He shrugged. It was unlikely he—a mere mister, and a Scottish one involved in business, at that—would be the one to unravel her mystery. He would never be a suitable match for one such as her.
Not that he wanted to be.
Though Lady Georgina had a breathtaking face and form, and was enjoyable to sit across from at dinner or dance with for an evening, there was little more beyond that. It would take a beautiful woman, both inside and out, to entice him to marry. He refused to allow his marriage to be nothing more than another business transaction. No, if he ever married it would be to a woman who made his life fuller and desired the same things he did.
A groan vibrated against his feet, pulling Colin from his musings.
“I was hoping you’d stay out until I got you home,” Colin said. He couldn’t help grinning at the discoloration that was already forming around Ryland’s eye. One had to assume that the grand reveal had not gone as hoped.
The carriage pulled up to Ryland’s house, and Colin bounded out to get Jeffreys and perhaps Price, the butler, as well. Between them they should be able to get the now-conscious duke up to his room without much fuss.
He shook his head as he jogged down to the servant area behind the kitchen. Helping Ryland start a normal life was going to keep Colin busy. With any luck, he’d be too busy to have anything to do with pretty girls with intelligent green eyes and mercenary hearts.
Chapter 7
The smell of chocolate drifted through the layers of down and lace that Georgina had buried herself under during the night. As always it triggered a moment of excitement followed by heart-pounding trepidation. Morning chocolate was a special treat. One Harriette only brought if she knew Georgina was going to have a particularly difficult day.
Georgina nudged the covers down enough that she could see Harriette pull back the curtains, allowing a burst of morning sunshine in to blind Georgina.
The rustling of papers reached her ears before her eyes could adjust to the brightness. Georgina groaned and flipped the covers back over her head.
Harriette’s voice was muffled, due to the thick covers around Georgina’s head, but still understandable. “Stay abed if you wish. I can go through this morning’s material with you even if you still wear your bedclothes.”
Not bothering to hide her disgruntled frown, Georgina grabbed the top of the cover and flung it to her waist. Denial wasn’t going to stop the morning or Harriette’s news, so there was no sense in letting the chocolate get cold.
Wiggling to a sitting position, Georgina looked to the writing desk, expecting to see Harriette’s normal stack of newspapers. The newspapers were there, but so was a basket filled with smaller papers. Letters of the more personal variety. “What is that?”
Harriette helped Georgina arrange the pillows into a more comfortable position and then slid a tray onto her lap with two steaming mugs of chocolate and a plate of toast and eggs.
Two mugs of chocolate? The little basket must be worse than Georgina feared.
“Your mother wants you to help with the invitations.”
“Help with what?” Georgina took a large gulp of hot liquid, hoping it would thaw the icy fear lurking just below the surface.
Harriette avoided Georgina’s gaze. “Answering them.”
More hot liquid, more inhaled steam. “Those are all invitations?”
Harriette pulled a thick stack from the basket. “These are invitations. The rest are notes from your friends asking what your plans are. We knew this would happen if you were as popular as we hoped. The other girls want to be near you or to avoid you. Either way they want to know your every move, every thought, every man you’ve set your cap for.”
When the maid finally looked toward Georgina, the sympathy in her eyes made Georgina want to crumble under the covers once more. It was definitely a two-mugs-of-chocolate kind of morning. “I suppose we’d best save the papers for last this morning, then.”
Georgina munched on toast and eggs while Harriette went through the invitations in the stack. Balls were easy. Only those hosted by the most prestigious and well-connected merited Georgina’s presence. Smaller gatherings such as dinner parties and soirees were a bit more difficult. How important was the hostess? What was the likelihood the men she wanted to charm would be in attendance? Was the entertainment set for the evening, or would impromptu exhibitions and games be expected?
Georgina did not do impromptu anything.
It took them an hour to sort through the pile of invitations. After that Georgina couldn’t stand to stay in bed any longer and threw back the covers. She rolled off the mattress and shrugged into her ratty white dressing gown covered with a multitude of bright stains before stumbling over to the padded bench underneath her window. Her new sketchbook and pencil were tucked beneath one of the pillows. She settled in and began marking the lines of the park across the street.
“Shall we move on to the letters, then?” Harriette ignored Georgina’s grimace as she always did.
Why did people waste so much paper on her? Letters from London to Hertfordshire she could understand, and she always had Harriette answer them in the briefest way politeness would allow. But when it was only a matter of streets, Georgina didn’t see the point. She simply gave her friends a reply the next time she saw them at a function.
Harriette’s lips flattened into near nonexistence as her eyes flew over the paper. “Lady Jane has decided that since she’s yet to decide on a book for the club to read, the next Friday gathering will be an exhibition of sorts. She wants to expand the guest list and do a poetry reading.”
“What?” Georgina dropped the sketchbook into her lap, shock draining all strength from her arms. Jane was moving ahead with her plans at an alarmingly fast rate. She must be truly hoping this mystery man would attend.
Harriette’s eyes held something achingly close to pity. “You don’t have to go, my lady.”
But she did have to go, and they both knew it.
Georgina dropped her forehead to the cool glass. “We’ll start practicing a poem by whoever is popular now. This is one area I don’t want to stand out. Keep it simple and bland and make sure the book is small enough to fit into my reticule.”
“I don’t think there’s much poetry in the library, my lady. Your brothers were never much into reading it, and Lady Miranda thinks it a dreadful waste of imagination.”
“She would.”
Harriette folded and unfolded the note. “We could stop by the bookshop this afternoon.”
The hesitant tone in Harriette’s voice matched that of a seamstress telling a client there was enough material to let the seams out an inch or two. Georgina would rather go anywhere than the bookshop. She’d rather have herself publicly weighed on George Berry’s old coffee scale. A stroll through the fish market during the hottest part of the day would be more welcome. “Very well, we’ll go to the bookshop. But we get the first acceptable volume we see.”
“Agreed.”
Georgina returned her attention to her sketchbook and added people to her picture, embellishing them with flower-bedecked hats and voluminous greatcoats. She liked looking down on them from her window where she couldn’t see their faces and they couldn’t see hers. Only when she was unseen could she truly relax. In this room she could pretend that she might still aspire to be as gracious a lady as her mother.
Harriette groaned. “Lady Sarah wants to do one as well.”
“Wants to do what? A poetry gathering? If that is going to be the popular thing this Season, we’ll need to start a new fashion immediately.” Why couldn’t the girls be happy with playing the pianoforte or sharing a game of cards? What was this sudden need to exhibit dramatic reading prowess?
“Perhaps a small gathering of your own? ’Tis the best way to . . .”
Harriette’s voice dropped off, drawing Georgina’s attention from her sketchbook. Small wrinkles formed at the corners of the maid’s mouth as her eyes flew over another paper.
Georgina dr
opped her sketchbook and crossed the room to look over Harriette’s shoulder. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Frustration curled her toes as she willed the words on the page to become something other than a dancing, winding trail of jumbled letters. She thought she saw the word banquet, but after a blink it turned into piquet. A moment later it was nothing as half the letters simply disappeared.
Harriette folded the note and dropped it back in the basket. “A note from Miss Clemens. It came yesterday, but we didn’t have a chance to read it.”
Georgina frowned. Lavinia Clemens was a friend from Hertfordshire. It wasn’t odd for her to write while Georgina was in London, so what could be so distressing? Her hand trembled as she reached for the letter. She could, with considerable time and effort, make out the words in a book, but handwriting had always been beyond her understanding. There would be no way she could read the letter for herself, but she had to know what had made Harriette frown so darkly.
The maid wrapped her fingers around Georgina’s wrist, stopping her from picking up the letter. “Mr. Dixon has proposed again.”
“Hasn’t she turned him down twice now?” Georgina propped her hands on her waist. Lavinia was a year older than Georgina, and her family a mere step above impoverished gentry, but they’d played together as children and enjoyed each other’s company in the years since.
“She didn’t precisely turn him down this time.” Harriette pointed to one of the society pages lying on the desk. “They’ve made a comic about you. Seems the number of gentlemen calling at Hawthorne House yesterday drew a bit of notice.”
Normally Georgina loved the comics. This was the first one she’d appeared in and they’d drawn her in a very flattering manner, which boded well for her plans and her carefully constructed reputation. But her delight was tempered by the idea that her childhood friend was planning to marry a man she’d never particularly cared for. True, she and Lavinia Clemens had grown apart in recent years, but Georgina still wished her well. A friendship as old as theirs didn’t simply fade away because of a difference of interests. “Why is Lavinia accepting Mr. Dixon?”
Harriette picked up the letter with a sigh and smoothed it out on the table. “She hasn’t exactly accepted him either. Her answer was more along the lines of ‘possibly.’ She intends to come to London and visit her aunt. If nothing comes of it, she’ll go home and marry Mr. Dixon.”
Georgina bit her lip, feelings swirling in her gut like the letters she’d tried to read moments before. Lavinia didn’t have the luxury of choosing spinsterhood. While a comfortable living with Mr. Dixon was better than none at all, Lavinia had confided that she hoped for another option.
But London? Was Lavinia hoping Georgina would help her? Lavinia was a gentleman’s daughter. While their acquaintance in the country was perfectly acceptable, particularly since no one outside her family and a few villagers knew they still conversed, they would hardly move in the same circles in London.
Harriette smoothed Georgina’s hair away from her face. “Don’t worry, my lady. All will be well. I’ve looked over the papers, and everything is working to your advantage.”
Georgina glanced at the letter from Lavinia once more before forcing her lips into a smile. “I’m sure you’re right, Harriette. I’m worrying over nothing. Lavinia and I will meet a time or two for tea, and then she’ll marry and everything will be fine.”
It was a lie, and they both knew it. Lavinia would never be accepted in London. She was almost as broken as Georgina, and she had no way of hiding it.
While Georgina dressed for the day, they finished reading the notes. Harriette jotted one-line answers to those who couldn’t be avoided, a short paragraph to those who lived outside London. Finally they were able to turn their attention to the society columns in the paper.
All the papers mentioned Georgina, and all of them said she was destined to make the match of the Season. One of the less reputable papers claimed the Duke of Marshington had already been round to see her. It was false, of course, since the duke had never made it past Griffith’s study. But the fact that other people thought they’d make a grand couple boosted Georgina’s confidence.
It was enough to send her worries to the dark corners of her mind. Georgina skipped from the dressing table to Harriette’s side. “Today’s the day, Harriette. I can feel it.”
Chapter 8
Often, significant moments in life are only identifiable in hindsight, but every now and then something happens that announces its significance with trumpeted preamble and terrifying implications.
Such was the letter lying open on Colin’s desk. He had half a mind to stop reading his correspondence altogether. What could possibly be going on in Scotland? Because he didn’t for one moment think that this letter and his father’s arriving so close together was coincidental.
It was obvious now why Jaime McCrae had written to his son. He must have known that Alastair Finley, Jaime’s closest friend and staunchest rival, was going to extend this offer to Colin. What Colin didn’t understand was why his father hadn’t warned him, or asked him not to do it, or anything else that had anything to do with the shocking words now in front of him.
Alastair owned the Glasgow Atlantic shipping company. Glasgow Atlantic and Celestial were locked in a constant battle to be the biggest shipping company in Scotland. The rivalry had caused more than one rift across the city as the two friends dropped into feuding periods that would have made the Highlanders of old proud. And if the letter in front of him could be believed, Alastair had found a way to win the dispute once and for all.
That part of the letter was easy to understand. It was the rest that left Colin sitting in stunned silence. He’d become adept at reading the hidden messages, uncovering the real meaning behind a man’s business proposal. Normally he trusted his instincts, but in this particular instance he rather hoped he was wrong.
Alastair wanted Colin to find him an heir. If the references to his youngest daughter, Erika, still being at home were anything to go by, the man wanted Colin to be that heir. Why else would he spend so much time reminding Colin how close the two of them had been before he left town?
Colin snorted at that. They had the same closeness as a barnacle and a ship hull. Erika had followed him everywhere that last year. He didn’t mind it so much when they’d been younger, but as Erika turned fifteen, people had begun to whisper. So much so that Colin had thought about it. Even made the mistake of asking her what she thought about it. The last time he’d seen her she’d come down to the docks to see him off, knowing that both of their fathers were livid with him. It had been obvious then that she was more confident of their future than he was. Apparently five years’ distance wasn’t enough to make Alastair forget the idea.
Did Erika know her father was essentially offering her up as an incentive for Colin to return to Scotland?
Colin scrubbed his hands over his face and rose to pace the study. Was he reading too much into this? Letting his personal unease skew his thinking on the matter?
The letter actually stated that Alastair wanted a manager to help him in his old age. Someone young but experienced, from a respectable family, and familiar with shipping, Scotland, society, and business. He trusted Colin’s judgment and gave him full leave to hire a suitable man. There weren’t many people who could fill his requirements who hadn’t been born into a shipping family themselves.
Which meant Colin was fairly certain Alastair had hopes of Colin filling the position himself.
Colin picked up the letter and slammed it into a pile of documents concerning other doomed ventures. He hadn’t been home in five years, and the decision to leave hadn’t been made on a whim. Alastair and Jaime had practically run him out of town, both men angry that Colin had interfered. Colin’s father had certainly been the more vocal of the two, telling Colin that his attempts to salvage the family honor had done the exact opposite. That no one saw Jaime as the man of the family anymore. Alastair had added how ashamed he w
as that they’d agreed to let Colin join the ranks of men when he was clearly still a boy.
That Alastair even thought Colin would want to return and work underneath him after that meant the old man’s memory was faulty.
That Colin had considered it as well, even if only for a moment, meant his own memory was weakening.
He needed some air.
His long strides had carried him five houses down the street before he realized he’d bolted from the house without a greatcoat, hat, or cane. Anyone seeing him would wonder at his sudden lack of proper accoutrements. Probably best to avoid the ’Change, then. He didn’t need anyone he traded stocks with thinking he’d lost his wits. It was unlikely he’d be able to focus on the business transactions anyway.
A light breeze ruffled through his hair, sending one wayward lock curling onto his forehead. He could turn back. It wasn’t as if he’d gone miles or taken a hack anywhere. His house was still visible, even.
But he couldn’t. If he returned, he’d simply stare at the letter, wondering over the ramifications of his different options. One stroke of the quill could change his life forever. It could set the foundation for a business that would rival the East India Company, assuming Jaime still intended to leave Celestial Shipping to Colin. Jaime McCrae could follow Alastair’s example and marry Colin’s younger sister, Bronwyn, off to a man who would work alongside Jaime without questioning his business practices or challenging the way he handled the finances.
A man who wouldn’t humiliate the family in order to prove Jaime wrong.
Colin couldn’t see Bronwyn liking that prospect.
He couldn’t deny there was something appealing about the idea of returning home, but the thought of going back under these conditions turned his stomach.
He should stop thinking about it.
Colin walked away from the house with purpose. The wind made him wish for his hat, but it wasn’t worth turning back for it. He needed a distraction. Twenty minutes later he was standing in his club, listening to the raucous jibes of a high-stakes card game. A game not unlike the one that had driven the final wedge between him and his father.
An Elegant Façade (Hawthorne House Book #2) Page 8
