Dangerous 01 - Dangerous Works (22 page)

The little man’s brown eyes warmed with sympathy. “I am delighted to hear that you feel so much better. You are remembering the dark green vegetables, I hope?”

“I had difficulty with some details of your regime while at Mountview, but now that I am home, I am following them to the letter.” She wondered briefly how she would manage the Yorkshire spring with few funds, but she put the thought away. The other parts of her instructions would be easier without a high-strung chef to contend with. Henri paled at the thought of brewing
tea from nettles, alfalfa, and seaweed. She had learned to do it herself very quickly. It had been easier to brew the tea than to gain access to Henri’s kitchen, but she had managed. Beef tea, herbal tea, bushels of dark green vegetables, and iron-rich water—taken together they worked magic.

“Splendid! As to fertility, I can’t say for certain. I wouldn’t be unhappy to be wrong, but unless you put it to the test, we won’t know, will we? Still, I see no barrier to you taking a husband if you wish.”

His sympathetic face made Georgiana uncomfortable. She brought their consultation quickly to an end. She found no reason to linger. She wondered briefly if she could ask him to tea but quickly realized that that wouldn’t do. She did not know how to go about making friends. She thought that perhaps Mrs. Potter might invite him.

He walked her to the door, chatting about town matters and mutual acquaintances. “Did I hear that Andrew Mallet has traveled from Cambridge?”

“That is correct Mr. Peabody. He is gone. I don’t know where he went. Do you?”

“Goodness me, no. I am simply delighted that he is well enough to travel. We seem to have finally corrected his problems also.” The little surgeon beamed with pride.

Ten minutes of vigorous walking brought Georgiana to Sheep Street and what was likely to be her new home. The estate agent, a rotund gentleman with jovial manner, sharp wits, and thinning
hair, chatted with Geoffrey Dunning.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Dunning. Has your grandmother dragooned you on my behalf?”

“She told me about your dilemma, and I am only too happy to be of assistance.” He smiled fondly at his grandmother. If Mrs. Potter needed a man’s assurances, Georgiana would let her have it and try not
to resent it.

“Shall we be about our business then? Mr. Wilson, what do you have to show me?”

“A trim little house, my lady. You will find no dry rot, no vermin, and no damp.” He rocked on his toes briefly. “It is my obligation to warn you, however, that it isn’t at all what you are used to.”

“I understand, sir. That is as I expect.”

“To give much better news, the sale of Helsington may bring even more then we discussed. Colonel Warrington is quite, quite anxious to purchase a comfortable home such as you offer, and you could–”

“Excellent, Mr. Wilson. I will be happy to get more money from the sale, but I am determined to conserve those funds by spending as little as possible on a new residence. Shall we take a look?”

Mrs. Potter, concern in every line of her face, took her arm and entered the narrow blue door behind her. Georgiana was grateful the woman made no attempt to dissuade her from her decision.

The little house didn’t disappoint. The lower floor kitchen had stone walls and a stone floor. A large fireplace dominated one wall and a stairway ran along the other, the one shared with the neighbor. She would learn to cook for herself in this place. The upper story had two rooms: a small sitting room and a tinier sleeping chamber. She would bring her work here. She would write and be productive, if not
fruitful.

The house, white with blue shutters, was situated farther back than its neighbors, leaving space for a tiny garden in front, one surrounded by a stone wall. It would have fit inside Helsington’s stables with room to spare, but it would be enough for her.

Her head almost reached the top of the front door. She watched Geoff Dunning duck his head to go out, and it struck her that this house was even smaller than Andrew’s house. It lacked his magnificent study. She suppressed all memory of the man. This house was enough.

“It is exactly as you described it, Mr. Wilson. Thank you.” She turned to Geoffrey Dunning who inspected the foundation with earnest attention. She wondered if the amiable University Fellow even knew what to look for, but she humored him. “Mr. Dunning? Do you see any problem.”

“No, my lady. If you are determined to take this step, this house is sound enough. The roof, I think, ought to be looked at, but the rest will give you no problems.”

“Very well then, Mr. Wilson, I believe we have a contract. You may tell your buyer that Helsington is his as soon as I can arrange to move. Shall we say one week?” The little gentleman beamed at her and produced the documents for signature. He left her in the care of her friends with a key in her hand and a knot
in her stomach.

She forced a smile. “Well then, Mrs. Potter. It is done. I need only lay in firewood, sweep the hearth, scrub the kitchen, sort through my belongings, and arrange an estate sale. It is good that I kept the services of at least one footman for the end!”

She looked around her tiny sitting room and fought panic. “Do you think the Colonel might want my furnishings?”

Edwina Potter said nothing. She leaned over and gave Georgiana a hug. Over her shoulder, Georgiana saw Dunning’s look of disapproval. He would have to get over it.

Dunning looked at her intently and colored slightly. “Tell me, my lady, have you heard from Andrew Mallet. He is gone a full month now.”

“No, I haven’t. The knocker is still gone from his house.”

“You went by Andrew’s house, Georgiana?” Mrs. Potter looked bemused.

“It was on my way to Mr. Peabody’s premises, Mrs. Potter,” Georgiana’s voice sounded tight. “I merely passed through Little Saint Mary’s Lane.”
And lingered a moment.
“Have you had word from him, Mr. Dunning?”

“Mercy no! Mallet left without warning. His departure was quite sudden. We had spent an entertaining afternoon not long before researching Praxilla’s cucumbers and the habits of the Greeks in the library at Trinity.”

The image of the two of them pouring over Praxilla in the hallowed halls of the Wren library amused her.

“He quite turned my thinking on that subject. Turned it around completely. Pity others can’t see it. Who is to say what subject is fit for a poet? Not I. There was another, too, something about cockleshells and newly hatched chickens.”

“Hedyle. We don’t have much of hers. She didn’t leave enough for us to know her meaning.”

“Shame about Selby,” Dunning said.

“Selby?” Georgiana’s mind raced. “Andrew took the poems to Selby?”

“Gracious no. Old boy found out on his own. Must have been old Featheringham the librarian. Got wind Andrew was—” He colored abruptly.

“Helping me?”

“Translating rubbish.” His red face darkened. “His words, not
mine. He said he didn’t have time for Mallet after that.” Dunning’s words came in a nervous rush. “Mallet showed me some other epigrams over dinner.” He rushed on, “Anyte, was it? Quite well done, quite, I thought. Well worth scholarship. I wasn’t aware of them before.”

“Enough! I am too old a lady to listen to you talk about literature in a cold house,” Mrs. Potter broke in. “It is getting dark, and there are no candles. See me to my house, and I’ll feed us all a light supper.” The old woman took Dunning’s arm and led him to the door. Georgiana lingered. “Are you coming, my dear?”

The house was dark and cold, but it belonged to her. It would be enough. It had to be. She couldn’t go back. “I’m coming, Edwina. Supper would be lovely.”

She locked the door behind her.

For a man who made his living on the printed word, Bailey was remarkably careless about lighting—or cleanliness come to that. The smell of ink and clouds of paper dust permeated his office. Andrew brushed the latter from his sleeves. Three hours of squinting over newly printed pages in the dim light of Bailey’s office left him with a headache. Harley would lecture him again when he went back to his rooms with a sore back.

“Sooner looked at, sooner finished,” Bailey said. For his part, Andrew was grateful for any excuse to delay his return to Cambridge and the cold, empty house in Little Saint Mary’s Lane. He chose to stay in London to review the first run page by page and correct it as it was set up. He found Bailey’s company congenial and Jamie’s a distraction. The work consumed him. He wanted to finish it, give it to her, and move on with his life. If he stayed and made corrections, he and Bailey would save weeks of shipping pages back and forth.

He told himself that printing it was the right thing, the only thing he could do. He tossed the pages down in disgust. He hated going through it without her. A book wouldn’t bring her back, but he could think of nothing else to do.

Georgiana wouldn’t marry him. She made it plain she didn’t want him as a writing partner either. He refused to think of establishing her as his mistress. The thought was insupportable. They had been lovers, but she was never his mistress.

She called their lovemaking “this beautiful thing between us, this fragile, private thing.” Andrew knew such a relationship wouldn’t stand up to the realities of daily life as long as she lived at Helsington and he lived on the edges. Eros, he thought–that yearning of one soul for another–wouldn’t survive if they weren’t together. If she wouldn’t marry him, he could see nothing left between them except the book.
Georgie might not
want me, but she cares about the work
.

“You’re making yourself blind. How much more of this are you going to do?” Jamie Heyworth’s impudent grin accompanied his welcome interruption. Andrew needed a distraction.

“Not
much. Bailey thinks we’ll have the first full copy in two days.”

“Sorry to hear it. Even blind you’re good company.” Heyworth ducked a ball of paper flung with expert aim. The two had become regular dinner partners in a few short weeks. Jamie reveled in a free meal every day or so, and Andrew valued the diversion. Jamie’s company was far better than his own.

“Shall we dine at Boodles? The company isn’t as illustrious as elsewhere, but the food is superb,” Andrew suggested.

“Ah, a man after my own heart. Just how long are you going to grace me–and London–with your company?” Jamie asked.

“In three days—four at most—there will be nothing, your delightful self excepted, to keep me here.”

“What then?” Jamie asked.

He didn’t know. Once his house had been filled with memories of his father and of family, now it felt empty without Georgiana. He dreaded facing that empty house, the empty town, his empty life, but he wouldn’t know if she made good on her threat or if the Duchess had beaten her down again if he didn’t go back. He couldn’t avoid Cambridge any longer, not
with the book finished.

“Back to Cambridge, I presume.” Jamie nodded morosely.

Andrew continued. “If I’m to leave this charming …” He gestured helplessly at Bailey’s clutter. “Would you join me on the road to Cambridge?”

“The delights of Little Saint Mary’s Lane! How can I refuse you, my friend?” Jamie clapped an arm around his shoulder. “Let’s discuss it over dinner—and a very good Port.”

Chapter 22

Jamie’s “very good Port” flowed with such abundance that it gave Andrew a slow start the following morning. Snow flurries on a sharp wind hindered his progress further. Andrew knew what actually slowed his steps; the effects of drink and the weather were merely excuses for avoiding the work.

Bailey told him today should be the last of it. In another day, there would be a book. There would be a run of five hundred copies to be specific. Not a large amount, but Andrew thought it sufficient. He would go home to his empty house with only Jamie and Harley for company.

The warmth of Bailey’s, even the smell and clutter of the back rooms, was a relief after the winds. “I’m sorry to be late, Bailey, I–”

John Bailey wasn’t alone. The Marquess of Glenaire stretched across a wooden chair next to the printer, his long legs and elegant wardrobe gloriously out of place. “Hello, Andrew. Good of you to join us,” he said.

Bailey’s face registered concern but not alarm. Perhaps Glenaire hadn’t threatened him. Andrew removed his greatcoat and hung his hat with exaggerated care while he gathered his scattered wits.

“Hello, Richard. I didn’t know you had business with Bailey.” If Glenaire thought he could be intimidated out of his mission, he was mistaken. Then again, Glenaire rarely used anything as crude as outright intimidation. He watched his old friend warily.

“This establishment came to my attention quite recently,” the Marquess drawled. He looked about with every sign of interest. “Mr. Bailey and I were just discussing the economics of the printing business. It is difficult for a small business owner, isn’t it Mr. Bailey?”

Bailey looked from Glenaire to Andrew and back again. “Difficult, yes, but not impossible.”

“You expect me to believe you stopped in to talk business with the shop owner, Richard? Come, come. Surely you have weightier matters on your mind.”

“Greek perhaps?”

“Since when do you care about Greek literature?”

“Since it impacts my sister.”

“It has always impacted your sister. You simply chose to ignore it.”

“Gentlemen, may I speak bluntly?” Bailey interrupted. Clearly the sight of a peer of the realm casually conversing in his office failed to intimidate John Bailey.

“Certainly, Mr. Bailey. What is your concern?” Glenaire managed to convey, “
What concern could you possibly have in the matter of my sister?”

“If this is about the work I do for Mr. Mallet, then I must suggest you address your concerns directly and not
dance around the thing.”

“I agree. I understand that you are printing a work for Mallet here.”

“My arrangement with Bailey is none of your business.” Andrew bit out each word.

The Marquess glanced up from under thick blond lashes. “Oh, I think it is. What concerns my sister is most certainly my business. It is my duty to look after her interests.”

Andrew watched Bailey, who went pale. He wondered if he had told Glenaire the identity of the author of the work. He thought not; Glenaire would have guessed.

“I am Lady Georgiana’s partner, I have every right—”

“I heard her demand that you return her notes and translations.”

“And so I shall—as soon as I return to Cambridge. Her manuscript materials are hers. I will send them directly to Helsington.” The Marquess gave Andrew one of his particularly
inscrutable looks. Andrew didn’t know what to make of it, but he didn’t back down.

“But in the meantime, Mr. Bailey will print them?”

“The notes? No. Not
in that form. The translations and commentaries as Lady Georgiana and I agreed.” Andrew bit out the last words and dared him to object.

“Commentaries? Yours?” Glenaire asked.

“Hers. Mine. It is impossible to separate them.”

“And will my sister’s name be on this book?”

“No. She didn’t wish it.” That stopped short of a lie. She wouldn’t wish it–if she knew.

Bailey rose while they were sparring and returned with printed sheets. “You can see here, my lord. The lady’s identity isn’t disclosed.”

Glenaire took the pages and read carefully. “‘A Lady of Scholarship,’” he said. He turned the page and began to read.

Andrew stood for a while, watching the Marquess. When he appeared intent on reading the entire thing, Bailey gestured for Andrew to sit in the printer’s own chair behind the desk. Andrew nodded his thanks, eyes riveted on Glenaire. Bailey bustled out; he had work to do. Five minutes later he returned with four additional pages, the final galleys for Andrew’s approval. He left them there, Andrew with his editing pencil, Glenaire reading.

Bailey’s clock showed twenty more minutes gone before Andrew lost all patience. He’d be damned before he’d let Glenaire sabotage the project. He rose to his feet.

“I don’t need your approval,” he insisted.

Glenaire raised an aristocratic eyebrow. “Don’t you?” He went on reading. A few moments later Bailey returned, and Glenaire spoke directly to him. “This is quite good, you know. You do excellent work.”

Bailey’s pride showed, but he was quick to say, “The lady is the one who does excellent work.”

“Quite.” Glenaire’s expression held no surprise. “‘With the assistance of A. Mallet’? Quite a bit of assistance?”

“Less than you might think. It is Geo-, that is, Lady Georgiana’s work.”

“She won’t thank you.”

Andrew stopped breathing. He couldn’t form a clear thought.

Glenaire continued. “She won’t thank you for ordering her life.”

Ordering her life? Is that what I’ve been doing?
Andrew stared at Glenaire’s merciless blue eyes.

“You went ahead without her, didn’t you?” Glenaire continued relentlessly. “You gave her no choice about the printing. She won’t thank you.”

“She’ll hate it.” Andrew sank back in his chair. He felt all the fight go out of him. Glenaire watched him and waited. Intimidation, one remembered, wasn’t Glenaire’s style. There were always neater ways to wield the surgeon’s knife.

“I did it again, didn’t I?” Andrew felt like a bungling fool. Of course she would hate it if she had no voice, no choice. Anger had blinded him.
Glenaire, damn him, is right.

“You wish me to stop publication,” Andrew rasped.

“I wish? My dear Andrew, we’re discussing what Georgiana might wish.” Glenaire wouldn’t have to block publication. He’d get Andrew to do it himself.

Bailey cleared his throat and spoke in professional tones. “You wish to interrupt the print run? The first eighty pages are already printed, and–”

“I’ll pay for it.” Andrew started to reassure him.

“Finish it.” Glenaire’s emphatic command startled both of them. “Finish it and bind it.” He looked from one to the other. “She may wish it, if you ask her. If she doesn’t, I’ll pay for it and destroy all the copies.”

Disbelief made Andrew mute. Glenaire went on smoothly, “It would be inefficient to lose what is already done. Finish it, Mr. Bailey. Mallet and I will decide its fate after
my sister
makes her decision.”

Bailey beamed. “It really is good work. It would be a pity not to publish it.”

Glenaire wanted it printed. Andrew couldn’t speak. Glenaire’s eyes held his, challenging, but Andrew held his ground. Glenaire finally looked away first.

“You seem to have learned more quickly than I did,” Andrew whispered at last.

“I had an advantage. She actually discussed it with me at Mountview. I’ll leave you and Mr. Bailey to arrange storage of the copies once they are printed. May I request that you send one round to me at Whitehall?” They knew they couldn’t refuse. Andrew nodded.

The Marquess rose at last. “You do fine work, Mr. Bailey. I’m glad to be acquainted with it.” Bailey would see a steady stream of invitations, cards, and other small jobs coming from Glenaire, Andrew guessed. At least Bailey came out of this fiasco in good shape.

The roof of Georgiana’s little house proved to be a much more difficult project than expected. There were workers to hire, materials to select, rafters to inspect, and a carpenter to obtain due to a rotten beam. In the deep of November, the weather factored in. The roofers needed four dry days together to get the bulk of the work done. Even then, she discovered, “done” didn’t mean finished. The finish work in her attic and around the eaves would take another few days.

She delayed transfer of Helsington to Major Warrington, but he grew impatient. In three more days, she would have no choice but to leave. Georgiana’s head hurt from going over and over the list in front of her. She thought she had been ruthless about packing only what she needed, but she could see that the pile of finished boxes, neatly stacked in Helsington’s foyer, would not fit in the tiny house on Sheep Street. William the footman and her maid (the last of the servants, the only two who agreed to accept an extra month’s pay from the sale of the house) waited for her next order.

She went over the list again. Her notes and papers must go with her. The little sitting room and half the bedchamber would be lined with boxes, but they had to go with her. Novels and books on gardening could be left for the estate sale. She needed her classics and her Shakespeare, but the rest could stay. With Mrs. Potter’s help she weeded six boxes for the kitchen down to one. She wouldn’t be entertaining; she would cook only for herself. It wasn’t “one bowl, one spoon,” but it was simple enough.

“Shall we light the room, my lady?”

“No, William. Leave it dark. I’ll close it up. I’ll take tea above stairs.”

She pulled the doors closed and crossed the foyer where she said goodbye to Andrew the last day.
Perhaps he will come. He has my notes. He must return them. What then?
She had no answer for the mocking voice in her head.

She climbed the stair with a heavy tread, gracefully lifting her pearl gray gown. He was gone. He had left Cambridge without telling her, and he had taken pieces of her work with him. He had taken pieces of her soul. She told him it was finished, but he still had her work.

The dim hallway led to her private sitting room, bright with candlelight reflected on flower-covered walls and the ornate plaster ceiling and fading sun. With the clutter gone, the little workroom looked stark in the fading light. The world outside her window looked gray. She wondered how color could leach out of the world.
Did the coming of autumn dim all color, or had the world bled out all its color as my heart bled out all feeling?
She let the curtains fall shut.

William brought tea she had prepared herself. There would be no need for such service in her tiny house. She would take tea made herself in her own little kitchen. That at least pleased her. She liked feeling competent at something. The ornate tea table wouldn’t come with her. It was built more for its dainty appearance than for comfort, and it had room enough for only one person. She drank her solitary tea and fought back self-doubt.

“He said he wanted to marry me!” The empty room didn’t answer. She sounded like a spoiled child to her own ears.
He asked, but I refused him.

She vacillated, she demurred, and she refused him. She sent him away. She thought he would go back to Cambridge.
Where is the blasted man? Where are my notes, my work?

She forced her attention away from fruitless regrets to her lists and began again. Fill the pantry. Put in firewood. Air the sheets.
Two sets,
she thought,
should do it
. Four boxes were unnecessary. Tag the kitchen table and four chairs.

A discrete knock broke the silence.

“Yes, William?”

“A message, my lady.” He handed her a heavy vellum packet.

Richard! What now?
He had arranged her travel. She suspected he had arranged the estate agent who miraculously appeared on her doorstep the day after she announced her decision to her neighbors–an honest estate agent at that.

My dear Georgiana,
I trust that all is well with you. I have been informed that Colonel Warrington has acquired Helsington and that the transaction went more quickly than expected. I have arranged for a bank account to be set up in your name to manage the assets from the sale. They have been informed to deal directly with you.

I don’t wish to imply that I lack confidence in you, but you must know that if problems arise or you find you regret your decisions, you need only apply to me. Something can be arranged.

My damned interfering brother just can’t stop arranging my life!
With a twinge of guilt she realized she should be grateful for his help.
He
saved her awkwardness at the bank at least.

Her irritation didn’t dissipate. She had refused his offer to pay for servants and upkeep so she could stay at Helsington. She didn’t want his control any more than she wanted their father’s. She would do without his help. No man would manage her life. Still, his concern threatened to weaken her. She put the letter down.

She didn’t want any man, especially not one who tried to arrange her life.
Why does independence have to be such a struggle?
She just wished she was not so very alone.

Georgiana crumpled her latest list and restlessly paced to the window again.

Where is Andrew?
she thought.
Where is the damned man?
The night didn’t answer.