‘My what?’
‘Don’t change the subject. You know damn well who I mean.’
George settled back into the chair, busk pressing into her belly. She took another large gulp, half afraid she was going to drop the glass as her hand shook.
‘I’ve known for sure since the tree exploded behind me. I’ve suspected since I was held up on my way here. The way the third highwayman looked at me…I don’t know how to explain it. And it makes me think the fire that killed Maeve must have been deliberate as well.’
‘What do your bulldogs say?’
Her bulldogs. That really was what they were, Brimstone and St Audley.
‘Brimstone says he’s never letting me out of his sight. I haven’t told anyone else yet. Lady Glendower will panic. Lord Glendower and Alençon will try to lock me away for my own protection, and St Audley will second them on the action and act as jailer to boot.’
Muffled steps outside the door made her stiffen and sit up. The door opened and Brimstone stormed in, his concerned expression slackening into relief.
‘Been looking everywhere for you.’ He shut the door. ‘We managed to get Audley to stop trying to kill poor Rivenhall, but only barely.’
He crossed to stand behind her, forearms resting on the back of her chair as he leaned over her. ‘If he figures out Somercote here is the one who absconded with you, we’ll have more black eyes and scraped knuckles to deal with.’
‘Better me than whoever tried to shoot her.’ Dauntry’s gaze was locked on Brimstone as the two of them stared each other down. Two dunghill cocks in the same yard.
‘You’ll get no argument from me on that front.’
George let out the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and took another shaky sip of whisky.
‘But George should get back to the party before she’s missed. I’ll take her to her room to change and escort her down. You can claim her from me in an hour or so, and then Layton will take her to dinner. After that—’
‘That’s enough.’ George glared up over her shoulder at her friend.
‘And after that St Audley can have his turn.’ Dauntry’s voice overrode her objection.
‘Right,’ Gabriel said, stepping round the chair and putting out a hand to help her up. ‘You, my dearling, are not to be left alone, Alençon’s orders. And you’re to be escorted all evening only by those he and Glendower have approved.’
Brimstone took her glass in his free hand and steadied her as she got to her feet. The room swayed like the deck of a boat during a rough Channel crossing.
Gabriel’s brow knit as she leaned heavily onto his arm. He tossed back what was left of her whisky and handed the empty glass to Dauntry.
‘Come along, hoyden.’ He nodded to Dauntry in an almost friendly manner and led her off willy-nilly.
Chapter Twenty
A decidedly wicked bit of scandal-broth is being served up by the family of a country squire. The daughter, it seems, has been jilted by a certain recently returned earl.
Tête-à-Tête, 24 December 1788
Tired but not at all sleepy, George assisted the dowager countess up the main stairs and handed her over to her maid. In her own room, she found her maid waiting with the last piece of rum cake smuggled up from the kitchens.
George ate the cake, while Ellen took the copper kettle from the hob beside the fire and emptied it into the basin on the vanity. She allowed Ellen to help her out of her dress, watching the steam rise, tendrils clouding the mirror.
She slid into her favourite quilted wrapper and sat down before the vanity to wash her face and hands. The hot, wet cloth stung her cheek. Powder had concealed the marks made by the splinters, but they remained there all the same. Unwelcome reminders of the events of the past few weeks.
Powder, rouge, and kohl washed away, George curled up in front of the fire with Beckford’s The History of the Caliph Vathek. She was almost done with the book. Maybe when she finished she’d be ready for bed?
She turned page after page, tired eyes skimming over the last of the story:
Such was, and such should be, the punishment of unrestrained passions and atrocious actions…Thus the Caliph Vathek, who, for the sake of empty pomp and forbidden power, had sullied himself with a thousand crimes, became a prey to grief without end, and remorse without mitigation…
The final words of the wicked caliph’s story faded away. She turned the last page and stared at the blank verso page, suddenly wide awake, then rose and stepped into her slippers. She flipped through the few volumes on the mantel, but nothing sparked her interest. She wasn’t in the mood for poetry. Not even the randy poems of Donne or the Earl of Rochester. Dildoes and flea bites held little appeal…with a small sigh of disgust, she turned away from the mantel.
Dauntry was just down the hall. In the Venetian room. He was just down the hall, and there was simply no possibility of sleep tonight. She could have died today. And she could either spend the night fretting about it, or she could allow Dauntry to remind her that she was very much alive.
Slipping out of her room, she cinched her robe tighter and headed down the hall. The house was dark, but so familiar she didn’t need a candle.
She reached the door and put her hand to the handle. Light leaked from under the door. He was still awake. She twisted the handle and the door swung silently open. Dauntry glanced up from his seat before the fire. His expression was neither welcoming nor offended. It was wary.
She shut the door behind her and stood dumbly just inside the room. He closed the book he’d been reading
