"The Mad Heiress!" someone else called out.
"Oh God, she's going to jump!" A young girl pointed a shaking finger at Georgette.
A lady fainted.
A gentleman made to dash up the stairs towards her.
"No!" Georgette held out her hands and he paused. "No, no. Do not trouble yourself. I am not going to do any such thing."
She heard a loud thump come from the closet.
"It's the Duke!" Another voice called out from the crowd. "She's heartbroken to learn she cannot have him."
What? Was it really such public knowledge?
"I am not!" Georgette tried to locate the voice in the crowd. "This is nothing to do with that. Please. You've all got quite the wrong idea." Not that she could tell them what was actually occurring. Then they really would think she was mad.
Dash it. What could she say to them? How could she keep them from coming up the stairs, and still maintain her dignity? It was impossible. Her dignity was gone.
"Georgette!" It was Fanny, rushing through the crowd.
"Don't let her jump!" one of the gentlemen at the foot of the stairs yelled.
"I'm not going to jump!" Georgette yelled back. "I just need you all to wait, just one moment. Supper is not quite ready."
"Supper most certainly is ready." It was Lady Fletcher. "How dare you say otherwise?"
She was standing at the foot of the stairs, escorted by the Duke of Horland. Georgette blinked down at her. She wondered if Lady Fletcher was aware her husband was a traitor, if she knew he'd taken a list of spies from the King and tried to sell it to the French for money, if she knew he was a murderer.
"Georgette." Fanny reached her side. She looked terribly concerned.
"I'm not going to jump," Georgette said. "I simply need the crowd to stop for a moment. So they would not see what happened."
Fanny nodded. "I am so sorry I could not get to you sooner," she said. "I tried to escape the ballroom, so that I might come up here, but it was nearly impossible. Delia had the same trouble. Merry wouldn't let her out of his sights and..." She trailed off as she glanced back down at the crowd, which was still staring at them, waiting for Georgette to scream and kill herself, no doubt.
Georgette looked back. The door to the closet was closed, and the Rose Room appeared deserted. Then the Duke came into view.
"Go," he mouthed. "Go. Tell my driver to find White."
"Let us go," Georgette said. "I am tired, Fanny, all of a sudden."
Fanny, who was still staring down into the crowd below, and had not noticed the Duke, nodded.
Together they slowly descended. Georgette stopped in front of Lady Fletcher.
"It was a lovely masquerade," she said. She curtseyed deeply.
The Lady glowered at her, no doubt irate that Georgette had ruined the dramatic entrance into the supper hall which she had planned.
"I certainly hope we managed to provide you with a scene," Fanny said. "Your ball will be the talk for years to come."
Lady Fletcher did appear to brighten somewhat at that thought. "There is that," she said.
The crowd parted for them, as they made their way. It was oddly silent, Georgette thought. It sounded as if she had just been tossed into a lake. She could not seem to make out any voices. She felt she was in a dream or underwater.
They exited the residence and Mr. Fellows went to inquire about their carriage.
“Why could we not have supper?” Fanny questioned. “I’m quite starved.”
"We need to go to the Duke's residence first," Georgette said. "To deliver a message."
~.~
Chapter Ten
It was dawn before the Duke returned home. His footmen, James and Joseph, had arrived not long after Miss Quinby departed. Together, the three of them managed to remove the two men into a carriage. Amazingly, they avoided detection. The ball guests were still so thrilled by Miss Quinby's near suicide attempt they could speak of nothing else.
Mr. White appeared not long after. He nodded, as Eversley explained the events of the evening.
"You burned the list?" he asked. Eversley was not certain whether White was pleased or displeased about this development, but he did not particularly care.
"I did," he said. "Tell me White, how did you miss Fletcher?"
White shrugged. "Sometimes we fail," he said.
"Mmmm," Eversley said. "Sometimes we do, indeed."
It went unspoken, Eversley's resignation, but it was there all the same. He was done with espionage, with clandestine affairs. He had other responsibilities and wishes. Mr. White did not say anything, but he knew the man knew.
Miss Quinby had almost died. She had almost been killed, and it would have been his fault. His failure. He could not bear it. When he closed his eyes to sleep, all he could see was the bloody knife and her wide eyes.
He should visit her. He should stop by her residence tomorrow, and inquire as to her condition.
The guests had thought she wanted to jump. They had thought she wanted to kill herself, over him. Over a Duke she barely knew, he thought. Surely she did not love him. He knew his feelings were stronger than he liked to admit, but surely hers were not. She was an eminently practical woman. Not like Blanche at all. He had already learned that her actions, which he had believed to be motivated by desire for him, had been in response to overhearing the Frenchman.
What were the odds? They were astonishing, he thought. Almost as astonishing as Merry naming a green coat and a plum dress.
It had to be Fate. If Miss Quinby had not been in the garden that day, he would not have remembered her. If she had not found that note, she would not have been at the British Museum. Likewise, he would not have been there if he had not been assigned to Merry as a decoy. It was Fate that led her, and apparently Delia Ditherfield, to Vauxhall and to the spies. He could not believe she had overheard another conversation.
It was Fate that had led Merry to make that bet, to realize that though he had won, he still did not have the thing which was most important to him. It was Fate which had brought Eversley along to the ball, Fate which had made Delia Ditherfield tell him Miss Quinby was hiding in the Rose Room. Fate which had brought him there, just in time, to save her before she died.
She had almost died.
He could not bear it.
He poured himself a drink and paced his bedroom.
He could not bear it.
“Blanche,” he said aloud. “Where are you? I need you.”
Blanche appeared as she always did and looked at him sadly. “Pas mon idiot,” she said.
“No?”
“Pas mon idiot que vous ne le faites pas,” she repeated and disappeared again.
“I am not an idiot,” he said to the empty air. He downed the drink and poured another. He scowled at the place where she had been. Whatever could Blanche have meant?
~.~
Chapter Eleven
Six Months Later
Georgette lay back and stared up at the leaves. It was summer, and she was in one of her favorite fields. Butterflies flew lazily about, birds sang. She could hear the rush of a small stream nearby.
She had retreated home, after that disastrous time in London, to lick her wounds. Not only had she been in a mild state of shock, after seeing a man killed, she had been hurt and embarrassed. The ton believed she would kill herself. The gossip was truly overwhelming. Even Fanny had admitted it might be best if she lay low for some time. Aunt Agatha's arrival a few days later had put an end to it. Georgette was sent back to the country in disgrace.
She had also been hurt by the Duke, if she was being entirely honest. He had saved her, yes, but there had been no word since she left the ball. She knew she should expect nothing more. The Duke had saved her because he was in the business of saving people. He certainly was not interested in more.
How had she fallen in love with him? How had she allowed this to happen? She had sworn she would never again lose her dignity over a man. And look what had happened: she'd found herself
standing at the top of the stairs, with people shrieking she wanted to throw herself off the bannister because of him. Her dignity had been lost once again. It was not for him, she told herself. It was for her country, but she knew that was a lie. She had thrown caution to the winds once again, and look what it got her.
She should be grateful, she supposed. She still had her home in the country. If some people gave her a wide berth, most of the others were incredibly kind. And she still had her books and her music, her mathematics. The curate still exchanged cryptograms with her, and Fanny still sent her letters, deploring Aunt Agatha's behavior and Mr. Rupert Fellows' clumsy feet. She smiled thinking of her cousin.
And she had this field, with its wildflowers and butterflies. And the sun was out. She took off her bonnet and allowed the sun to hit her face. Freckles be damned.
It will get better, she thought. Someday she would not love him so much. Soon, no doubt, she would be able to go hours, or even days, without thinking of him. Without remembering those few precious moments in his company, which she had wanted to never end.
It will get better. It will.
~.~
Chapter Twelve
"You will not believe who we saw last month, at the Drummonds' house party."
It was Judith. She and Sebastien had descended upon Eversley Manor the previous day, with no warning at all and they made themselves quite at home. The Duke, who was busy attempting to put his estate to rights, had been mildly annoyed by their arrival, but also accepted it as his penance.
He had neglected his family. And his friends. Although his opinion of Judith and Sebastien was no longer very great, he had done nothing to foster a relationship with them over the last ten years. He was as much to blame as they were for the coldness in their relationships. He had been so caught up in Blanche, so caught up in the dead, that he had forgotten the living.
"Miss Markham," Judith was saying. "You remember. That bouncy blonde cousin of Miss Quinby's?"
Miss Quinby. Eversley carefully set down his tea. "Oh? And how is Miss Markham?"
Sebastien chuckled. "She bade us to tell you she is bloody awful and it is entirely your fault."
"Did she? Was there any elaboration?" Eversley asked.
"Her aunt, Agatha Markham, has re-assumed chaperon duties, after Miss Quinby's scandalous behavior at the Fletcher Masquerade."
Eversley nodded. He knew this. He had been informed by the butler, when he called at Miss Quinby's townhome, that she was no longer in Town, and her aunt requested he cease any visits.
"Was it really true?" Judith asked. "Did she really threaten to kill herself over you? You were at the masquerade, were you not?"
Eversley shook his head. "No," he said. "She was not threatening to kill herself. In fact, she was doing me a rather extraordinary favor, distracting the crowd."
"Heavens, Eversley, were you doing something naughty?" Judith asked. She took out her handkerchief and waved it around her face.
He winked at her. Better to let her think that, rather than that he had been secreting two bodies in a closet.
His sister laughed. "I wouldn't have thought it possible, after Blanche."
She looked at him. "I suppose it is a good thing. You do seem much happier," she said. "You smile more. You don't hate me so very much."
He looked at her in surprise. "I never hated you," he said. "What are you on about?"
Judith sniffed. "When Sebastien and I...and then Blanche...I thought you must hate me, for running away right when she died. You never visited. Hardly ever wrote. And then when I heard you'd been friendly with Miss Quinby, oh, I don't know. I know I was ugly about her, but I felt as if you were doing it to spite me."
Eversley blinked. "No, Judith. I still do not believe that what happened to Miss Quinby was right, but I never hated you. And I certainly never spoke to her out of spite. And my neglect of you and Sebastien over the past decade has been my fault alone. I was mired in my grief. I never meant you to think I wished to punish you."
Sebastien rested a hand on his wife's shoulder. "Thank you, old boy," he said. "It's good to know."
Judith wiped away a tear. "Is she the reason?" she asked.
"Beg your pardon?" Eversley asked, as he raised his cup once more.
"Is Miss Quinby the reason you seem happier?"
He sighed and looked down into his tea. "I have not seen Miss Quinby since the Fletcher Masquerade," he said. He wished he had seen her. He wanted to see her. He wanted to speak with her, to tell her about the improvements he was making, the new sheets of music he'd received from Vienna.
"You haven't?" Judith asked. "Whatever is wrong with you?"
"What? Nothing is wrong with me."
"You said she did you a favour," Judith said. "She became a complete disgrace, she can never show her face in Town again, you know."
"I, er...."
"And apparently she did this for you! As a favour to you? And you have not even seen her?" Judith was beginning to sound a bit upset. Was she upset on Miss Quinby's behalf?
"I called at her townhome a few days later," he said. "She was no longer in Town."
"Ah," Sebastien said. "The dreaded Aunt Agatha had already descended to ruin Miss Markham's life."
"Fanny said you brought her music," Judith said. "She said Miss Quinby was quite entranced with you, although she refused to admit it."
"So you spoke to Miss Markham at length, then?" he asked.
"I quite like her," Judith said. "She reminds me of me at that age. Terribly stifled and overwhelmed by attention from suitors who only wanted my money and title."
"That would have been me," Sebastien said.
"Yes, but then you decided you loved me after all," Judith said. "So it worked out in the end."
The two of them smiled at each other. Eversley knew that smile. It was the smile of a shared secret, the smile between two people who knew that the other one loved them, that together they would always be safe. He and Blanche had shared that smile.
Blanche. She had not come since the Fletcher Masquerade. He suspected she might stay away forever, or only stop by for momentous occasions. She had called him an idiot. No my idiot, you do not need me she had said. But he did. He loved her still. He would always love her. His heart would always be hers.
But perhaps there could be shared custody? Perhaps he could give it once more.
Oh, what was he thinking? Miss Quinby had merely been assisting him. She might have liked him a bit, but not as much as he liked her. Which was a considerable amount, if he was being entirely honest. An exceptional amount.
"Fanny wished for us to tell you something," Judith said.
He shook his head and focused on his sister. "What?" he asked.
"She wished for you to know that Georgette had done the thing she swore to never do again, whatever that means. She would not explain it to me. She said you should know what it was."
He slowly took a sip of tea. His heart was pounding and his palms were suddenly sweaty. He set his cup back down and wiped his wet hands on his knees.
"Thank you, Judith," he said.
"Mmmmm," Judith murmured as she eyed him up and down, no doubt taking in his sudden flush.
"Any chance she said where Miss Quinby had gone to?" he asked.
Judith raised her eyebrow. "What? Are you going to run off again, and leave me and Sebastien alone to rattle around the estate by ourselves?"
"I promise to return as soon as I am able," he said. "But there is something I must do. I should have done earlier."
Judith's lips quirked. "I supposed you must see about a horse?"
"Precisely," Eversley said.
Sebastien laughed. "You dog," he said. "I wouldn't have believed it."
Judith reached down and traced the embroidery of the tablecloth. "It must be her?" she asked. "Out of all of the lovely ladies, it must be her?"
Eversley swallowed and nodded. "Yes," he said. "I believe out of all of the lovely ladies, it must be her."
/> She sighed. "I suppose there is a poetic sort of justice about it all," she said. She gave a small grin. "Blanche always did like her, you know. She'd be happy about it, I believe."
"You speak too soon, sister," Eversley said. "I do not even know where the lady is yet, much less her sentiments towards myself."
"She's in Somerset. In the village there."
He stood. "Then that is where I will go." He strode to the door of the breakfast room, and then turned back to look at his sister, who had reached for Sebastien's hand.
"I do believe you are right, Judith," he said. "Blanche would be happy about it."
"Mais oui," Sebastien said, his voice mimicking Blanche's.
"Bien sur," Judith said.
Eversley smiled.
~.~
Chapter Thirteen
Georgette made her way down the lane to Highfield, the estate that had originally belonged to her parents and now belonged to her. She could not complain, she supposed. She might be a pariah, but at least she was a wealthy pariah with lovely servants and an abundance of strawberries --which she was carrying in her apron. She had already eaten her fill of them and probably had stained lips with their juices, like an urchin.
She made her way around to the side entrance and down to the kitchen, dumping the strawberries into a bowl provided by the housekeeper who promised to serve them with cream.
“I’m afraid I ate quite the number of them right from the vine,” Georgette admitted.
“I’m sure,” the housekeeper said. "There was a note for you, miss. A man brought it by not an hour ago.
"A note?"
"I left it on the entrance table."
Georgette stared at the paper. It was a cryptogram.
22-19-1-23-8-'-7 20-3-26-26-13
15-8 20-3-9-6 3-'-17-26-3-17-25
How odd. The curate never left them for her here --he simply handed them off after Sunday's service. And the housekeeper would not have called him a man. He was the curate. Perhaps Fletcher had gotten loose and decided to murder her again? No. That was just her imagination running away with her.
The Mad Heiress and the Duke – Miss Georgette Quinby: A Regency Romance Novel (Heart of a Gentleman Book 1) Page 13
