Chapter Twenty-Four
Numerous reports of a raucous game of Blind Man’s Bluff put the C— de V— among the pack vying to be next in Mrs E—’s good graces.
Tête-à-Tête, 16 January 1789
Philippe handed Mrs Exley down from the hackney and gritted his teeth as her lumbering footman climbed down behind her. She never been accompanied by a servant in the past.
If he’d had her all to himself, a world of possibilities would open: a hole in the ice leading to a watery grave in the muck of the Thames, a blow to the head allowing him to do anything from strangling her to fucking her to selling her to the lowest sailors he could find—he shivered as visions danced through his head, taunting him.
None of the fates he’d been debating would be hers today, however. Today she was being attended by the largest footman London had ever seen. A hulking brute with the cauliflower ears of a pugilist. His livery coat strained across shoulders it had clearly not been designed to encompass. Damn those clumsy peasants who’d so botched what should have been an easy job. He was now hemmed in by velvet-encased oafs.
Seething, he led her down the stairs that normally led to the churning crowd of watermen. Today they had been replaced by a swarm of peddlers, hawking everything from ribbon and oranges to hot cross buns and gin. Copious, swirling, stinking amounts of gin.
Loud voices, obviously of low origin, assaulted him from every side. Hands plucked at his pockets, searching for a wallet, a coin, a handkerchief.
Philippe shoved them away, jabbing the slowest boy with the pointed end of his walking stick. The boy squealed and glared, pig-like eyes malevolent beneath a cap of greasy hair. A filthy little guttersnipe.
‘Throw them a penny.’
‘Non.’
‘No?’
‘Very well.’ Better to keep her mollified, happy, trusting. He dug into his pocket and flicked a ha’penny at the boys, being careful to send it as far from the fat, glaring one as possible.
He bought a small sack of roasted chestnuts and peeled them as they walked. Rowdy audiences had formed around the makeshift stages that had been erected on the ice. They cheered the bawdy performances.
Mrs Exley paused before a puppet show. A particularly obscene Punch was busy molesting a nun on the small swag-hung stage.
Philippe peeled another nut and popped it into his mouth. He held the scalding flesh carefully between his teeth and blew. How long was he going to have to stay here? This entire day was turning into a huge waste of time.
Judy erupted onto the stage, beating Punch and the nun with a cricket bat. The crowed gave a roar of approval. Philippe chewed, counting the minutes until he could escape. As the puppet show ended and the crowed began to disperse, Lord Morpeth and his family spotted them and the boys came running across the ice. Philippe groaned as their two parties merged and the countess linked arms with Mrs Exley. It needed only this to complete his day of misery.
The comte sank back into the squabs of the hackney as they arrived back at The Top Heavy. Her bodyguard-cum-footman climbed down from the box, his weight causing the well-worn carriage to squeak and squeal in protest. He lowered the steps and George smirked into her tippet as a pained expression crossed they young Frenchman’s face when Hay bounded out past him. He had not been pleased when they’d encountered the Morpeths on the ice; even less so when Hay had abandoned his parents and to join them for the rest of their excursion. Her footman handed her down, and she thought she heard the comte sigh with relief as the door shut behind her. George could almost feel sorry for him, if he’d been less of a prig.
Dismissing the man she and Hay had been torturing ever since they’d joined forces on the ice, she turned her attention to her godson. The boy’s grin turned to laughter as George led him up her steps and into the house. Whatever the comte had expected when he’d invited her to attend the Frost Faire, it had not included the infantry. Children were decidedly not his forte.
‘I can’t imagine you’re in the least bit hungry after all the treats you consumed today.’ George ushered Hay up to the main drawing room. ‘So we won’t bother with luncheon. Don’t you dare tell your mother I let you eat nothing but gingerbread and hot cross buns.’
Hayden assured his godmother that he’d never betray their secret, with such a serious face that George was unsure how he could maintain it. ‘Imp.’ She ruffled his hair and pushed him into the drawing room.
Inside she found Brimstone playing chess with Colonel Staunton in the otherwise deserted room. His eyes lighting up, Hay made straight for them. He drew up a chair beside the colonel and absently petted Caesar while he observed the game.
‘What have you been up to, my boy?’ Brimstone moved his knight, putting the colonel’s rook in jeopardy.
‘Bullocking Aunt George’s Frenchman.’
Both men laughed and Hay prattled on, relating their day’s adventures. He was still talking when his father appeared some twenty minutes later.
‘I knew once he was here you’d never dislodge him. Come along, you young scamp, your Aunt George has basked in the glow of your admiration long enough. You’ll make all her suitors jealous if you stay any longer.’
When the earl had taken his son off, George threw herself down on the settee. ‘Any word on when I might be allowed out of doors without what looks like a cadre of dockworkers at my heels?’
Brimstone
