A Scandalous Countess: A Novel of the Malloren World (30 page)

“Lady Swanton hasn’t acted a breeches part at Drury Lane.”

“’Struth, did she? Never mind; that’s not the same thing.”

“Maybe not, but she sold kisses for a guinea apiece. Perhaps the people who believe the stories know her better than you do.”

Dracy crossed the street between two wagons, frustrated by everything. A breeches part at Drury Lane. Selling kisses. She did need reining in.…

But he didn’t want to be her jailer.

He wanted to be her lover.

As they cut down Crock Lane, he remembered saying that a new eye saw new things.

“Tom, that duel was nearly as odd as one fought by Sir James would be. It was given out as being about Maybury’s inability to drive a team, but the rumor of it being about Lady Maybury began nearly as soon. I need to find out why.”

Tom shook his head. “Bewitched. Come away back to Devon with me, Dracy, and clear your head of her.”

“I’m not bewitched,” Dracy lied. “I truly do have business to complete here, but I will return soon, within a fortnight of a certainty.”

“I’d ask for a promise if I thought you’d make it.”

A fortnight, and he’d already been away from Dracy almost that long. He couldn’t neglect his primary responsibility indefinitely.

“
Then I give it. I’ll set out to return to Dracy within a fortnight.”

“Good man.”

Dracy laughed. “You sound like someone whose friend has sworn off gin! I’m in complete control of all my wits and appetites, I assure you.”

That sparked a new question in his mind. Men do rash things when drunk, but why did the duel go ahead when everyone had sobered up? He wouldn’t distress Tom anymore, however, so he said, “A shame to sit by the fireside on your last night in Town. The Mitre Inn has a nightly entertainment of acrobats and such, and serves good ale.”

Tomorrow, Georgia would arrive in Town, and Dracy couldn’t help but be glad that Tom would have set off back to the West Country by then.

Chapter 18

G
eorgia stepped into the barge to travel to Town thinking how happy she would have been only a few days before. Now it was a test of her courage.

Her mother had removed to Town herself the day before to begin the battle to overcome the new scandal, so Georgia had only Jane and one of Winnie’s footmen to attend her. Dracy was to meet them at the York Stairs, and he and the chairmen would be adequate escort. But it wasn’t attack by a mob she feared. Unless, that is, the beau monde could be considered a mob.

She had no choice, she reminded herself as the barge moved into the river downstream. She couldn’t stay at Winnie’s house, even if she wanted to, with Eloisa Cardross in residence, not without doing something she’d regret.

Although she’d retaliated in one way.

Eloisa had tried to be included in the move to Town, but on that Georgia and her mother had been of one mind. She could do as she wished, but there’d be no place for her at the Hernescroft House in Piccadilly. Doubtless letters would fly to Millicent at Herne, and howling reproaches would fly back, but letters from distant parts were so easily ignored.

Unless they came from Cologne, bearing wicked lies.

Who, she asked constantly, hated her enough to fabricate such a thing?

And what might they do next?

Despite the shrouded threat hanging over her, she had to move to Town. It was that or accept defeat and slink away forever. Never. Justice had to prevail, but the river seemed sluggish today, as if even it was reluctant to carry her.

Oh, nonsense. It was a tidal river. Once in a while it shrank almost to mud, and not because of human foibles. It would carry her to the York Stairs, from whence she would go to her father’s house. From there she’d go about Town, enjoy the company of the friends she still had, and pray the world would come to its senses.

After all, Dracy had the letter. It could not be published or displayed in some print-shop window. As Eloisa had claimed that it would be, its nonappearance should deflate the story. Eloisa would certainly not dare to come forward as sole witness to the letter’s existence.

All the same, Georgia traveled in sick dread until she saw Dracy awaiting her as promised, her steady anchor in the storm. She smiled as he handed her out of the barge. “Thank you.”

He kissed her hand. “I’m your trusty knight. Come, your chair awaits.”

He escorted her to the chair and handed her in. It was so like the last time she’d visited, and yet all was changed. Did London truly smell worse, or was that her imagination? It always stank in summer, and this year had been unusually hot.

The smell faded somewhat as they moved farther from the river, but there were others in its place. Sewers, horse dung, perhaps even dead cats and rats. She’d spent too much time in the countryside, that was all, and was now more sensitive to the stink.

She was carried into the house and Dracy handed her out into the tiled hall. It seemed chilly, but only in
comparison to the heat outside, and she took courage from the ranks of Earls of Hernescroft looking down on her. She was a Perriam, they seemed to be saying, and must not falter.

She turned to Dracy. “Thank you for your escort. Can you return for dinner?”

“I’ve no need to leave. Lady Hernescroft was kind enough to invite me to lodge here for the while.”

“Here?” she exclaimed.

“I believe there are enough rooms.”

Georgia regretted her sharp response in front of the servants. “Of course, and I’m delighted, my lord. Ah, here’s the housekeeper to guide me to my room. Till dinner, then, Dracy.”

She escaped smiling, but jangled between delight and alarm. Much of the alarm was because of the delight. She liked the man too much, and meeting him morning, noon, and night would do nothing for her sanity.

“Heavens above,” she said to Jane as soon as they were alone in the bedchamber, “I’ve known too many women who have married rashly and regretted it.”

“What are you talking about, milady?”

Georgia ignored that, looking around the room. “So darkly decorated. Oh, for a home of my own. For silk wallpaper, pale paint, and gilding. And,” she said, flipping rust-colored velvet, “flowered hangings.”

Jane didn’t answer, and Georgia knew her maid wasn’t fooled by her light manner. She knew the full extent of the situation.

She was resident in Town again, she reminded herself. The first step back.

She raised the window to look out. Not swathes of green, empty but for animals, but only a small walled garden, and beyond, house roofs and church spires, implying people of all kinds, people from all around the world. This was a rich and fascinating world, and it was hers.

She sat to write a note to Babs to announce her arrival. Within half an hour, Babs was hugging her and blessedly acting as if nothing was amiss.

“How splendid this is. With Harringay flitting from club to coffeehouse to residence stitching together agreements, I’m sadly neglected. And I met Dracy below. You’re sharing a roof. How delicious. It will lend credence to the match.”

“It’s only pretense,” Georgia reminded her. “Tea, please, Jane.”

“Then do let me help you amuse him. He’s very toothsome.”

“He’s a scarred ex–naval officer, more accustomed to warfare than drawing rooms.”

“Which probably explains the toothsomeness. He sends shivers down my spine. And through other places.”

“Babs!” Georgia exclaimed, cheeks hot. “Does Harringay know?”

Babs smiled, showing her dimples. “Harringay knows me. Having a dashing man as escort puts him on his mettle, which is completely delightful.”

“Babs!”

“Dear Georgia, in some ways, you’re such an innocent! If you ever need advice, come to me.”

“That book you had was bad enough.”

“Positively wicked!” Babs agreed. “Harringay and I enjoyed exploring the possibilities.”

As the book had contained illustrations of couples doing extraordinary, seemingly impossible, things, Georgia blushed even more.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Babs said, becoming completely sober. “I can only imagine how painful it must be for a widow to speak of such things. I’ll talk scandal instead. Did you hear that Mistress Benham has run off with her footman? Oh dear. You won’t want to talk scandal either.”

“It’s not my favorite subject, no, but if the lady has truly done that, it’s a different case than mine.”

“
She certainly has. Benham’s a brute, of course, but one wonders how she’ll survive. Perhaps poverty is tolerable in the company of the beloved.”

“I doubt poverty is ever tolerable,” Georgia said. “Given that, can love last?”

Jane returned and set down a tea tray. Georgia thanked her and sent her away before Babs said something else outrageous.

But Babs took a cake and asked, “What’s happened to Eloisa Cardross?”

Georgia told her.

“She should have been made to confess in public!”

“To what?” Georgia asked. “She would claim only to have spoken of something that appalled her, and anything she said now would only extend the interest in the letter.”

“True, alas. And to think that someone forged it. It was like loading a pistol and putting it in her hands, not caring whom she shot.”

“Except that the only possible target was me.”

“I don’t know how you can be so calm about it.”

“I have no
choice
, Babs. I can only carry on as if nothing is the matter and hope it becomes true.”

Babs looked doubtful, but said, “Well, then, have you heard about the masquerade?”

“A masquerade?” Georgia said, grateful for a change of subject. “Vauxhall or Ranelagh?

“Carlisle House. Madame Cornelys is engaged by the Whigs to host a grand masquerade on the theme of peace, prosperity, and patriotism.”

“I heard nothing of this.”

“It’s a suddenly hatched plan.”

“When is it to be?”

“Three nights from now.”

“So soon!” Georgia was panicked by the lack of time to prepare, but then she saw another problem. “Should I go?”

“Of course!
What point to being in Town if you skulk here?”

“Lady May never skulks. Jane! Oh, I sent her away. We must begin immediately to design a costume. Three days! It can’t be done.”

“Yes, it can. And Lady May’s costumes have always outshone others.”

Thus stirring envy and hatred. Georgia gulped some tea, wondering if this time she should wear something conventional. “What will you wear, Babs?”

“Nell Gwyn again. I love that part.”

“How is that connected to peace, prosperity, and patriotism?”

Babs winked. “She was cheerful and generous and served the king right mightily.”

Georgia laughed. “That’ll pass muster.”

“So what will you be?”

“Perhaps a goddess of peace.”

“
Not
the goddess costume,” Babs said, actually looking alarmed.

“Of course not. Do you think I’m mad? I was thinking of normal, classical robes, both concealing and conventional. Who was the goddess of peace?”

“I’m not sure there was one.”

“That probably explains the whole of human history.”

“Perhaps you should avoid goddesses,” Babs said. “What about Britannia?”

“Wasn’t she modeled on one of King Charles’s other mistresses? Too racy a connotation.”

“You could go as a saint.”

“People would say I’m a papist.”

“Good Queen Bess?”