Sebastien? Why was he asking about Sebastien? She could not think of Sebastien now.
"Um." She tried to gather her thoughts. "Do you mean did he ever say that he loved me?"
He nodded.
She thought back, all those years ago.
"No," she said. "He was at least that honorable. He told me I would make him the happiest of men if I accepted his offer of marriage. He called me his dearest. He snuck kisses in the garden and flattered my beauty, my intelligence, my taste. But no, he never told me he loved me.
"That did not much matter to me at seventeen, however. I created a version of Sebastien in my mind, and he told me how much he loved me, every day. In the end that was part of what so undid me. To realize that the man in my mind was so very different from the flesh-and-blood man; it unmoored me."
He nodded. "I hate to say it, but I am relieved that my friend at least never said that he loved you. That seems an especially cruel lie."
She smiled, sadly. "It was an excellent lesson. One I barely survived, to be sure, after my tumble down the stairs, but one I am glad I learned. If a gentleman does not say he loves you, you must listen. You must listen to what is said, and what is not said. We cannot force others to feel for us. Falling in love with a man who did not love me broke my heart, and it broke my pride. However, now I know to not risk myself for someone who does not love me. I know that it is never worth playing the fool for a man who does not care."
He nodded. "I feel I ought to apologize, for the behavior of my friend and my sister."
"Why? You are not accountable for their actions," she said.
"You are correct, and yet, as they are unlikely to ever apologize to you, I must stand in. My sister Judith has long been spoilt, and my friend does not possess the character to counter it."
She shrugged. She did not wish to speak of Judith and Sebastien.
"It was a long time ago. I am much changed now."
He grinned. "Yes, now you steal notes from potted plants, break cryptic notes and play Beethoven."
He sighed and looked at the clock on the mantelpiece.
"I must go," he said. "But I will see you tomorrow, for the ball."
"Yes. Fanny is looking forward to it."
“And you?” he asked. “Are you looking forward to it?”
“I am,” she said softly, and realized she meant it. She was looking forward to seeing him again.
~.~
~Part 3 ~
The Mad Heiress Visits Vauxhall
Chapter One
The Duke entered Hampstead Heath in the early morning light. He had received a note from Mr. White when he returned home the previous day, after searching Meryton's apartments and visiting Miss Quinby. The note informed him that Mr. White wished to meet him on the Heath the next morning.
The morning frost had not yet disappeared, and the leaves and stalks glittered and sparkled in the winter sun. His horse picked his way along the path
He loved the Heath. Unlike the other parks, and even the estates in the country favored by many of the nobles, the Heath had retained its wildness. Blanche had always loved the Heath as well; she even loved the ever-present possibility that they might be accosted by highwaymen and footpads.
He could see her now, as if she were riding alongside him. She'd had a delicate little brown mare named Marie. Dressed in her royal blue riding habit, that matched her beautiful blue eyes, a jaunty little hat atop the pile of blond hair, she would gallop about the Heath, laughing at the birds that would startle and fly up. Then she would trot up alongside him, her breath visible in the winter cold.
"Charles," she would say. "Do you not wish to race?"
And he would say something gallant, about how he could not possibly race ahead of her, for then he would not be able to see her or admire her, doing something she loved to do. And she would laugh, and dash off once more, never able to stay by his side for too long.
But she did not gallop anymore, he thought as he watched her ghost disappear over a crest and Mr. White appear in her place. She was dead, killed by the rabble in France.
Mr. White was walking, and so Eversley swung himself off his horse and slowly walked towards the man.
"Eversley," White said.
He nodded. "You sent word you wished to see me?"
White sniffed and drew out a handkerchief. "Beg your pardon," he said as he wiped his nose. "I seem to have a bit of a cold."
It was odd, thinking that Mr. White was subject to the same vicissitudes of life as everyone else, Eversley thought. He'd always imagined White lead a life untouched by maladies --especially something as mundane as a cold.
"How goes it with Meryton?" White asked.
"He's a terrible gambler who is in love with an heiress and held back by a misguided sense of pride," Eversley said. "But he isn't Lightfoot. I imagine you knew this, even when you assigned me to track him."
Mr. White blinked.
"If Lightfoot has a list of spies, he knows me to be one," Eversley said. "You would not be so foolish as to assign someone the man knows to be a spy to follow him. You would only assign someone who you know to not be on the list. I cannot help but believe I am merely a decoy-- An attempt to lead the real Lightfoot to believe that we are fooled, that we would seriously consider Merry Meryton to be a traitor."
White looked at him. Then he let out a small laugh. "I was hoping you would not make such a deduction."
"And I was embarrassed the deduction took me so long to make," Eversley said.
"I must tell you, we need you to continue to pretend you consider Meryton a threat-- To continue to follow him."
Eversley shrugged. "It's no difficulty for me," he said. "I like Merry. I wish he would stop trying to win his fortune by gambling, but we cannot control the lives of others, as much as we might wish to."
White gave him a quizzical look. "If anyone can, it would be you," he said. "You are a duke, after all. Nevertheless, I appreciate that you refrain from being excessively dictatorial."
"Perhaps I shall take it up," Eversley said. "I begin to suspect my days of espionage may be coming to an end. No doubt I will need to find a way to spend my time."
White nodded. "I imagine the Duke of Eversley has many affairs to which he might devote himself. Perhaps you might give some additional attention to parliament. Or to your estates."
It was a mild rebuke, but Eversley felt it nonetheless. He had been grieving, damn it. And he had served his country. The last decade had not been in vain.
Still, it echoed the sentiments that had been rattling inside his own brain. Why was he creeping around gaming halls and darkened streets and heaths, when there was even more he could be doing.
He shook such thoughts away. "How long do you need me to continue to follow Meryton?" he asked.
Mr. White coughed. "Unfortunately, I cannot say," he said. "We believe the list has not yet been passed to the French. Our sources suggest that they are still gathering the funds that have been demanded."
"Do you know who the true Lightfoot is?" Eversley asked.
"We believe we do," Mr. White said. "However, we have no conclusive proof."
Eversley's horse nudged him, and he rubbed the equine’s muzzle and scratched in the groove under his chin. When he stopped, the horse nudged him again, very much like a dog insisting upon attention. "Very well," he said to White as he gave the animal a final pat. "I shall continue to tail Merry. I do hope you manage to thwart the man before the list is passed along."
Mr. White laughed again. "So do I, Eversley," he said. "So do I."
He nodded to the Duke and then turned, to go back the way he came, giving a brief wave as he disappeared.
Eversley stared after him. He wondered what White did, when he was not directing a variety of men and women regarding clandestine affairs. He liked to think that the man returned home to a warm and friendly wife --the type that gathered in crying children and let them cry on her shoulder-- and delicious hot food and good ale. Maybe she was
just a little plump, with an ample bosom to hold the old man close. He hoped he was right.
He stared back over the Heath. The sun was fully up, the frost nearly melted. He wondered what Miss Quinby was doing. Perhaps she was having breakfast. Or playing her piano. Perhaps she was still abed, her cheeks rosy from sleeping near the fire.
What was he doing? Thinking of Miss Quinby, sleeping? He shook himself. This was turning into more than mere friendship. It had been madness, slipping into her home yesterday, dressed as a manservant. If the ton ever gathered such gossip, her reputation would be well and truly ruined. And yet, he had needed to see her, to speak with her, and she had not seemed to mind his unorthodox entry.
This was more than friendship, but it could not continue. He could not become attached. He would not. He could not betray Blanche.
~.~
Chapter Two
"What shall you wear to the ball this evening?" Fanny asked. The women had elected to go shopping that morning, and so were making their way through the shops on Bond Street. Fanny was hoping to find some elegant lace gloves that might match the lace bodice of her ball gown. Georgette, on the other hand, had been hoping to locate a nice comb that she might stick in her hair for the ball.
"Mmmm," she muttered noncommittally as she perused the offerings on display. "I'm not entirely certain what I shall wear. No doubt whatever I may wear, you shall put me quite in the shade. You always look so lovely in a ball gown, and your lace is exquisite. Is this a good match?" She asked picking up a pair of exquisite gloves.
Fanny gave her a dry look. "You haven't settled then?" she asked. "You have not given it any thought?" She took the gloves and tried them on. They were a perfect fit.
Georgette blinked back innocently.
"Liar," Fanny said. "I've no doubt you've agonized over what to wear for hours. It is quite possible the Duke will ask you to stand up with him, you know. You must look very fine. I will take these,” Fanny said to the hovering shop girl. “I will wrap them up right away,” the girl said.
"I believe the Duke was injured last year," Georgette told Fanny. "Dancing is somewhat uncomfortable for him. And you know very well that hopping about aggravates my hip."
Fanny stuck out her lower lip. "Not even one dance?"
"It is the burden I must bear for once being a young, headstrong, overly passionate woman," Georgette said, with a wink.
"You list these traits as if they are undesirable."
"Not on you, dear cousin." Georgette patted Fanny's arm. "Never on you."
How odd, she mused. When did it stop mattering quite so much, what happened to her years ago? When did she stop thinking of Sebastien and her fall down the stairs as quite so tragic? The only tragedy she currently felt was that she could not dance with Eversley. She would have liked to dance with him. To join hands, to smell the scent of him as she was held in his arms however briefly. She had always enjoyed dancing. It was a shame she had to content herself with tapping her toes on the sideline.
"Mr. Rupert Fellows will also accompany us to the ball," Fanny said to her, as they left one of the arcades and exited onto Oxford Street. "He offered, and I thought that might allow the Duke to focus solely on you for the evening."
Georgette laughed. "Fanny, you must not set your heart on this. I have told you. The Duke and I are merely friends. And barely that, if I am entirely honest. You mustn't hope for something that will not be."
"Very well," Fanny said. "Because he is chaperoning us merely in the position as your friend, the Duke may focus entirely on you this evening. The two of you, unable to dance, may sit on the sidelines and attract the side-line glances of the ton, while Mr. Rupert Fellows and I dance a shocking three dances together; thereby solidifying my reputation as a fast young lady who will never come to any good."
"As your chaperon, I absolutely forbid it. If you are going to shock the ton, you must dance at the very least five dances with the young gentlemen. Three is so very un-extraordinary."
"You say this, but you aren't the one who must make the sacrifice of dancing with him. Have you seen Fellows dance? Goodness, it's like dancing with a small child, only a quite heavy child. He trod on my feet at least four times when we last danced.”
“Why in heaven’s name then, would you be contemplating three dances?” Georgette asked. She gave her charge a small frown.
“It is quite amusing to be sure, and he certainly enjoys himself dancing, but it is exhausting nonetheless," Fanny said.
“Oh? Well then, perhaps, rather than risk your reputation and your feet, you should only dance two dances with the young man," Georgette said slyly.
“It will not matter how many dances I dance. No one will be watching me. Everyone will be watching you and the Duke."
"I should have left you to survive a season with Aunt Agatha," Georgette said, swatting at her cousin.
"Don't say that. Not even in jest. Future duchesses should never threaten anyone with Aunt Agatha." Fanny laughed then, a gay and tinkling laugh, and danced away, out of Georgette's reach. “Come,” she said. “I want to have plenty of time to try new hair styles.”
“What were you thinking?” Georgette asked.
“Not for me. For you,” Fanny corrected as she waved an airy hand and headed for the door.
Georgette watched her young cousin with a mixture of love and aggravation. She owed much to Fanny. No other cousin had stood so steadfastly by her over the years. No other cousin had insisted she return to Town, to assume chaperone duties. Without Fanny, she would have continued to wallow in the country, possibly forever.
It was easy to wallow, she thought. She had been perfectly content to accept that her life would never be especially grand. That was her penance; that was her punishment for the extraordinary passion she had displayed in her youth. She would spend the rest of her days at the manor, occasionally walking into town. She would visit Mrs. Darby, with her troubled foot, and Mrs. Butterworth, with her troubled daughter. She would visit Mr. Kempton, her father's old steward, and Mrs. Pritchard, her old nurse. She would take biscuits and preserves to the tenants, and exchange books of Latin with Mr. Moresby and notes in code with the curate.
It was a good life, she thought. She had risen up and made herself a good life. She had no complaints.
And yet, it had been ever so slightly dull…Ever so slightly devoid of emotion. She enjoyed the visits and the notes and the Latin and the walks to town, but none of it had excited her as much as the promise of an evening escorted by Eversley did. None of it brought color to her cheeks or a twinge to her stomach.
Tonight, she thought. Tonight, she would see him again. She lay a hand on her stomach. She could barely contain the butterflies.
~.~
Chapter Three
Eversley trotted his horse into the courtyard of his mansion. He dismounted and handed the reins to the waiting stable boy.
The door opened before he reached the top step. His butler, Rokesby, stood aside and held the door open.
"Breakfast is served in the breakfast room, my Grace, if you wish it."
Eversley rubbed his hands together. "Certainly," he said. "I could do with a spot of coffee as well, if you think Mrs. Swinton could rustle some up. I was thinking of coffee just now."
Rokesby's face remained as calm as ever. "Yes, Your Grace, we shall see to it that you have a pot straight away."
Eversley was tempted to apologize. During his time in France, he had made do with very few servants. Yes, Mr. Murphy and James and Joseph had accompanied his throughout, ostensibly in the roles of drivers and footmen and all around manservants. But in reality they operated less as servants and more as accomplices and aides. They certainly did not often have time to fix him a pot of coffee. He had fallen out of the habit of ordering and expecting immediate service.
He had the sense that Rokesby greatly disapproved of this decline. Perhaps he thought his job was in jeopardy if the duke became too independent. Eversley could have told him that was not the
case.
Eversley made his way to the breakfast room, where dishes of hot food were set out.
"Such excess," Blanche would always say. "There are but two of us. We cannot eat so much.” Strangely enough, her marriage and life apart from the French court seemed to make her so much more aware of the shortcomings of the French aristocrats although her own parents were not in line for the crown. They had no special interests in government. There was no reason to kill them, or Blanche.
“Surely they will be safe from the storm,” she had said, and he had agreed with her.
“They are only a few disgruntled peasants,” he had said, “How much harm can they cause?” How much indeed. He had been so wrong.
He blinked back to the present, and looked at the mounds of food. "I trust the extra is passed along to the servants afterwards," he said, as he always did.
"Mrs. Swinton would never allow it to go to waste," the butler assured him.
“Good. Good.”
The next line in this parody, he remembered was Blanche announcing she would speak to the housekeeper personally, and the housekeeper assuring Blanche that the servants would enjoy the remainder of any of the food. It had become their routine, played out again and again. Why had the rabble not known that Blanche would have shared her last morsel with them? They had condemned her simply because she was rich, just as so many rich condemned the poor as lazy simply because they were poor. When had the world gone so mad?
As he fixed his plate, he waited to hear Blanche’s voice, to feel her presence drift into the room. She often came when he sat alone at table, but today, there was nothing but silence, the sounds of his cutlery on the china, the tiny creak of a floorboard as a footman shifted position.
She did not always appear at breakfast. He knew this. Sometimes, if he was preoccupied by other thoughts, if he was involved in a particularly difficult assignment, he would keep her at bay. But this morning? He expected her. He needed her.
The Mad Heiress and the Duke – Miss Georgette Quinby: A Regency Romance Novel (Heart of a Gentleman Book 1) Page 7
