Not at all mollified, Simone harrumphed, and sat back down next to George. The countess caught Imogen’s eye, and wiggled her brows up and down comically. Imogen stifled another laugh. George was simply too wicked sometimes, now was not the time to make her laugh.
‘Imogen!’
The angry shout carried all the way across the garden. Imogen skidded to a stop, afraid she was going to vomit. Her hands began to shake. She could have sworn the flowers trembled, buds furling in fright.
Her brother couldn’t be here.
There was no reason for Richard to be here. The garden spun, a sickening sea of green. The scent of freshly mown lawn washed over her and she desperately swallowed down her rising gorge.
She glanced towards the top of the garden. Richard was practically running, his face bright red, the skirts of his coat flying out behind him.
How had he even known where to find her? Why would he care to? He’d sent her one letter since her divorce. One. Refusing the use of a long vacant cottage on the estate he’d been given when he’d reached his majority. Why would he be here now? He’d made it more than clear that she was no sister of his. Not anymore.
‘Does Lord Somercote know you’re here?’
His face went from red to mottled puce. Sweat ran down his temple, oozing out from under his wig. ‘I don’t need that damn lap dog’s permission to speak to my own sister.’
‘I never said you did. I merely asked if his lordship was aware that you’d invaded his gardens.’
Please let someone know he was here. Please.
‘Besides, Richard. You’ve made it quite clear you have no interest in my well-being, so why would I think you were here to see me?’
‘Why would—of all the—you damn—’ he sputtered to a stop.
Imogen stared him down. Richard had always been a bully. He was like a savage dog. If she showed any fear at all he’d tear her to pieces.
He took a deep breath, his colour still high. He reached in to the pocket of his coat and pulled a newspaper out. He shook it at her, crumpling it in his fist.
‘I warned you. Gave you every chance.’
Imogen took a step back. He was clearly out of his mind. She’d be lucky if he didn’t beat her to death here and now. Lord knew he’d tried once before, when she’d dared to try to see their mother.
‘Brimstone? Of all the men in England you make a public show of yourself with the Angelstone family mongrel?’
Imogen took another step back and Richard surged forward, grabbing a hold of her arm. ‘There’s been a general call for women to be transported to New South Wales. You’re going to be on that ship.’
Imogen jerked, trying to pull her arm free. ‘You can’t have me transported on a whim.’ She pulled again, pushing with her free hand, her heart beating frantically.
‘On a whim? Perhaps not. But for theft? We’ve been wondering what happened to mother’s pearls ever since you left. Now we know.’
Fingers digging into her he dragged her towards the stables. ‘I’ve come to fetch you to Bow Street. If you come quietly maybe we’ll simply pack you off to Madras to become some fat major’s mistress.’
Imogen swung, her fist connecting with his ear. Richard let out a bellow that was quickly cut off by the explosion of a gun being fired. He dropped her arm as he turned towards the noise, sending her flying into the flower bed.
She pushed her hair out her eyes in time to see the countess cock a second pistol as an army of footmen and grooms came running from all directions.
‘Would it be simpler if I shot him?’ George called, taking aim.
‘Much.’ Imogen yelled back, half-wishing the countess already had. ‘Except that he’s my brother.’
‘A family reunion. How charming. It’s too bad we have guests coming and Mr Mowbray’s presence would unbalance my table. I’ll make sure and mention your visit to the earl, though.’
Richard sputtered and reached up to adjust his wig, fingers fumbling with it. ‘You can’t—’
‘Goodbye, Mr Mowbray.’ The countess nodded and the wall of footmen and grooms behind her spilt over, rushing down the steps.
Her brother stood his ground until one of the beefier grooms grabbed hold of his shoulder and propelled him towards the stables.
One of the footmen helped her to her feet and Imogen brushed at her skirts. Rage filling her.
‘Up to the house,’ George said in a tone that brooked no opposition, placing her hand on Imogen’s elbow and steering her back towards the steps.
‘I’m not safe,’ Imogen replied, restraining herself from throwing off George’s hand.
‘What you need is a drink. Everything looks better from the bottom of an empty glass.’
Practically twitching the whole time, Imogen allowed her friend to drag her up to the house. Once inside, George pulled her into the library.
Imogen dropped in the reassuring embrace of one of the large chairs near the fireplace, while George set her pistols down on the desk and poured her a very full glass of brandy. She handed it over, and sank into the chair beside Imogen’s.
‘Drink up.’
Imogen took a gulp and gasped as it hit the back of her throat. It burnt all the way down and made her eyes water. She blinked and took a smaller sip.
‘That’s a girl. Finish up, and I’ll pour you another.’ Imogen drained the glass and held it out. George filled it again bringing the decanter back with her.
‘To what do we owe the pleasure of your brother’s visit?’
Imogen opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out. She was simply too angry to speak yet. She took another sip of brandy, letting its warm glow spread through her body.
George settled back into her chair with the causal nonchalance for which she was famous. ‘I’m going
