She wanted someone there to chase away the shadows and silence. Brimstone to tease her, Alençon to cosset her…Dauntry to drag her off to bed.
No, not Dauntry.
He’d nearly ruined her with that unnecessary duel at Versailles. He’d coerced her into that damned bargain, and then he’d subverted their arrangement to his own ends. She never should have broken her rule and she never would again.
By the time she’d changed, Brimstone had arrived. She found him waiting for her in the library, shifting though her invitations.
‘So not only am I under house arrest, but my correspondence is subject to your curiosity?’
His head snapped up, his expression darkened. ‘Everything is subject to inspection. And if you wish to fight about what events you’ll be attending, I suggest you take it up with Lord Glendower, we’re all under his orders.’
‘Doubtful.’ George rounded the desk and sat, pulling the scattered invitations to her. ‘You’ve never been one to take orders from anyone.’
‘Would you rather not go out at all? That was my suggestion. But Glendower thinks you’ll run mad if we coop you up, so I’m to carefully select which social engagements you’re to be allowed to keep.’
‘Allowed?’ Her spine stiffened.
Brimstone sucked in one cheek and stared her down until she let her breath out and shut her eyes to keep from screaming.
‘How long do you all intend to keep me caged?’
‘Not caged, love. Safe. And I believe you’d best make yourself resigned for the duration.’
‘Very well, which of these invitations shall I be allowed to accept? Your shooting party?’
‘Obviously.’
‘Cards at Lady Hardy’s?’ She flicked the sheet of foolscap that bore the invitation across the desk at him.
‘Properly escorted? Certainly.’
George rummaged through the sheets of paper until she found something a bit more exceptional. ‘Helen Perripoint’s soirée?’
‘I imagine there’ll be more than enough of us present to keep you safe from Helen.’
George ground her teeth. She was not going to be jollied out of her temper. He wasn’t trying to be an ogre, but the idea of being subject to someone else’s whims—someone else’s control—was nearly too much to swallow.
She plucked another note from the pile. ‘What about the comte’s invitation to the Frost Faire?’
‘Valy? I might be convinced to entrust you to him. I’ve never seen a more devoted cub, but I’m not sure the Frost Faire is a safe place for you to go.’
‘You think my highwayman might have found easier work roasting chestnuts upon the Thames?’
Gabe made a face. ‘You’ve a point there. I’ll present the outing to Lord Glendower as a possibility.’
George sighed. She’d have to be content with that. If she pushed too far, resisted too strongly, Brimstone and the rest would have no compunction about locking her away in the country at some obscure estate or other.
Later in the day she sat under the eagle eyes of several of her friends as her usual visitors descended. She picked up the strings of town gossip, felt herself slide comfortably back into her accustomed role. It was good to feel herself again. To feel in control.
She’d been seriously off kilter for days—weeks, really—if she was to be perfectly honest. Between Dauntry and her highwayman she was tense whenever the door opened, half excited, half terrified. At least her guests seemed unaware of her agitation. And if a day filled with flirting and gossip seemed a trifle hollow, well, so be it.
A magnificent bouquet of hothouse flowers with Dauntry’s calling card attached had been waiting for her, lush, wicked, and sinful at this time of year. Not to mention very expensive. The lack of any further message seemed ominous. As though it were a first, quick sally, alerting her that he was also in town, and that he was not done with her.
While her maid brushed her hair as she prepared for bed, she deliberated upon plans for avoiding Dauntry. She would go riding in the morning, but not in Hyde Park where he might be waiting for her. Better a sedate trip around Green Park than a confrontation she wasn’t ready for. Then she would make a round of morning calls—she’d been neglecting the female half of the ton shamefully in the past few months and meant to make up for it—then it was off to an appointment with her dressmaker, and finally a sedate supper with the colonel and Simone.
And all of her shopping, visiting, and riding would be conducted under the supervision of one of the three enormous footmen Brimstone had installed that morning.
George kept up the frantic pace for the rest of the week, even going so far as to attend a horticulture lecture out at Ranleigh Gardens and to accompany the Morpeths and their children to see a fireworks display in the Queen’s gardens.
Anything was better than sitting at home wondering what the highwayman was plotting, not to mention trying to work out why. What had she ever done to inspire such malevolence?
Ivo ground out his cigarito beneath the heel of his boot and strode down Bow Street, resisting the urge to turn about and demand results from Addington. The head magistrate was understandably defensive about his men’s lack of progress.
A week.
They’d been following George covertly for a week and had nothing to say for themselves. They’d identified the two dead accomplices, for all the good that had done them. Black Charlie, suspected footpad and housebreaker, and Dick Ehle, escaped murderer. Two of the many criminals that strutted about Seven Dials, swilling gin and robbing the unwary.
Two dead ends.
Two men with nothing to gain by harming George, which could only mean that she was right, and they were in the employ of the third man…the one who’d gotten away.
Chilled, Ivo ducked into Claverson’s Coffee House and claimed a small table in the corner. A week. He rolled his head, cracking his neck.
A week of doing nothing. Inaction was killing him. Not seeing George was even worse. Not knowing with his own eyes that she was safe,
