Dangerous 01 - Dangerous Works (3 page)

Chapter 4

Edwina Potter—the vicar’s widow, grandmother of a University fellow, and Georgiana’s one true friend in Cambridge—lived in a whitewashed home with a sturdy slate roof and deep blue shutters lying cheek by jowl with similar houses on Peas Hill. It shared a wall with its neighbor to the south. Window boxes sprouted with the promise of flowers to come, and curtained windows welcomed visitors from all ranks and circumstances.

Georgiana approached Mrs. Potter’s door slowly, impeded by the sharp gray winds of March. She pulled her pelisse around her, lowered her head, and held her bonnet firmly in place. Near her destination, two pairs of gentlemen’s boots, festooned in the first stare of fashion, came to a halt at her feet. Two faces, one hard and cruel, the other slack-jawed and dandified, looked at her with derision. Both wore the robes of Cambridge students.

“I beg your pardon.” She tried to pass.

“Well, you should beg our pardon.” The hard-faced one said. Neither moved. “Cambridge streets aren’t a place for a woman alone.”

Insolent puppies!
Georgiana regretted her decision to leave Eunice at home. She left her coach at the end of the street so she wouldn’t inconvenience the residents or her coachman. He could maneuver down such a narrow lane only with great difficulty. She believed she could walk the four or five doors to Mrs. Potter’s house with ease. She had been wrong.

“Move. Now! Out of my way!” She projected her best thundering aristocratic outrage. The bullies were immune to it.

The dandy looked amused. “Well, now, why should we give way to your lot? Perhaps you should make yourself more agreeable. Don’t you think so, Murchison?” He looked to his companion for confirmation.

A cruel smile grew on the other’s face. “A woman on our streets. Yes, she could be agreeable. Indeed, my friend Harrison, she could.”

Neither gave way, and Georgiana knew better than to try to move past them in the confines of the narrow lane. She turned to call for her coachman, but a figure in black blocked her view. His cape billowed in the wind, and his scarred and battered face formed a mask of wrath.

“Andrew,” she whispered. He looked past her.

“Let the lady pass.” His voice fractured their smug smiles.

Harrison moved enough to permit her to pass. Georgiana heard Mrs. Potter’s door open just feet from where she stood, but she stayed riveted to the spot, her eyes filled with Andrew Mallet.

She fled his house a week ago believing he was ill, yet here he stood like an avenging angel.
Should he be out like this?
His movements looked ungraceful and slow.
Is he well?

The thunderous expression of her tormentor alarmed her.

“Do be careful, Mallet,” Murchison growled. “The entire town knows that this one doesn’t know her place. She approached Lawrence Watterson. ‘For assistance in translation,’ she said! She may be a duke’s daughter, but she can’t approach a University Fellow unpunished. Watterson dined out on that story for a month.”

Harrison snickered. “Of course, gentlemen wouldn’t want all women banned from the lanes of Cambridge.”

“Gentlemen wouldn’t accost a lady on a public street. You two are barely men.” Fire burned deep in Andrew’s black eyes.

A look of fear flashed across Murchison’s face, quickly replaced by resentment and cunning.

“You wouldn’t want your reputation tarnished by such a relationship, Mallet,” he whined. “People respected your father. You wouldn’t want to give them the wrong idea about the son. Not
if you wish to be a part of things in Cambridge.”

In one quick movement, Murchison found his arm bent behind his back. He yelped in pain when the silver-tipped walking stick pressed into the back of his skull.

“You will walk away now, and I will pretend I didn’t hear your pathetic attempt at a threat. If you don’t, I won’t waste words with empty threats. My next assault will be swift and direct.”

They were gone in an instant. Georgiana felt the very breath leave her body. She regretted rescue almost as much as she hated dependence, but she thought he was magnificent.

“It is young Mr. Mallet! Andrew! How delightful!” Mrs. Potter, blue eyes flashing beneath snowy white hair and elaborately beribboned lace cap, beamed at him. Her energy hid her years. Georgiana wasn’t sure how much the old woman had witnessed. She expected Andrew to turn on his heels.

Instead, he smiled past her at Mrs. Potter. “Mrs. Potter? Can it be? You haven’t changed in fifteen years.” He relaxed against his staff.

Georgiana glanced from one to the other, filled with curiosity. She wondered how Mrs. Potter knew him but then remembered that Andrew had spent his boyhood in this place.

“Scamp! I don’t remember you being such a liar as a boy.” The old woman’s face glowed. “It is good to see you. You have been gone far too long.”

Georgiana felt like an intruder who couldn’t formulate a clear sentence. Good manners bade her keep quiet, but she longed to ask about his health. She ought to thank him for his help. She wanted to berate him for his previous behavior. Above all, she yearned for an opportunity to seek his help.

A withered hand touched her arm. “Lady Georgiana Hayden, let me make you known to Mr. Andrew Mallet. He is newly returned from the wars, our very own war hero!”

“Mr. Mallet. Good day to you. I owe you a debt of gratitude.” Georgiana wrapped both arms around her waist as if to protect herself and waited for the inevitable rebuff. None came. No welcome materialized in the deep black eyes either.

“The lady and I are acquainted,” he said with a slight bow.

Andrew, Georgiana saw, addressed Mrs. Potter and avoided looking at her directly. She tried to step back, but Mrs. Potter’s hand tightened like a clamp on her elbow, holding her in place. The old woman’s small bones, short stature, and kindly manner concealed shrewd intelligence and steely determination.

“You oughtn’t to spread nonsense about ‘heroes,’ you know. Each man does the duty presented to him,” Andrew said.

“Rascal. I read the papers.” The old woman spoke to Georgiana. “His father was so proud. At Waterloo—”

“Yes, well, many good men died.” Shutters came down behind his black eyes; he closed the door firmly on the subject of war and his father. “Tell me, do you still make the best ginger cookies in Cambridge and knit the worst scarves?” Georgiana saw the corner of his mouth turn up in an echo of his once irresistible smile. That smile fascinated her, as did the thought of Andrew Mallet and ginger cookies.

“Please don’t tell Lady Georgiana tales!” Mrs. Potter leaned closer to Georgiana and dropped her voice. “Once, just once, when his father told me he needed a warm scarf, I foolishly leapt into the breach, knit one, and sent it off to his school. It unraveled in a week.” She turned to Andrew with a laugh. “You never let me forget it.”

His laughter reverberated through Georgiana. She felt it echo against her chest and forgot again to breathe. Their banter made her feel like an outsider, in spite of the withered hand holding her firmly in place. When her heart drummed in her throat, she thought she knew how a frightened rabbit must feel. She didn’t like it.

“I see there is no pretense of not knowing me this time,” she blurted out, as much to stifle her own unease as to join the conversation. She felt her neck warm, but she held her chin high and squared her shoulders to fend off a blow.

Mrs. Potter beamed like a proud mother hen. Georgiana felt a push in her back. The old woman was urging her to continue.

“Lady Georgiana.” Mallet sighed deeply. His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “No. No pretense. I apologize for my lack of proper manners at Groghan’s and just now. I’m not quite myself. I didn’t expect to see you.” He looked at her as if he reached for something else he wished to say, but it eluded him. Instead, he nodded at Mrs. Potter. “Now, ladies, if you would please excuse me.”

Georgiana put out a hand to stop him. Her heart still beat erratically. She feared his rejection, but she would not let him end the conversation. “If I might have a word?”

He stood, hat in hand, wishing to pass, but he waited for her to continue. His face remained blank. Mrs. Potter’s smile gave her encouragement to go on.

“I have a business matter, actually, that I would like to discuss with you. Perhaps later, at your convenience. If you might call on me. At Helsington Cottage.”

Georgiana knew she was babbling and resented him for causing it. She clamped her jaw shut and willed herself to wait for an answer.

“I am afraid that is impossible,” he replied. “As you have unfortunately been told, I’m not well. I don’t go out often. I wish—I need—to be left in peace. Good day.”

“Good day,” she whispered, watching him pass.

“Andrew!” He stopped at Mrs. Potter’s call. “I can well understand the need for peace after so many years of war, but surely that doesn’t include friends. My grandson, Geoffrey Dunning, for example?” Andrew nodded but looked puzzled about her meaning.

“Geoff dines with me on Sunday evenings. Would you join us Sunday next?”

For a moment Georgiana thought he would decline.

“I know I impose.” Mrs. Potter’s voice quivered with the weakness of age. “A lonely old woman craves good conversation and old friends, and I miss your father’s company.”

The old fraud!
As if she couldn’t have her pick of company in this town!

Andrew frowned. He fingered his staff and spoke with resignation. “If you wish, Mrs. Potter. Sunday next. Ma’am, Lady Georgiana. Good day.” With a slight nod, his awkward gait took him away.

“Perfect.” Edwina Potter’s eyes twinkled with glee. No trace of age or quiver marred her voice now. “You will make up the numbers, of course. I believe he’s just the man we need. You can make your offer and bring him around. I have no doubt. Now, explain to me in detail just what it is you want from young Mr. Mallet.”

The force of the old woman’s support carried Georgiana with it. An ally gave her strength. War demanded allies, and Georgiana had no doubt this was war. Her hope that Andrew would willingly help her died the day she visited his house. If he refused to help her, she would coerce him. Warfare it would be.

Damn, damn, damn.
The old woman neatly maneuvered him, and Georgiana threw the shreds of his peace into chaos.

Andrew looked back down the lane. Georgiana’s ancient coachman had hopped forward right enough, but the old man was no help.
What maggot ate into her brain to stand there and confront those two dregs of Cambridge alone? She needs a keeper.

He suspected Mrs. Potter—who looked not a day older than when he was a boy–knew he was on his way to a meeting with Geoff Dunning and perhaps even why. Georgiana must have her in thrall. He had no doubt which lady would make up the numbers at Mrs. Potter’s little supper.

Visions of Georgiana followed him everywhere. The line of her neck bent under her bonnet and the curves of her attractive derriere caught his eye as soon as he turned the corner. Lust, always his first reaction to Georgiana, struck him with the force of a battering ram.

He had leered at her so intently that he didn’t see her situation at first. When he realized that two of the University’s more unsavory bastards were assaulting her, rage almost upended him. He’d acted without thinking. He decided she probably wasn’t even grateful. She couldn’t have known Murchison’s awkward threat hit its mark, and it wasn’t her business anyway.

Andrew needed work, not
money: work to occupy his mind, work to keep the demons at bay, work to make his father proud. The need to make his father proud gnawed at him. It would require the kind of work Cambridge’s scholars guarded possessively. Murchison’s gossip could scuttle his plans.

Fellows like Dunning, those stalwart professors of the great University, lived in bachelor’s quarters in keeping with medieval edicts that made celibacy a requirement of their position and made their society quick to cut and slow to accept outsiders. His father had carefully trod a narrow path, earning respect for his tutoring and translation but never penetrating the heights. He had chosen a wife and son over University, and the son had failed him.

Andrew scowled at the sudden memory of his father beaming at him over a successful translation of a particularly thorny passage from Plato. He’d given the old man little enough to be proud of despite Edwina Potter’s sentimental twaddle. The old man valued learning, not battlefield heroics. Andrew owed him something better, something cleaner.

Murchison’s threat sent a shudder through him.
Damn Georgiana Hayden! Is there no end to the trouble she will cause me?

The bells of Great Saint Mary’s rang the noon hour when Andrew ducked into the dim confines of Sam Dawe’s coffeehouse. The old establishment, tucked away on Green Street, was a short walk from Trinity, but it made a long road for Andrew’s halting gait. He regretted this outing.

Dawe’s place filled rapidly. Andrew searched for a seat from which he could easily stretch out his legs without tripping the shop’s patrons but found none. He hobbled to a seat by the door and leaned on an uneven table.

“Good day to you, Mallet. Good to see you out and about.” Dunning, prompt and cheerful, took a seat. He always struck Andrew as a decent enough sort. His narrow ideas made him no different than most of the clerical citizens of this town of prigs and scholars. Kindness made him approachable. Andrew hoped their fathers’ friendship and childhood connection would lead to work.

“Enjoyed our little dinner last month and your most excellent port. Good to sit in your father’s study again. Reminded me of what an excellent raconteur Mr. Mallet was. He wouldn’t want to see his son become a hermit.”

Friendship with a veteran of Waterloo was a coup of sorts. It probably added some cachet to the acquaintance for Dunning. Andrew had to give him one thing: he never flinched from Andrew’s pitifully lacerated face.

“I’m hardly a hermit,” Andrew murmured. “We’ve dined together three or four times now.”

Dunning gave him a wry face but said nothing.