Mother just pursed her lips and nodded. When Nettie and Georgie were once again on their way up the stairs, Mother added, “I’ll send Rose and Fanny up to help you, as well. There isn’t much time before we must leave for the Davenport Ball.”
Blast. The ball. Somehow, in all her concern over the predicament her friends had found themselves in, Georgie had let the thought of it slip her mind. All she wanted to do was sit in her chamber all night and sort out a solution to everything, from how she could help her friends to how she could help herself.
Would Lord Haworth be at the Davenport Ball tonight? She hoped he would. If so, one thing was certain: she would find a way to meet him, and she would find a way to talk to him…away from Monty’s prying eyes.
The rain, which had been falling at a sedate but steady rate since late afternoon, was now coming down in droves all of a sudden and showed no sign of slowing.
Cedric stared out the window of the Davenport ballroom, watching rather more anxiously than he had any right to be for the Stalbridge carriage to pull into the drive…and to be certain Haworth did not pull into the drive.
Deuced annoying, that. Yes, he felt responsible for the Bexley-Smythe women…but why was he so worked to tatters over their almost unnoticeable tardiness? They weren’t even fashionably late yet. Nothing to worry about, despite the unfortunate turn the weather had taken. And Davenport had assured Cedric that Haworth wasn’t on the guest list, so there was really nothing for him to concern himself with in that regard.
He had to get a firmer hold on his faculties.
A strong hand clapped him on the back as though to do just that, and he jumped slightly before recovering himself.
“If you keep watching for it, it won’t come.”
Cedric turned to find James Throckmorton, an old friend from his school days—one he hadn’t seen in ages—grinning at him like a simpleton.
“What in God’s name do you think I’m watching for?” he asked, with a far surlier tone than he realized himself capable of. That didn’t bode well.
“Doesn’t matter what—or whom, I suppose I should add—you’re watching for. It’s still not going to come any time soon if you keep up your vigil.”
Throckmorton probably had the right of it, but that didn’t make Cedric feel any better about things. But then again, maybe he should keep up his vigil. If he kept watching for Haworth, the viscount wouldn’t come—at least according to his school chum’s logic.
In response, Cedric crossed his arms over his chest and faced the window again, just in time to see the Stalbridge carriage pull into the grand drive. “You’re wrong,” he said, just to provoke the man standing beside him. “It’s here now.”
Without awaiting a response, Cedric spun on his heel and dashed down the spiral staircase. He nearly ripped an umbrella from a footman at the bottom of the stairs and rushed out into the rain, ignoring the line of umbrella-toting footmen he passed along the way in his haste to get to the carriage.
When the driver opened the door and set down the steps, Lady Stalbridge caught Cedric’s eye from inside and smiled. “Why, Lord Montague, what a sight you are!” She took his hand and descended.
A parade of footmen had rushed forward with their appendages, and he passed the matriarch off to one of them before turning back for first Mattie and then Frankie, who each looked up at him adoringly and thanked him profusely for his chivalry in coming to their aid on such a frightful night as this. Finally, only Georgie remained inside the carriage.
When he reached out for her hand, she scowled at him, her sour expression akin to someone who’d just eaten an entire lemon.
“Really, Monty, I’m quite capable of doing this myself you know.” Her words were more of a grumble than anything. Instead of giving him her hand, she placed one on the wall of the carriage and the other on the door, attempting to descend without assistance.
Her independence, in most instances, was something he found charming. Tonight was not one of those instances. “Give me your hand so we can get out of the rain.” Again, the note of surliness in his voice was somewhat surprising.
Georgie’s prior scowl was now an all-out glare. Her lips pressed together in a thin line—an expression he’d seen on countless occasions before, but normally when he and Bridge had told her she couldn’t accompany them to do something she wished to do.
The longer they stood there, with her half in and half out of the carriage and with him waiting with his stolen umbrella, the wetter his boots and the bottom of his trousers were becoming. Patience had never been one of his strengths, and the little bit of it he possessed was washing away down the gutters with the rain.
She leveled him with a withering glance and took a step…and would have fallen flat on her face, had he not tossed his umbrella to the nearest footman and caught her. Three footmen rushed forward with their umbrellas, hoisting them overhead to keep them as dry as possible.
“Oof,” Georgie muttered, squirming against him to free herself.
Cedric would have none of it, however. She may very well be determined to attend this ball looking like a drowned rat, but he damned well wasn’t going to allow that to happen. Much like he wasn’t going to allow Haworth to ruin her, despite both of their best efforts to the contrary. He resituated her in his arms, nodded to the footmen who were protecting them from the rain, and took off towards Davenport House, ignoring Georgie’s outraged grumblings and her struggle to get free.
When they reached the awning, where Lady Stalbridge and the two eldest Bexley-Smythe sisters were waiting, Cedric planted Georgie on her feet and took a step back as the footmen rushed off to keep other ladies and gentlemen dry.
Georgie’s eyes were black with rage, and she planted her hands on her hips. Her chest rose as she filled her lungs, surely preparing to deliver him a diatribe he’d likely never forget.
Before she could get a word out, however, her mother took one of Cedric’s hands between both of her own. “You are such a dear man. I don’t know what we’d do without you, my lord.”
A flurry of air flew through Georgie’s lips in something that sounded like, “Aughmmphgrr.” She knew better than to say what she was really thinking in front of her mother, though, so that was where she left it.
He’d have to find her alone later. For some confounding reason, he was next to desperate to know what she was really thinking at that moment.
It would have to wait, though. Her sisters once again offered him their thanks, as well. Then Georgie glanced over her shoulder for a moment, grinning when she turned back. “You must all excuse me. I see Moira.”
With that, she scurried away into the ballroom.
Cedric watched her go, and still couldn’t pull his eyes away for long moments after she was gone. How perplexing.
“Perhaps he attended another function,” Moira said.
Georgie reared back for a moment, startled that her friend could possibly know she was searching for Lord Haworth, before realizing Moira had been speaking to Pippa. Of course. Pippa was looking for her gentleman from the park—Lord Colebrooke, a title which did not quite strike any chords in Georgie’s memory. Rather odd, that. She shook the doubt from her mind and refocused on Pippa’s predicament.
Patience gave a wan smile. “This is hardly the event of the year.”
On cue, Georgie added, “Hopefully we’ll have better luck tomorrow.” And hopefully she would have the same. She wasn’t exactly limited in time to achieve her goal for the Season, but now that she had it in mind, she wasn’t terribly keen on the idea of putting it off any longer than necessary.
“I wish you’d seen him,” Pippa went on wistfully. “Like a dashing Sir Galahad. The most handsome man I’ve ever seen.”
“Who is?” Lord Harrison Casemore, one of Pippa’s elder brothers, interjected out of the blue. Gracious, where had he come from? And how can I use him to assist me in meeting Lord Haworth? He was a handsome devil of a man, even if he was more than just a trifle intimidating with h
is hulking frame. This was not a man one wanted to meet under the wrong circumstances. He had always been a bit roguish, yet cordial to the girls. She might just be able to convince him to aid her cause.
With that devious thought, all of Georgie’s attention turned once again to her own predicament, and she completely ignored her friends and Lord Harrison for a moment.
He was Pippa’s brother, after all. Surely he would be willing to do a tiny, little favor for one of her most especial friends. As long as Georgie didn’t let on why she needed to meet the man, surely he couldn’t have any objection to it.
She could just pretend that she’d seen Lord Haworth across the way at a ball (which, admittedly, she had) and was interested in gaining an introduction as she found him terribly handsome or some other silly, flippant sort of thing Lord Harrison would expect of a debutante like his sister.
Before she could finalize her plans in her mind, however, he was sighing and returning his attention to the other revelers, and Patience tugged Pippa back into their circle of four. “What did happen last night?”
Pippa shook her head, a woeful expression planted squarely on her face. “I don’t remember a thing. I don’t even remember arriving at the Heathfields’. I don’t remember encountering Mr. Potsdon. I don’t remember St. Austell.”
“He is quite handsome,” Moira piped in with a wicked gleam in her eye. “Pity he’s not a Scot.”
“So you said earlier,” Pippa said on a sigh, “but I can’t believe he would even hold a candle to Lord Colebrooke.”
All four of them then returned their attention to the entrance. Pippa was likely searching for her Colebrooke, and Moira was doubtless searching for a Scot. Georgie pretended to be aiding them in their search…but she was merely looking for Lord Haworth and racking her brain for a means by which to gain an introduction to him.
Several others came in and were announced, and then, “Lord Brody McTavish,” was called out.
Georgie looked up and fought to hold in a snicker. The man was shorter than any of her friends, but was as wide as he was tall. There was a decided lack of hair atop his head. He was far from the Scot of Moira’s dreams, but Georgie nudged her anyway. “There is your Scot.”
Moira’s face dropped in dejection. “This may be more difficult than I thought.”
Much as Georgie’s plan to meet Haworth and fly in his gas balloon seemed to be. Gracious, why had she decided on this as her planned adventure for the Season? Surely there were other things she could do to escape the overwhelming knowledge taking over her mind. Simpler things to accomplish, at least.
Moments later, Moira’s brother came along and collected her, and then Pippa and Patience were each claimed by various acquaintances as well. Georgie was left entirely alone.
She took a look around her, searching first for Monty and then for Haworth. Finding neither, she set off.
Just what was she off to do? Cedric had to stifle a laugh at the secretive manner in which Georgie was bustling about the Davenport ballroom. She’d take a furtive glance around her, then dash off into a quiet alcove hidden behind potted plants, and then steal another look. After a moment or two, she’d repeat the process, only this time ending up trying to somehow blend her white gown in with the gold and rose-colored walls of the ballroom. Once, she even darted behind a group of servants and tried to make herself unnoticeable—even going so far as to take a tray of lemonade glasses from a bewildered maid and carry it with her to her next destination, depositing it on a table as calm as may be.
A successful spy, his Georgie would never be. He was having a far too easy time of following her every movement, perplexing though they may be.
Truly, he ought to be more disconcerted by Georgie’s dismaying behavior. Indeed, if Haworth were here tonight, Cedric would be far more concerned. As things stood, however, he couldn’t help but be highly amused at her antics.
Not to mention curious. And while it might be true that curiosity killed the cat, Cedric was not presently a cat, nor had he ever been, if memory served.
What could he do but attempt to assuage his curiosity?
So when Georgie sneaked behind a potted fern, cast her eyes about briefly, and then dashed down an abandoned corridor, Cedric had no choice, really, but to follow her.
Once he’d made his way through the throng of people near the refreshment table and out into the corridor, however, she had disappeared from sight.
Damn and blast, where had she gotten off to? Perhaps she was stealthier than he’d initially thought.
Taking great care to keep his boots from echoing along the marbled floor, he hurriedly searched every inch of the corridor, listening at doorways for any sign he might find of Georgie’s whereabouts.
At one closed door to the right, he heard the unmistakable sounds of an illicit tryst. She’d damned well better not be behind that door.
No, Georgie might be a bit naïve, but she wasn’t an imbecile. She wouldn’t allow herself to be ruined in that way. Cedric shook his head to clear the image from his mind and moved on.
A few feet down the way on the opposite side of the corridor, he pressed his ear up against the door. The deep rumble of gentlemen’s laughter came his way, so he moved on.
After passing several more doorways with similar results, finally, Cedric caught sight of a scrap of white fabric peeking out into the corridor from an alcove.
“Caught you,” he mumbled to himself, not loud enough for the sound to reach Georgie’s ears. Moving on little more than the tips of his toes, he gradually moved closer to her, inch by inch, step by step…until he could reach out and grab her.
Yet startling her might not be his best course of action. If he were to grab her, she might very well scream—and he didn’t know what she was eavesdropping on or why, though he could hear the slightest hint of masculine voices coming from within the chamber.
No, instead of pulling her away from the alcove bodily, Cedric made certain he was close enough she would hear him and then cleared his throat quietly.
Slowly, Georgie spun on her slippers and faced him, her rich, brown eyes as wide as he’d ever seen them in her shock.
How in God’s name had Monty found her? Georgie had been supremely diligent in making certain no one had seen her as she’d followed Lord Northwood and Lord Sackville into the corridor. She’d overheard them speaking about Lord Haworth in the ballroom, so what choice did she have but to sneak after them and glean what little information she could from their conversation?
Not that she’d learned anything about Haworth. After the gentlemen’s one brief mention of meeting him at their club earlier in the day, they’d moved on to the incredibly exciting discussions of crop rotation (a subject which had, quite literally, bored Georgie to tears ever since she’d read Observations on a Tour Through Almost the Whole of England by Mr. Dibdin, when she was all of ten years old) and politics (which could at times be interesting, if two opposing viewpoints were in play—but Lords Northwood and Sackville were in perfect agreement on every political matter, thereby nullifying any sense of interest).
In fact, she was just about to give up on discerning where she might find Lord Haworth from these two gentlemen when Monty pounced on her from behind.
She opened her mouth to tell him just what she thought of him sneaking up behind her, but he silenced her by placing his forefinger over her lips and whispering, “Hush.”
The brief contact set her head to reeling and sent a trail of shivers coursing down her spine, leaving her fully unnerved. How was it possible for him to so thoroughly disarm her, with just the simplest touch? Georgie blinked in dismay.
He gestured towards the door, shook his head, and took hold of her elbow, pulling her away from the alcove and further into the corridor. The heat of his hand left an unfamiliar tingling sensation on her skin, which then traveled all over her arm all the way to the tips of her fingers. What on earth was happening to her?
They came to the end of that hall and Georgie was certain
he would come to a stop, but Monty tugged her around the corner and kept walking. Even though her legs were longer than those of the average lady, she was huffing in her efforts to keep up with him.
Finally, when he turned yet another corner, Georgie dug her heels into the flooring and forced him to stop. “Where could you possibly think you’re taking me?”
He faced her with a frown, his blue eyes boring into her. “Away from there, where we’d be overheard by whoever it was you were eavesdropping on. Not that I owe you any sort of explanation. I have to wonder what you thought you were doing, however. It’s impolite to listen in to private conversations, and it is about the furthest thing from what you’d normally do as I can imagine.”
She pulled her arm free from his grip, and then crossed both arms over her chest. “Oh? About as impolite as it is for a gentleman to trap a lady alone somewhere, I’d wager.” The fact that he knew it was unlike her left her unsettled. He was right. She never did anything improper.
Well, never before this Season.
Blast him for knowing her so well.
Monty frowned, the effort of it forming a crease between his eyebrows. “You’re not trapped, and given the relationship that I have had with your family for nearly two decades—one which is well known amongst the ton—no one would think twice about the two of us being somewhere alone together. I’m practically your brother.”
Something tugged at the side of his mouth and a jerking twitch tugged his eye at that last statement, but he set himself to rights before Georgie had more than a moment to wonder why such a sentiment would be bothersome to him.
“But you’re not my brother.” She put more emphasis than was necessary on the word not, but he needed to understand that the world didn’t see things quite the way he was choosing to see them. Being almost her brother was far from the same as being her brother.
“No,” he said on a long exhalation, “I’m not. But your brother isn’t here, so I’m doing what I can to protect you.”
The Betting Season (A Regency Season Book) Page 10
