“I wasn’t planning to leave tomorrow,” he said in a distant tone he used when he wasn’t pleased.
“That’s as may be. But I simply must leave tomorrow. I’ve had word that—” She paused, then decided on the truth. “That my brother is unwell. I have to go to him without delay.” The silence stretched. And then he shrugged—she had the feeling he didn’t believe her.
“All right, then,” he said flatly. “We’ll go back to London tomorrow.”
Georgy left Nathan’s chamber as soon as she’d laid his meal out. He didn’t see her again that evening.
He could easily have rung for her, forcing her to present herself, but the thought of her acting the servant again—and of him using his position to force her to face him—made him feel queasy. A line had been crossed today; there was no going back.
He abandoned the dinner that he no longer had any appetite for and went to sit in the library where he nursed a goblet of brandy in front of the fire. He thought about Georgy’s arrival at his house, the letter he’d found from H before he knew she was a woman, then his discovery of her and the events at Dunsmore Manor.
Again, he wondered why she had been in Dunsmore’s rooms, what she had been looking for…and whether she had found it.
Was it to do with Dunsmore’s sexual preferences? Nathan had known Dunsmore almost twenty years and had never guessed the man had such a secret. And what had Dunsmore made of him, seemingly kissing his valet in the corridor? What consequences might there be for his own impetuous actions?
He found himself pondering all sorts of possibilities: was Georgy a thief? A blackmailer? A man like Dunsmore, with something to hide, would be vulnerable to blackmail.
Somehow he couldn’t believe it, though, not of Georgy. She was not a criminal.
Even as he had that thought, he laughed disbelievingly at his own foolish conviction. What did he know of her, after all? She had tricked her way into his house, posing as a man for months. She had lied to him, repeatedly, and had returned to Dunsmore’s study after he’d made it plain she was not to do so.
It was obvious what sort of woman she was. She was dangerous, dishonest. A confidence trickster, no doubt. This Harry was just as likely a lover as a brother.
Except, of course, that she had been a virgin.
Nathan stared into the fire miserably and told himself he didn’t even believe she had a brother, much less one she’d played in the snow with. The stories of her home life were probably made up too. There was probably no mistletoe, no doting father and mother.
And yet, he couldn’t quite shake the sense of conviction he had about her. He could still see her clear eyes sparkling as she talked about Christmas. Could still hear her bright laughter. Could still see her writhing and passionate beneath him as he kissed and touched her body.
She was so very—real. So very different from any other woman he’d ever known, ever bedded.
The feelings warred within him: on the one hand, his bewildering belief in her, and on the other, the more rational conclusion that he was blinded by foolish infatuation. He stared into the flames of the fire as it died slowly in the grate, his brandy glass nestling, ignored, in his hand. There was no way of reconciling the contradiction. No way of explaining the desire to keep and protect her, to stop her leaving him when they got back to London. No way of allaying the worry that the truth, when, and if, it came to light, might be very difficult to accept.
The next morning, Georgy emerged from the dressing room while Nathan was still abed. She was fully dressed and bearing her own valise in her hand. She wished him a civil good morning, said she’d have his breakfast sent up, and departed.
Coddled eggs and coffee arrived a quarter of an hour later. A quarter of an hour after that, the footmen came bearing his bath. When he went in to the dressing room, he saw she’d left his clothing for the day neatly stacked and his razor laid out. The message was plain. As he shaved himself and dressed, the knot in his cravat somewhat slapdash, he listened to the sounds of servants coming and going from the main bedchamber with his valises.
When he arrived downstairs, the housekeeper was waiting for him, her hands neatly folded in front of her.
“Good morning, Mrs. Lowe,” he said. “You will have gathered that I am leaving for London directly. I expect to be back in a month or so for a longer stay.”
“Yes, my lord. Mr. Fellowes and the coachmen have already packed the carriages—they are waiting for you outside.”
Nathan’s mouth tightened. It seemed that Georgy was desperate to be on her way. The blatancy of her actions offended him.
“I hope your sleep was not disturbed by the altercation last night, my lord?”
He frowned at Mrs. Lowe. “What altercation?”
“A disturbance at the stables. It was nothing of significance, but there was some noise. I was concerned it may have woken you.”
“What was it?”
“A vagrant, I believe, my lord. One of the grooms heard the horses and went out to look. A man came dashing out of the stables and ran off into the night. A scruffy grey-headed sort, Thomas said. Thomas went after him but the fellow got away. Nothing has been moved in the stables so he was probably just looking for somewhere to sleep. However, I shall have the stables watched tonight in case he comes back.”
The unflappable Mrs. Lowe would have the right of it. There were many vagrants these days, soldiers home from the war with nowhere to go. Nathan hoped the man hadn’t perished in the night—it had been bitterly cold.
“If he comes back, give him food and a few coins before he goes on his way,” he said shortly.
“Very good, my lord.”
He donned his greatcoat and his hat and went outside. The carriages were indeed waiting, the horses stamping, the valises all strapped in place.
“Where is Fellowes?” he called out to John.
“In the luggage coach, m’lord.”
You coward, Georgy.
“Well, if we’re all ready, we may as well get going.” He knew he sounded clipped and irritable and he didn’t care. He was irritable. He told himself that he resented being pressed to leave before he was ready, not to mention Georgy’s cool, dismissive manner. But when he got into his own carriage, he found himself feeling stupidly forlorn as he stared at the empty seat opposite and wished her there beside him.
Chapter 21
Nathan shifted his body on the hard wooden bench, the coachman’s bulky frame next to him hunched against the cold. It was good to be seated outside the vehicle, his gloved hands on the reins, his mind focused on controlling the horses rather than dwelling on the events of the last two days.
When they’d stopped a few hours ago for nuncheon, Georgy had jumped out of the luggage coach and trotted off to the taproom with the coachmen before he could speak a word to her. And he’d been too proud to call her back; he didn’t need to beg for her company. He’d eaten a bad-tempered meal alone in the inn’s best private parlour and by the time he’d emerged, she was already ensconced with the valises again.
That was when he’d decided to drive for a stretch. He’d told John Coachman to pass him the reins, leaving the slower, heavier luggage coach to bring up the rear.
The clean chill of the icy air in his nose and the damp-wool scratchiness of his scarf against his lips were strangely pleasing, despite the minor discomfort. The horses moved at a smart pace as the carriage bounced over the uneven road, the massive haunches of the matched bays quivering with power as their hooves pounded over the hard-packed dirt.
Yes, it was better to drive, eyes watering in the cold, than to sit brooding in velvet luxury. He still brooded of course, but at least he was occupied while he did so.
He was struggling to come to grips with Georgy’s stated intention to leave once they got back to London. He told himself it was the best thing. But the fact was, he didn’t want her to go. He’d only just discovered her and he wanted more. She was like no one he’d ever met before, a virgin-siren who lived like
a man, taking what she wanted, scorning the rules of the world. Nothing could have seduced him more. He spent his life watching women try to win him. And here was a woman who personified everything that he found most desirable—intriguing beauty, intelligence, independence. How ironic that she should be so immersed in her own mysterious adventure that she had no time for him.
And then there was the fact that he still hadn’t managed to discover her secrets…
His thoughts were interrupted by an amazing sight. A vast flock of starlings rose from a copse of trees just ahead of them. The birds flew into a cloud, a cloud that moved, dipping and swirling like a huge living creature. He stared, arrested, slowing the horses. He heard John’s gasp beside him.
“Would you look at that,” John said wonderingly, and they did, watching the swirling flock move as if each creature shared the same mind.
And as they stared, it happened. Nathan heard a sharp crack, then the shriek and groan of wood and metal rending. A horse screamed and Arthur shouted. Nathan wrenched his head round to look at the luggage coach, and the sight shocked him rigid: one horse down, the other floundering and screaming in its traces, the coach on its side. He brought his own horses to a halt, his heart thundering. He tossed the reins at John and jumped from the bench, hitting the ground at a run. Arthur was trying to hack the screaming horse free before it dragged the coach any further. Oh Christ! Georgy is in there!
“Mr. Fellowes is inside!” Arthur shouted as Nathan ran towards him.
“I’ll get him,” Nathan yelled back. “Cut that beast free, then come and help me.” He dashed past Arthur and clambered onto the side of the carriage, wrenching the door open to peer inside. At first all he could see was luggage, boxes, crates. They’d fallen from their places and were now piled chaotically over the human figure beneath. He saw her lower legs, one hand. A bit of her bright hair. His heart thundered and his stomach clenched with fear.
“Georgy!” He climbed inside, placing his feet carefully. “Georgy!” She didn’t move or reply. He cursed, angry and terrified, and began frantically tossing valises and hatboxes out of the opening above him until he’d uncovered her enough to get close. He bent, pushing her hair out of the way. Her eyes were closed and her skin felt cold.
“Georgy!” he said clearly. “Are you awake?” His throat felt thick as he waited for a response. She remained silent and unmoving. The light was poor but he could see how chalk-pale her skin was. He wrenched her cravat aside and tore off his gloves, searching for a pulse with shaky fingers. When he felt it, weakly throbbing beneath his fingers, he sagged for a moment with the sheer relief.
Arthur and John appeared.
“Is he dead?” Arthur asked, white-faced.
“No, but out cold. Come in and help me get him out.”
Arthur jumped in beside him and John crouched above them. Between them, they lifted Georgy’s limp body, feeding her through the opening to John then climbing back out to help carry her. John and Arthur held her prone body while Nathan stripped off his greatcoat and placed it on the ground. They laid her down and Nathan crouched down beside her. A lump was already rising on her forehead, the skin around it red. Nathan examined it with his fingertips; it felt huge already. She must have struck her head hard on something. Her closed eyelids looked fragile, her lips bloodless. It petrified him to see her like this.
“Georgy,” he said again. She didn’t react. He was acutely aware of John and Arthur standing at his shoulders. What did they see? He ran his hands down her arms and legs, looking for any obvious signs of injury. There were none, but she lay as though dead.
“Get some water,” he said, and one of the coachmen left, returning half a minute later with a flask. He hardly knew what to do, so he just trickled some over her lips, then splashed a little on her face. It had been minutes now and his fear was turning to a cold dread. Christ, what if she didn’t wake? A lump rose in his throat.
“Georgy,” he said again, a shameful waver in his voice. And then he said it again, more loudly, a little desperately, his hand coming out to tap her cheek. “Georgy.” He knew the coachmen must be wondering why he was calling his valet that; why he was acting like this.
And then she stirred.
It was the slightest thing, a breath of a moan from the back of her throat, a tiny shake of her head, but the relief it brought him made him feel as though he’d turned to water. He dropped his head to her chest and whispered, “Thank god.” He heard the two coachmen walking away.
He lifted his head. “Georgy? Are you all right? Can you hear me?”
“Hmm,” she moaned again. Then, barely perceptibly, “My head hurts.”
He laughed weakly with the relief. “Oh god, Georgy, you frightened me so badly!”
She opened her eyes, wincing and bringing a hand to the lump on her head.
“What happened?” she whispered.
“An accident. The luggage coach overturned.”
She paused, obviously struggling to piece it together. “Yes, I remember now. I heard a crack and then it went over. All the boxes came down. My head…” She trailed off.
“How do you feel?”
“My head hurts dreadfully.” She began to sit up, then groaned and lay back again.
“I hope you haven’t cracked your skull,” he said.
“It feels like I have.”
One of Nathan’s cousins had had a riding accident once. He’d got up, dusted himself down and walked away only to die a few hours later. Could something like that happen to Georgy? He stared at her worriedly.
“We’ll take my carriage on to the next village—it’s not far—and get rooms at the inn. I’ll send for a physician,” he said.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ll be fine.”
“You’ll do as I say. You could have a brain injury. You need to be looked at by a doctor.”
“But what about the luggage coach? Your things?”
“Don’t worry about that. John and Arthur can sort it out. Wait, let me help you.”
She was trying to sit up and he leaned forward, putting an arm round her shoulders and using his strength to lift and support her. He glanced up and saw that John and Arthur had already loaded much of the luggage into his own carriage and were in the process of pushing the wreckage of the coach off the road. The horse that had been screaming was tethered to a post and calmly eating grass now. The other lay where it had fallen, dead. It must have broken its neck.
“Come on,” he said, sliding one arm under her crooked knees and another around her back. He lifted her body up and let her settle back into his arms.
“Nathan!” she protested faintly. “Whatever will John and Arthur think?”
“I don’t care what they think.” He began striding towards his own carriage, a hundred yards up the road. When he got her there, he carried her inside, laying her down on one of the benches and snatching a blanket from under the seat to tuck round her.
“This is absurd,” she said, without conviction. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.” When he had arranged the blanket to his satisfaction he pointed a finger at her. “Don’t move.”
He made his way back to the luggage coach then. The coachmen were bent over the wreckage, examining something. When he arrived, they looked up with matching expressions of disquiet.
“What is it?”
“Look at this, m’lord! The axle’s been cut right next to the wheel.”
“What!” Nathan bent to look at the broken axle and sure enough, there was a distinct cut, plainly the work of a blade, that went about two thirds through. The remaining third seemed to have sheared apart when the strain had finally proven too much, sending the carriage tumbling.
“Someone cut this,” Nathan said, and glanced up at the coachmen.
“There was a man in the stables last night, m’lord,” John said. “One of the grooms saw him when he went in to check on a sick animal. When he saw Grimes, the man ran off. We thought he was just sleeping there—”
> “But he was doing this,” Nathan completed. “The question is, why?”
When they got to the Star Inn, Nathan insisted on carrying Georgy upstairs to the bedchamber and there was nothing she could do to persuade him otherwise. He simply ignored her protests and distracted the curious innkeeper from the unusual sight of one man in another man’s arms by despatching him to fetch the local physician.
Once they reached the bedchamber, he placed her carefully on the bed and helped her remove her coat, waistcoat, cravat and boots in a strange reversal of their usual roles. She felt too ropey to protest much, subsiding gratefully onto the mattress and closing her eyes.
The physician, when he arrived, proved to be a grumpy man of middle years. He stomped through the door, harrumphed when he saw Georgy, then opened his bag and started searching inside.
When he finally looked up again, he gave her a stern look over the top of his spectacles and said. “I shan’t ask why you’re dressed as a man.”
“How—?” She broke off and glanced at Nathan. He looked amused, damn him.
The physician harrumphed again. “No Adam’s apple,” he muttered as he rummaged. “Plain as a pikestaff.”
Nathan smothered a laugh and she glared at him.
The physician stepped forward and began to examine her, running his hands briskly and impersonally up and down her limbs.
“No breakages,” he announced, sounding almost disappointed.
He peered in her eyes for a while and then examined her tender forehead.
“She was unconscious?” he asked Nathan.
“For some minutes,” Nathan confirmed.
“How many?”
“Seven or eight perhaps.”
The physician frowned. He made her sit up, then lifted his finger and moved it from side to side across her field of vision, telling her to follow it with her eyes. It made her head hurt, and after a while, her vision blurred.
The Lady’s Secret Page 20
