by Anna Small
Chapter Thirty-Eight
“This is all rather untoward of the bank to discuss these matters with you, Miss Lockewood.” Mr. Chadwick leaned forward on his steepled fingers to shove his wire-rimmed spectacles up his nose. Georgiana arched an eyebrow and sat up straighter.
“It’s Mrs. Waverley now, Mr. Chadwick.”
He flushed. “Yes, of course.” He opened his hands, palms out. “I regret I am still unable to tell you…”
“The money belongs to me, regardless of what the bank says, Mr. Chadwick. My husband has specified to the bank I have joint control.” She clenched her hands in her lap. It wouldn’t do to anger the banker. She tried a different tack. Fluttering her eyelashes, she touched her cheek with her gloved fingertip, as if she were swiping a tear. “My poor husband has been struck with apoplexy, and the doctors have no idea when he’ll recover. He wanted me to take an accounting of the funds recently removed from the account. I do not know what will happen if I return without it.” She buried her face in her hands and gave a loud sob.
The screech of the chair on the parquet floor assured her of her convincing act. A spotless white handkerchief was poked into her hands.
“Please, Mrs. Waverley—do stop crying. I will see what I can do to assist. Your family’s business has always been a priority with our bank.”
She patted his hand. “Dear sir, I am indebted.” She allowed the tears to slip unchecked down her face, unsure of how many of them were in pretense or because she really did want to cry.
He cleared his throat and bowed. “It will take me some time, ma’am. I will send in some tea.” He scurried from the room and she couldn’t blame him. Not many men were comfortable around a weeping woman.
The second the door closed, she wiped her face and took a deep breath. She must remain calm and not allow emotion to get the better of her, especially now it seemed she would be on her own. Wincing at the unbearable thought, she rose from her chair and peered out the window at Threadneedle Street below. A sea of black hats floated amongst the carriages and horses. Jonathan might even be among them. Jack would surely be out of place among these men of industry. Her chest constricted, and she wished she could loosen her corset, but that was impossible, here in the venerable building. The modiste had altered her wardrobe to accommodate her budding figure, but it never seemed enough. Thoughts of the baby melded with the dull, throbbing ache of her loneliness for Jack.
No longer having to fake her depression, she returned to her chair as Mr. Chadwick entered the office, a sheath of papers in his hands. His forehead gleamed with perspiration, and a whiff of body odor settled around her as he walked past her. He placed the papers on the desk.
“I have the answer for you…for your husband, I mean.” He fidgeted with the edges of a page. “I hope this is not a delicate matter, but it appears the sum of five thousand pounds was written into an account held by one Maisie Smith.”
She blinked. “Who?”
“I do not have any more information, Mrs. Waverley. Perhaps—” He appeared to study her trembling hands, and she realized she’d probably blanched at the news. “Is there something amiss?”
“Uh, no. No, everything is fine.” She stood hastily, nearly knocking over her chair. “I had forgotten about my husband’s cousin, Maisie Smith.” She nearly choked on the lump of tears rising in her throat but regained control of her emotions, at least as far as displaying them. “Indeed, my husband has asked me to place a visit to her at once. Can you tell me where I might find her?”
“I will have to search for that information. I do not know if I have an address. These papers only reveal a name.”
She smiled so broadly her teeth hurt. “I am sure a clever man like you can find it if he wanted to.” Her eyelashes fluttered delicately against her cheek, and she watched the slow flush burn his face until he tugged at his collar. He cleared his throat.
“I am sure something may be done. I will have this information in a day or two, Mrs. Waverley.”
“That will be too late.” She clutched her hands together. “I must pay this visit today. It is imperative.”
The sigh emitting from his lips was barely noticeable. He nodded. “Very well. If you will excuse me a moment, I will see what the clerk can find out.” He bowed before exiting the office.
Georgiana collapsed into her chair, covering her face with her hands. Every hope of a happy life with Jack had crumbled like burned toast. She didn’t know what was more upsetting—that he’d gone ahead with the freedom she’d promised or that she was surprised he had. Hadn’t he warned her of this very thing? He had lived a sordid bachelor life for so long she was a fool to think he could give it up for a childhood friend he enjoyed teasing occasionally. Not to mention, a baby on the way to further tie him down.
Mr. Chadwick’s return interrupted her thoughts. She fought to remain silent while Mr. Chadwick took his time walking around his desk before handing her a slip of paper.
“Not a very nice neighborhood, I’m afraid. Still, it is generous of your husband to care for a relative.”
Georgiana scanned the paper quickly. “This is exactly what I need. Thank you very much.”
“I’m glad to be of service to you and your family.”
She folded the paper and stuck it in her reticule, then paused at the door. “Please, Mr. Chadwick, keep our meeting confidential. I would not want my poor brother to have the wrong impression.”
“Is Mr. Lockewood unwell, too?” The bulbous nose crinkled.
She feigned another attack of nerves. “Ah, yes. Yes, he is. It is so very sad.”
“Very sad, indeed.” He opened the door for her. “Please give my warmest regards to your husband and your brother.” She held up her finger to her lips and arched her eyebrow. He nodded hastily as sweat broke out on his balding pate. “Naturally, you will not, since this meeting never occurred.” He gave her a conspiratorial wink, and she held out her hand.
“Thank you, dear Mr. Chadwick.”
He bowed over her hand.
A few minutes later, Georgiana sank back into the cushioned seat of her waiting carriage.
“Home, ma’am?” Roberts asked.
She pressed her fingertips to her eyes. “No. I have another stop. In Cheapside.” Roberts took the address from her as easily as if she’d asked him to drive her to Grosvenor Square. She stared out the window with blurred vision as the gray buildings and crowded streets flew by. If only she could order Roberts to keep driving and never stop until he reached the sea.
Where she would throw herself into it.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Men loitered in the alleys and huddled in the narrow doorways of Harkham Street. A few women walked slowly down the street in pairs or singly, and Georgiana met the gaze of one as her carriage drove by. The smeared cosmetics, the blowsy hair—underlined by her absent corset and stained gown—answered any questions she might have had.
She leaned back into the confines of her carriage, shivering beneath the rug. What business could Jack have had in this neighborhood? Maisie Smith, that’s what.
Almost nauseated with nerves and her growing condition, Georgiana jumped when the carriage halted before a weathered building, its windows streaked with soot and grime. Roberts opened the door for her, not even bothering to hide his suspicious glance.
“Shall I accompany you inside, ma’am?”
She squared her shoulders with more bravado than she felt. “That will not be necessary.” A few men looked at her with leering interest, and she touched Roberts’ arm. “Stay close.”
He tugged his forelock and remained beside the carriage, his arms folded across his barrel chest. Were her nerves not so on edge, she might have laughed at his fierce demeanor.
She walked up to the door and straightened her bonnet, then rapped smartly on the wood. The plaintive wails of a baby inside made her pause, and just as she changed her mind and prepared to turn back, the door opened a crack. A girl about her age peeked through the openin
g, her wide brown eyes offset by a smattering of freckles on her nose and a mop of red curls poking from beneath her dingy cap.
Her face brightened as she took in the sight of Georgiana on her doorstep. “Come in, my lady.” The girl bobbed a nervous curtsy, patting the loose strands of hair hanging over her forehead. “Please excuse the clutter. It’s not very tidy, I’m afraid. We don’t have many visitors.”
Georgiana wanted to be cruel, but the feeling died at the girl’s earnest smile. She stepped into the tiny foyer, and they stared at each other. “You must be Maisie Smith.” She didn’t know why she’d said such a preposterous thing, but the girl bobbed another curtsy. “Surely, you must know who I am.”
“Oh, yes, my lady. Of course.” Her lips quivered into a smile. “He said you’d come by. That I was to accept any help you could give.”
“Help?” Her fingers tightened around her reticule string. “Oh, with the baby, you mean.” The gall of him! That she would assist in any way with his bas…
The crying baby she’d heard before began wailing again, the sound almost vibrating the thin walls. Maisie turned on her heel with a backward glance. “He’s in here, milady. Do you want to see him?”
“I’d rather not,” she said sharply, but the girl looked so crestfallen, she relented. Georgiana followed her into a cramped parlor that also doubled as a bedroom. She wrinkled her nose at the squalid conditions. “When are you moving?”
“Eh?” Maisie picked up a wrapped bundle from a woven basket. “This is my home, milady. I know it ain’t much, but it’s a roof over my head.” She indicated the baby with a nod. “This is him, milady. This is my Tibby.”
“Tibby?” Good lord, could Jack not suggest a more proper name? Even if the child would never follow its father into society, at least he could bestow a proper name on it. A wave of nausea swept through her like a whirlwind. She gripped a table edge. Maisie frowned.
“Are you all right, milady? Would you like to sit?”
Georgiana sank into a chair that creaked in protest. “Thank you,” she murmured, unable to keep up her stern visage any longer.
The girl leaned forward, the baby in her arms. “Would you like to hold him, milady?”
“Not really. No, thank you.” But she was too late. The bundle was thrust into her arms. Blinking back sudden tears and fighting the urge to give the child back, she stared at the round, pink face. “He’s rather beautiful, isn’t he?” she asked, startled at the realization. She wondered if her baby would resemble its little half-brother with the wide, blinking eyes and rosebud mouth.
“He is, milady.” Maisie knelt by Georgiana’s feet. “He’s the image of his father. The same eyes and hair,” she added proudly.
Biting her tongue, Georgiana could only nod. “I wonder why you are still in this household, miss. I thought…he…” It was impossible to use Jack’s name to this girl. “I thought he was moving you to better quarters.”
Frowning, Maisie lowered her gaze. “No, milady. He said I must stay here until he has the funds to set us up proper.”
Muttering under her breath, Georgiana stopped when Maisie’s gaze was upon her again. “Apparently, five thousand pounds doesn’t go very far these days.” It wasn’t Maisie’s fault. She seemed an ignorant country girl who could easily be seduced by a man half as charming and handsome as Jack. Could she really blame her? But her words were disturbing. Could Jack really be thinking of keeping house with such a creature? It would mean the ruin of him.
And of her.
“Have you no family?” Besides my cheating dog of a husband, of course.
The curls bounced on Maisie’s shoulders as she shook her head. “None, miss. They’re long dead. Tibby and his papa are all I have in this world.”
Georgiana’s throat constricted and she cleared it before speaking. “Something must be done for you and Tibby. I will ensure that it happens.”
The pale cheeks flushed pink. “Oh, thank you, milady, thank you! I never dreamed the Charitable Angels would help with more than some food and nappies.”
Georgiana stared at her. “The what? Angels, you say?” The girl nodded. “Do you not know who I am?”
“You are from the…the Charitable Angels. Edward said he’d sent…”
“Edward?” Georgiana almost cried out the name. “You mean Jack.”
“Jack?” Her rosy blush faded. “Who’s Jack?”
“The father of your child.”
Their raised voices awoke the sleeping infant. The lower lip, so plump and full, quivered. His paper-thin eyelids crinkled, and Tibby let loose with a lusty cry. Georgiana jiggled him slightly. Maisie reached for him and held him to her shoulder.
“You are mistaken, begging your pardon, milady. His father’s name is Edward.”
“Perhaps that’s what he calls himself to you,” she retorted. “I should know, for I am his wife.”
“His wife?” The girl’s face screwed up like her baby’s, and Georgiana hastily patted her arm. “He told me he would send one of the Charitable Angels ’round. Not any wife.”
“I am not an angel.” Georgiana stood briskly and fumbled with her reticule. “I can leave you some money. See that you buy some food and things for…for Tibby.”
“Oh, thank you, milady.” Maisie clutched her baby with one arm and wiped her tears with the sleeve of her other. “He’s a good baby, is Tibby.”
“I’m sure he is.” Blinking back tears, Georgiana headed for the door. “I wish you well. You and…and little Tibby.”
“Thank you, milady.” The girl’s voice was a whisper. She lifted the baby onto her shoulder, and pulled off his cap to stroke his hair. His curly black hair.
Georgiana frowned. “I thought he has his father’s hair.”
“He does.” Maisie giggled, her earlier tears forgotten. “All that thick, dark hair. Black as a cat’s.” She smoothed her hand over the little head. “Just like his father.”
Georgiana released the latch on the door. “No, miss.” She stepped back into the room, a sense of hope merging with relief that almost weakened her legs. “Jack’s hair is golden.”
The girl’s eyebrows lifted. “No, no. It’s black as this, milady.”
Inhaling slowly, Georgiana stood in front of her and tentatively patted Tibby’s firm little back. “My husband’s name is Jack Waverley.”
The girl frowned. “That wasn’t his name at all, milady. Tibby’s father, I mean.”
“What is his name?” She knew the answer before the girl uttered it.
“Edward. Edward Mitford’s ’is name.”
****
Roberts stopped at the Albany, but Jack wasn’t home. Impatient to find him and admit she’d misjudged him, Georgiana decided to wait. She paced the parlor, avoiding the crates and trunks of his belongings, which had not yet made their way to Kensington Gardens. The sight of his worldly possessions packed in a few boxes tore at her heart. Had it only been a few days ago when they’d spoken of their future together?
Taking a seat at the desk by the window, she stared down at the busy street, barely aware of the action below. All she could hear was Maisie’s voice, proclaiming Edward the father to her son. None of it made any sense. Why would Jack give money toward the wellbeing of a woman he so obviously did not know? More to the point, why was he funding Edward’s child?
She rubbed her temples and focused on the street, hoping without any real conviction to see Jack, carefree and smiling as usual. There was no sign of him. Sighing, Georgiana lay back against the chair and tapped her fingers atop a stack of letters. His grandfather’s signature on one caught her eye. She pulled it free and shot a glance at the door to ensure no one would catch her reading his mail.
In brief, harsh terms, his grandfather begged Jack to reconsider his stipend. “Accept what is rightfully yours. A gentleman cannot survive on boxing and gaming.”
She replaced the letter, confusion outweighing her surprise. Why would Jack decline his allowance? If he refused her money when she
’d offered, why would he then take it behind her back? Most vexing of all was the connection of Edward and Maisie, who were somehow involved.
“Mrs. Leister, ma’am.”
The butler’s voice made her jump. Before Georgiana could question the woman’s audacity to come to her husband’s home, the butler staggered against the doorframe as the actress pushed past him, expertly sweeping the train of her dark blue gown out of his way.
Georgiana’s hands clenched at her sides. She pushed up from the chair and leaned into the table edge for support.
“Mrs. Leister….”
The actress nodded curtly. “I’ve no time for pleasantries, missus.” She dismissed the butler with a sharp nod. “I would have sent a message, but there’s no time.”
“No time for what?”
Mrs. Leister reached into her beaded reticule and withdrew a folded paper. She handed it to Georgiana. “I found this.”
Georgiana scanned the note, trying to interpret the strange instructions and times contained upon it. “I don’t understand.” Her irritation at the woman’s presence dissolved. Jack’s former—whatever she used to be—was certainly not at the Albany for a tryst. It was almost as if she’d come to see Georgiana, not Jack.
“It’s Jack’s instructions to his second, Talbot Reynolds. He must have made another copy. This one was crumpled up.” When Georgiana still hadn’t registered the information, Mrs. Leister pursed her lips. “Jack is going to have swords with him.”
She didn’t have to ask with whom. She sank back into the chair. “Edward.” Shock and disbelief mingled as she struggled with the reality of what was about to happen.
“Yes.” Mrs. Leister paced the room, the heels of her shoes marking the worn carpet in front of the hearth. “Before you came the other day, Jack told me what he’d done.”
Georgiana shook her head, as if the motion could also clear her worries. “I don’t understand.”
“Edward blackmailed Jack. You suspected something about your missing money. Jack told me Edward came to him and made certain accusations he could not ignore.” Her carmine lips curled into a sneer. “I’m not surprised at how low he’d sunk. He was always the most unmitigated scoundrel.”
