and how she got to you.”

  “She didn’t,” Julian said slowly. “She didn’t know, ’til just now.”

  Or had she? He’s certainly no prize, she had said of the man her uncle had agreed she should wed. But he is rich—and my friends say that surely one can fall in love with a rich man just as easily as with a pauper.

  No. He’d stake his life that she hadn’t known, that she’d thought he was no more than the simple soldier he had pretended to be.

  Thorne shook his head in disbelief. “It’s all immaterial now anyway. The Old Man will be riding roughshod over you for the rest of his life if you give in on this—but you have to marry her, Julian.”

  Thorne was usually right about these things, Julian thought. But if that was the price he had to pay for having Georgie… yes, he could put up with the Old Man thinking he’d won. “I have every intention of doing so.”

  The stout gentleman stopped in mid-sputter. “You will? Truly?”

  “Of course, I shall. And I might point out that your obvious doubt is unflattering not only to me but to my future wife.”

  The stout gentleman looked puzzled for a moment. Then he smiled. “No matter. As long as you’re married. And you will abide by all the agreements your grandfather, the duke, has made.”

  Something about his self-satisfied tone set Julian’s back up. “I will review all the agreements before I sign anything,” he said cautiously, “and abide by the ones I approve. The only really important one is that whether you get what you want or not, I’m going to marry Georgie.” He added under his breath, “Because that appears to be the only way I’ll ever be able to get any sleep.”

  The stout gentleman started to sputter again.

  “Since the only thing which matters to you, I’m sure, is your niece’s good name,” Julian told him, “and since I’ve given you the word of a gentleman that I will marry her, and soon, then I believe this conversation is finished.”

  “Well done, Julian,” Thorne said. “You were every inch a duke just then—looking down your nose and all.” Then he shook his head as if it hurt. “I think it’s this house. It makes people do strange things. They begin acting different—irrational, eve
n—the very moment they take up residence.” He fixed Julian with a stern eye. “Or take up with the resident.”

  From the corner of his eye, Julian noticed that Perkins seemed to freeze, and then after a moment he oozed slowly toward the door and disappeared. Idly, Julian wondered why, but at the moment he had more important things on his mind.

  “If you’ll excuse me,” Julian said, and fixed both Thorne and the stout gentleman with a firm gaze, “I am going to go shave and get some fresh clothes before I propose to a lady.”

  ***

  Georgiana had gone through the motions of getting dressed, but the maid was still fussing with her hair when a tap sounded on the bedroom door. Georgiana didn’t know whether to be pleased or worried. The conversation downstairs seemed to have made progress—at least they’d all stopped yelling at each other—but what did that actually mean? If Julian would only come back upstairs, surely he could tell her what had happened and how much trouble she should expect. Was she going to have to face Uncle Rufus right away?

  But if Julian was at the door, why had he knocked, rather than just coming in?

  And what was she going to say to him?

  They would want him to marry her, of course. But then they—the duke, and Uncle Rufus—had always wanted him to marry her. So nothing had changed, really.

  Except, possibly, for what Julian wanted.

  He would almost certainly offer marriage. The blow to his honor if he did not would be too much to withstand—even if the duke and Uncle Rufus and Lord Hawthorne had nothing to say about the matter.

  Yes, he would offer to marry her. But would he mean it?

  He had told her himself that his grandfather was forcing him into the match, that he didn’t want to marry at all. Now he had no choice but to offer for her, no matter what he wanted.

  And what would her answer be?

  Would she accept a man who didn’t want to marry her—simply because her own foolishness had left them caught in this trap? Or would she turn him down and ruin them both?

  Mary went to open the door, and Mrs. Mason bustled in, carrying a fresh pot of chocolate on a tray.