Merde. Merde. Merde.
George curled into a ball, tucked into the bed the innkeeper’s wife had warmed with a copper pan filled with glowing coals. She shut her eyes and willed herself to sleep.
Caesar’s tail thumped softly on the bed and George reached out to pet him, running her hand down his shoulder and side, taking comfort in the solid feel of the dog there beside her. There weren’t enough roasts, feather beds, and roaring fires in the world for him.
Ellen had finally stopped crying after they’d reached the inn. The innkeeper had sent one of his grooms off for the surgeon, who’d come and cleaned up Thomas’s arm where the attacker’s first shot had left a deep furrow, filled with bits of shredded livery that had had to be carefully picked out.
She was as clean as a pitcher of hot water and a sponge could get her, which meant she wasn’t nearly as clean as she’d like to be. She wanted to wash the whole night away, climb into a large tub of steaming water and scrub until her skin was raw. But there had been no chance of a bath at the late hour they’d arrived at the Three Greyhounds.
They’d promised her one in the morning. After which she’d need to meet with the local constable to explain the two dead bodies they’d arrived with, slung over a single swaybacked mare.
Her shot had been as true as she could ever have hoped, and Caesar had proved why the Romans called mastiffs the dogs of war. Whoever the man who’d opened the coach door had been, he hadn’t had a chance.
It had been a robbery. Nothing more. Just a robbery.
Highwaymen were a common hazard.
But George couldn’t shake the ominous feeling that had come over her when she’d faced down the third man. There had been something wrong. Something very wrong about the way he’d been looking at her.
Chapter Fifteen
Lord S— now appears to be the party most worthy of our pity. A man without bride or mistress. Turned away by both his family and the butler of No. 5.
Tête-à-Tête, 14 December 1788
‘Georgianna!’ Lady Glendower practically ran across the great expanse of marble floor, her hair in wild disorder, cap askew. ‘We’ve been worried about you, darling. You were due two days ago.’
‘The roads are a quagmire,’ George replied, hugging her. The honeysuckle scent her mother-in-law favoured enveloped her, welcoming her home. ‘And I had a few misadventures that I’ll tell you about later.’
The countess gave her a searching look, fine brows drawn together over the bridge of her nose. ‘There’s a fire all made up, and Mrs Stubbs is already heating some wine.’
George shed her pelisse and hat and stood huddled by the fire, warming her frozen fingers, listening with half an ear to Lady Glendower gush about the preparations, the early arrivals, and the profound chaos that had taken over her house.
‘I can’t even get into my dressing room,’ she declared with a note of triumph. ‘It’s filled to the ceiling with presents. Poor Martha has to contort herself terribly to retrieve so much as a shoe.’
‘You’re always like this.’ George moved away from the fire as one of the logs snapped, sending a shower of sparks and cinders towards her. ‘I can’t remember a Christmas that wasn’t something of a romp. Just wait until the children all arrive. Perhaps we can convince Hay to ride his pony through the Great Hall again? Or maybe Sydney can oversee a hurling match in the courtyard? I don’t think anyone’s been brave enough to do that since Lyon shattered part of the roof.’
‘Perhaps just this once we could get through the season without sending Glendower into fits.’
‘But what fun would that be?’ Gabriel appeared in the doorway and lounged over to sink down onto a settee placed facing the hearth. He extended one hand and drew George down beside him. ‘Griggs had your bags taken up to your room. And little Simone Staunton is clamouring to see you. Why so subdued, love?’
George flinched. Trust Gabriel to notice she wasn’t herself. ‘I’ll tell you later. After dinner.’ He looked at her very much as her mother-in-law had, mobile brows frowning. ‘Honestly. I’ll tell you everything, just let me change and eat first.’
‘I don’t like the sound of everything.’ He took one of her hands and chafed it between his.
‘And you won’t like it any better after dinner, but leave it till then all the same.’ George leaned in, resting her head on his shoulder, taking comfort in the familiar solidity. The shadow of stubble that shadowed his jaw. The sheer physicality of the way he touched her. He was sure of his welcome.
The one person she could always count on.
After she’d drunk the hot wine sent up by Mrs Stubbs, Lady Glendower sent them both off to their rooms to dress for dinner. As she shooed them off she suddenly brightened. ‘Perhaps Simone would like to join the adults for dinner? None of the other children have arrived yet, and I hate to think of her eating all alone.’
George smiled at her mother-in-law and shook her head. ‘And you say I indulge Hayden. You’re shameless with that child.’
‘Well, I never had any daughters of my own, and you were one of the boys through and through. So I’m making do.’ The countess linked her arm with George’s and walked with her up the stairs, their petticoats fighting for dominance with every step. ‘I quite enjoy her visits, and I most sincerely hope you’ve made it clear to the colonel that he’s not so much reclaiming a daughter as joining the family.’
‘I think he’s quite clear on that point,’ George assured her, parting
