by Amy Jarecki
“I think she’d be delighted.”
A flicker of a flame spread through his chest as Fletcher caught Georgiana’s wrist. “Only your mother?”
Warm, chocolate brown eyes met his. White teeth scraped over a delicate bottom lip. “What is it we are doing, Duke?”
“Why, my lady, are we not becoming friends?”
“Friends?”
He brushed an errant curl away from her eyes before he led onward. “Yes. As I recall, on more than one occasion, you told me you were not ready to be courted. It is my desire to honor your wishes, though I can foresee no reason why we cannot come to know each other better.”
She gave him a quizzical stare. “But why me?”
The path gave way to the rotunda and Fletcher gestured to an open table. “You, my lady, are interesting.”
“Me?” she asked, her voice singing with disbelief. “Surely there are plenty of interesting women in London.”
“You’d be surprised at how few there are.” He held the chair for her. “And even fewer who are not hunting fortunes.”
Beneath her bonnet, the back of her neck turned bright red.
“Have I struck a chord?”
She smiled slightly—a forced smile. “Somewhat. If you may recall, I was married to a pauper.”
“Yes, and how did that come about? I find it difficult to believe your mother wouldn’t have called foul.”
“Oh, she did. Both of my parents were quite boisterous about their discontent. But I refused to hear any argument. I’d found my prince charming.”
Fletcher clenched his fists so tight, his knuckles popped.
But Georgiana seemed not to notice his tension as she sighed. “At least I thought I had.”
“Your Grace,” said a waiter, approaching with a broad smile. “We haven’t seen you here in some time.”
He nodded with a congenial smile. “Two ham supper boxes and a pint of arrack punch.”
“Is Vauxhall’s punch as notoriously potent as reports claim?” asked Georgiana.
“Every bit as potent, which is why I only ordered a pint.”
“Do you...” She leaned in, lowering her voice. “...intend to make me intoxicated so that you may have your way with me?”
A spark of energy swirled low. Oh, how this woman could catch him off guard at every turn. He replied with a whisper, “I’d be lying if I said the thought hadn’t crossed my mind.”
Placing her hand on the table beside his, her gloved little finger brushed his ever so lightly. “Do you know what I think?”
The sensation of the tiny bit of friction made her allure all the more enticing. “I have no idea.”
Georgiana’s brown eyes glistened with mischief. “I think you are not quite the scoundrel everyone makes you out to be.”
He increased the friction between their fingers. “Oh, I assure you, I can be the dastardliest scoundrel in all of Britain when I so choose.”
“Hmm.” She lowered her hand to her lap. “Then you’re a scoundrel with a good heart.”
“I assure you, ‘scoundrel’ and ‘good heart’ cannot be used as descriptors for the same person.” Fletcher looked over both shoulders. “Please refrain from speaking your mind too loudly, you might ruin my reputation for the rest of my days.”
“You are awful.”
“Thank you.”
The food arrived and, with it, the curtain in the outdoor theater opened. A small orchestra played while a baritone sang. “I say, isn’t that the chap you engaged for your dancing lessons?” Fletcher asked.
“Oh.” Georgiana blanched. “Fancy seeing him here.”
He snapped his fingers. “What was his name?”
“Mr. Walpole.”
“Hm, Walpole. No, the name doesn’t ring a bell, but I swear I’ve seen him somewhere before.”
“He’s a prominent London actor, surely you’ve attended the theater when he’s been on stage.”
“Perhaps that’s it.” Fletcher examined the man—not a dandy by any means, but there was something about him he disliked. If only he could put his finger on it.
Chapter Fourteen
“PACK THE BLUE AND THE violet...hmm...the yellow and the pink. And most especially do not forget all the matching accoutrements.”
Opening her eyes, Georgiana hoped she’d just had a nightmare, dreaming her mother just swept into her bedchamber with the lady’s maid.
“Straightaway, my lady,” the maid’s high-pitched voice trilled—very unlike a dream and far more like a nightmare.
Ugh, they are truly here. Clutching the bedclothes beneath her chin, Georgiana looked up. “Exactly what are you doing?”
Mama pattered toward the bed, looking as if she’d just been told the Prince Regent was paying a visit. “’Tis time to tell you at last! I’ve been planning your birthday celebration ever since you decided to stay with us for the Season.”
Oh dear. Georgiana was quite certain the stone sinking to the pit of her stomach had nothing to do with excitement. The maid disappeared into the withdrawing room while the hinges of Georgiana’s trunk screeched.
But Mama had always paid particular attention to her children’s birthdays.
“Exactly why am I supposed to be excited? That I will be seven and twenty on Saturday and you’ve decided to pack my things and turn me out?”
“No, you silly goose. We’re going to Hardwick Hall for a country house party!” Mama tugged away the coverlet. “Come, dearest, there’s no time to waste.”
Georgiana swung her legs over the side of the bed. “Mama,” she moaned. “I cannot possibly attend a house party. At least not this week.” She stopped herself from mentioning the show at Richmond Park. Such an utterance would only serve to make her mother more determined to cart her away.
“Rubbish. ’Tis only for a sennight. And just yesterday you and your father discussed how fortuitous it would be to quit the Season and take Rasputin to Hardwick Hall.”
“Lud.” Georgiana pulled off her nightcap and pushed the linen against her eyes. The fete at Richmond Park was six days away and she would move heaven and hell to be there. On one side, Hardwick Hall was only about a half-hour ride from the fairgrounds. But how could she manage to transport the pumper if she weren’t in London?
“Come, don your carriage gown and that lovely pelisse. I’ve arranged for you to travel with Lady Eleanor if that suits?”
“Eleanor is coming?”
“Of course, she wouldn’t miss it.”
“Ah yes.” Georgiana looked to the velvet canopy above. “So reminiscent of the olden days.”
Mama tugged her hand with a matronly smile. “Reminiscent, yes. Old no.”
Moving to the washstand, Georgiana splashed water on her face. “How long has Lady Eleanor known about your plans?”
“A fortnight or so.” Mother thrust her finger toward the maid. “Careful how you fold that. India muslin must never be wrinkled.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Who else have you invited?” Georgiana asked, drying her face.
“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise, would it?”
She hung the cloth on the rack. “I think I’ve been sufficiently surprised for one day.”
“Nonsense.” With a swish of her skirts, Mama strode out the door. “You have an hour to dress and eat breakfast. I suggest you make haste, my dear one.”
Georgiana pursed her lips while she watched her mother walk out and close the door. Once she was gone, she glanced to the maid. “Why do I not presently feel like a dear one?”
“I have no idea, my lady. I would think a country house party with lords and ladies mulling about would be a dream come true.”
Georgiana sighed. What a fraud she felt trapped between two worlds. On one side, she was poor like the masses, yet born into the nobility, which afforded her certain privileges like house parties away from London when she should be attending soirees with Eleanor, meeting potential financiers.
Goodness. I must make a
rrangements.
With her thought, she hastened to dress, had the maid pin her hair in a simple chignon, and dashed down to the kitchens. “Roddy, I need your assistance.”
The young man sprang up from the table. “Yes, my lady?”
She grabbed a crumpet from the board and took a bite. “I must go to Hardwick Hall for the week.”
“But what about—”
Mouth full, she thrust up the pastry. “Allow me to finish.”
Roddy clamped his lips shut and gave a nod.
“I need you and Mr. Walpole to supervise the transportation of the pumper. I’ve already made arrangements with a driver who will bring his team here at dawn on Sunday morning. Can you do that for me?”
“Aye, but how will we give the show if you’re not there?”
“Oh, I’ll be at Richmond Park, all right. I shall meet you there, no matter the odds. Mr. Walpole has been practicing his lines and you know how to run the machine. I am certain our demonstration will be a monumental success.” She clamped a hand over her stomach. She’d invited Lord Hamilton and a host of other gentlemen to Richmond Park to see the fire engine in action, her mother might thwart her plans for the week, but the baroness would not stand in the way of Sunday’s long awaited success.
“Ah, there you are, Lady Georgiana,” said Dobbs as he stepped into the kitchen. “There’s a Mr. Webster here to see you.”
“Webster?” she asked as a pinch jabbed her between the shoulder blades. “Is he one of Mama’s guests?”
“No, not that I’m aware of. I did tell him that you are preparing for an outing and he said he only needed a moment of your time.”
“Very well. In the parlor, is he?”
“Yes, my lady.”
Georgiana took a deep breath. After she’d been warned off by Fletcher, she wasn’t certain Clarence Webster was the type of person she needed for a business associate. But nonetheless, she was growing more desperate by the day, and if the man truly harbored an interest in steam-powered fire engines, then she owed it to herself and Daniel’s memory to take him seriously.
She opened the parlor door and smiled. “Mr. Webster, what a surprise to see you again so soon.”
The man rose and bowed. “Good morning, my lady. Please forgive my intrusion, but it was such a delight to meet you—I mean to meet Daniel’s wife, I couldn’t stay away.”
“Please do resume your seat.” Georgiana reached for the bell. “Shall I ring for a refreshment?”
“Oh, no. I am aware you haven’t much time.”
“Indeed. Mother has quite a day planned.” She bit her lip, it was best not to mention anything about the country party. It was Mama’s affair, and if Webster didn’t know about it, he wasn’t on the guest list. “How may I be of assistance?”
“If you recall, at Lady Maxwell’s ball you mentioned that you are in possession of Mr. Whiteside’s drawings.”
“Yes.”
“Would I be able to see them? Perhaps borrow them for a few days?”
“Hmm. I’ll have to think on that, but why are you so interested in the pumper’s drawings? I don’t recall Daniel ever mentioning you being involved with his work at university.”
Glancing toward the window, Mr. Webster drew a hand down his mouth. “I assure you we were best of friends. I-I was wondering how much had changed since he left Cambridge.”
“The pumper is vastly different. I can attest to that.” When Daniel was at university, the steam pumper had been but a sketch of an idea. Moreover, the stabbing between her shoulder blades hadn’t eased. She moved to the edge of her seat, trying to picture Webster among her husband’s friends and came up with no recollection. Truly, they couldn’t have been as close as the man claimed. “I would be leading you astray if I didn’t profess the only person I’ll show the drawings to is a business partner.”
“Partner?” he asked, his tone somewhat curt.
Georgiana sat ramrod straight. “You heard me correctly. In short, I am looking for financial backing to manufacture Whiteside pumpers en masse—say with an output of two per month.”
“Two?”
“Yes. I’m ready to start production forthwith, but I need an investment of fifteen hundred pounds. Is such an investment enticing to you?” Every muscle in Georgiana’s body clenched. Never in all her days would she think herself capable of being so brashly forward. But she felt so strongly about the capability of her—of Daniel’s design. And if Mr. Webster merely wanted to have a look at the drawings for posterity’s sake, he could wait.
“W-well I’d have to see the pumper work first. I’d need some sort of guarantee.”
“And you have the money?” she asked, ready to shake on the transaction or leave him in her wake. She had little time and if this man was ready to put up the investment, she must make further inquiries as to his character. “We can proceed as soon as fifteen hundred pounds is deposited into the Whiteside account at the Bank of England. Have you an interest in a partnership, sir?”
“I? Ah...me?” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “What you’re suggesting would be a small fortune to many.”
“I am aware.” Georgiana stood. “Perhaps if you would consider coming to Richmond Park, you’ll have the opportunity to see the Whiteside pumper demonstration. That might set your mind at ease.”
“Yes, a demonstration would be absolutely necessary.” He rose as well. “You said the fete was on the twelfth, did you?”
“Yes. I’d love to personally show you all the machinations. It is quite an impressive machine—it has a two hundred gallon holding tank and pumps at one hundred pounds per square inch.”
“Unbelievable.”
“Believe it, Mr. Webster, for you shall see its power come Sunday.”
THE CARRIAGE AMBLED along the turnpike while Georgiana sat across from Eleanor. “Mother said you’ve known about this party for a fortnight.”
“No.” The lovely auburn-haired lass shook her head, making the daisies on her bonnet appear as if they’d been caught by a breeze. “I’d say it couldn’t have been any more than a week.”
“She always does exaggerate but, still, why didn’t you mention it to me?”
Eleanor flicked the tassel holding back the window curtain. “Mention a surprise? I was sworn to secrecy by the all-powerful Baroness of Derby.”
“Oh, please.”
“When we were growing up, your mother always ensured I behaved like a lady—bless her, especially since I had no other patroness take me under her wing. I’m not complaining, but I’ve always been a bit afraid of Lady Derby.”
Georgiana batted her hand through the air. “Mama is all bark and no bite. She’s harmless.”
“Oh? Is that why the two of us, who have better things to do, are presently sitting in a carriage on the way to Hardwick Hall at the behest of one such baroness?”
Groaning, Georgiana almost slouched, except her stays prevented such a faux pas. “Honestly, all morning, I’ve been trying to convince myself that she didn’t contrive this house party because she knew about my plans for the Richmond Park fair.”
“At least you’ll be close by. It oughtn’t be difficult to slip away.”
“Even if it is, I am an adult and I will see to the demonstration no matter what dear Mama has planned.”
“I’d have thought no less.” Eleanor sighed and looked out the window. “However, I must say, her thoughtfulness is endearing.”
“Ah, yes.” Trying not to roll her eyes, Georgiana glanced down at her hands, now gripping the ties of her reticule in tightly clenched fists. “As long as I’m taking part in an activity she approves of, Mama is quite amenable.”
“Mm hmm. And she’s allowing you to keep your monstrosity behind the mews.”
“I beg your pardon?” Georgiana tossed a velvet carriage cushion at her presumed friend. “So now you’re calling Daniel’s brilliant invention a monstrosity?”
“I’m just saying it’s nice to have someone dote on you. I, for one, would very much app
reciate having a familial relationship that is not one-sided.” Eleanor gave Georgiana’s knee a pat. “If only I should be so fortunate. But I move in circles where birthdays are forgotten memories.”
Her heart squeezed. “Forgive me for being insensitive to your plight. You always present such a stalwart face, I oft forget the trials you endure. Tell me, what is the prognosis for your father?”
Shrugging, Eleanor looked up, but rather than her stalwart façade, her expression was a bit wounded. “Nothing can be done. Papa is lost in his own mind. Most days he sits and stares out the library window. No one knows what is happening in his thoughts.”
“How dreadful. The war ruined him forever.”
“It did. At times I think it may have been merciful if he’d died in that battle. But then, who am I to say? There must be a reason for him to exist.”
“Perhaps he’s thinking of a new invention and, one day, when he has all the details sorted out in his mind, he’ll burst forth with a grand pronouncement.”
Resuming a pleasant, happy, self-controlled countenance, Eleanor chuckled. “That would be stupendous.”
Together, they watched the scenery pass for a time while Eleanor pulled out a skein of wool and a crochet hook.
“What are you making?”
Eleanor held up a gray panel. “A scarf for Papa.”
“Lovely. I’m sure he’ll like it.”
“I doubt he will.” The saucy spinster winked. “I think this is number twenty-three. I make them to keep my hands busy, but I’ve never graduated past scarves.”
“Well, if you ever come across pink wool, I’d love for you to make one for me.”
“I’ll keep that in mind...perhaps next birthday.”
Georgiana mentally tried to go through a list of key points for the pumper demonstration, but her mind kept deviating and a few trees would pass by the window, and suddenly she was picturing the Duke of Evesham—in the salon at Almacks, or in the window embrasure at the theater, or how vivid his amber eyes had glistened in Green Park. So many times on their walk at Vauxhall, she thought he might pull her into the foliage and kiss her. But he hadn’t. Had she been too forward in the carriage? Had she frightened him away? If so, then why had he bothered to come the next day?
