The Spinster Bride (31 page)

If Jeffrey had succeeded in killing George, she would have been to blame. How many times had she thought that Jeffrey would have made the better earl, was the better man? How many times had she hinted as much to him? She was sick with it, this feeling of guilt and remorse. Despite everything, the pain, the worry, and the humiliation of having a son like George, she loved him.

She loved him more than she realized.

No one would know what was in her heart when George had disappeared. No one would believe it if she told them. She knew she'd become a hard, cold woman over the years. She rather gloried in the reputation she fostered as the cold countess. If one didn't feel, one didn't hurt. It seemed like a practical plan for a girl who had been hurt so very, very badly by the circumstances of her life. She realized now such a strategy was wholly a failure.

Her breath hitched as she realized she was about to cry. Again. For goodness' sake, she hadn't cried in years. She hadn't even cried at her husband's funeral, though that surprised no one. She was not a sentimental fool. And yet, when George had disappeared, when she'd feared something truly horrible had happened to him, she'd cried.

George was her son and she loved him. And if that girl made him happy, then she supposed she was going to have to accept her. Privately, of course.

“I'm going to rest before dinner,” Dorothea said when she spied her maid darning in the corner of her private sitting room.

“Yes, m'lady.” Her maid stood and quietly left the room, shutting the door softly behind her.

And then, Dorothea gave in to the tears of relief she'd been hiding for hours now. They were tears for George, and tears for herself, for loving Jeffrey nearly as much as her son and not seeing what a monster he'd become. It wasn't a long bout of tears. Dorothea would never do something so common as that. When did tears do anything but release of bit of the strain caused by life?

When she was done, she did lie down, something she rarely did in the middle of the day. She didn't sleep immediately, but lay there thinking, thinking about George, her daughter, and mostly about how satisfying it would be to make Jeffrey pay for what he'd done to her son.

“I
'm sorry, sir, but Mr. Penwhistle is not in.” Mr. Stavers, the Pen-whistles' beleaguered butler, looked decidedly nervous as he stood just inside the door of the townhouse.

“I know. I'm not here to see Mr. Penwhistle,” Charles said. “I'm here to see you.”

“Me, sir? I don't understand.”

“You will soon enough.” Charles looked past Mr. Stavers to see a maid peering curiously at the pair. “Where can we speak privately?”

“My quarters.” Mr. Stavers hesitated a moment, then backed up to allow Charles's entry before shutting the door behind them. “This way, Mr. Norris.”

Mr. Stavers led Charles down one level and toward the back of the home, to a narrow hall before turning into a tiny suite of rooms. The butler's quarters consisted of a sitting room with a single chair and desk, beyond which Charles spied a narrow bed, hardly big enough for a child, never mind a full-grown man. It was almost undignified.

When the door was closed, Charles said, “I've come to offer you employment, Mr. Stavers.”

The older man looked stunned, then sat slowly behind his desk, taking in what had just been offered. “But I have a position, sir. I've been with the Penwhistle family for more than thirty years.”

“Mr. Penwhistle is about to lose his position in society. I cannot go into particulars at the moment, but I can say without a doubt you may find yourself unemployed in the near future.”

Mr. Stavers looked down, his white brows coming together in consternation. “Is it to do with Lord Summerfield's disappearance, sir?”

“I'm afraid so, yes.”

“Dear God.” The news affected the butler far more than Charles would have thought, for he looked quite distressed. “I have a bit of a soft spot for the lad, you see,” he said. “This is terrible news. Terrible.”

“It is. Mr. Stavers, my offer of employment is conditional.”

Mr. Stavers lifted his head, and Charles had a feeling he was testing the man's pride, something he had no wish to do. “I understand you have certain loyalties to Mr. Penwhistle, and I admire your fidelity. But Mr. Penwhistle has done a terrible thing and I need your help, sir, to make certain justice is done.”

“My help, sir?”

“It's nothing too egregious, I assure you. I simply need to know where Mr. Penwhistle will be and when. I promise you no physical harm will come to him. You have my word on it.”

Mr. Stavers pondered this for a long moment. “Did he . . . did he harm Lord Summerfield?” he asked softly.

“Yes, he did.”

The butler's face tightened, and without hesitation he said, “Then I will help. And I appreciate your offer of employment. But, sir, do you not have a butler? I wouldn't want to take another man's position from him.”

Charles chuckled. “I could hardly call Prajit a butler. At the moment, my man is valet, butler, footman, and sometimes maid. But I believe I'll soon be expanding my household and will need a proper staff. I hope you will help me in this endeavor.”

“Of course, sir.”

Charles held out his hand to seal their agreement. “Very good, Mr. Stavers. If you have a trusted footman, he can deliver the notes. Do you?”

Mr. Stavers didn't hesitate. “I have just the man, sir. And if I may be so bold, if you are in need of a footman, he would do nicely. He's my son, sir.”

“And your wife?”

“The housekeeper.”

Charles could almost hear the hope and excitement in the older man's voice. He smiled. “Sir, this is truly a banner day for your family. It happens I'll also be in need of a housekeeper. You don't have any other children, do you?” he asked with mock fear.

Mr. Stavers laughed. “Two daughters, sir, but they are well married and off on their own.”

“Thank goodness. My house isn't all that big. Thank you, Mr. Stavers. Someday you will know how much this means.”

 

“I don't know if I'll be able to be pleasant to Jeffrey,” Marjorie said. “I keep picturing my hands about his throat.”

Next to her in the carriage, Dorothea laughed. “I think I'm going to enjoy this far more than I should.”

They were attending the opera at Covent Garden. Jeffrey was to be in their box and George was to be in Charles's. It was rather nice that the boxes were nearly facing each other, making it practically impossible for Jeffrey to miss spotting George. Marjorie couldn't wait to see the look of surprise on his lying face.

The past few weeks had been filled with planning and pretense. It was decided that whenever Jeffrey spied George, he would be wearing similar clothes to those he'd been wearing the night he was accosted, a memorable green suit with orange vest. Dorothea, she, and Charles had had quite a lot of fun coming up with various scenarios where Jeffrey would briefly see George.

Not long after they'd devised their plan, Jeffrey had been invited to dinner, where Marjorie and Dorothea sat forlorn, and Jeffrey, the cad, pretended along with them.

“I fear something terrible has happened to him,” Marjorie had said. “But the police will do nothing. They say he could be anywhere, with anyone. But I know they're wrong. I know George would never disappear without a word.”

“It does seem unlikely,” Jeffrey had said before shoving a large bit of broiled beef into his lying mouth.

“We think he may have been shanghaied,” Dorothea said, and it was all Marjorie could do not to burst out laughing. This had not been part of the plan, so she was completely taken off guard by her mother's statement. “It may be years before he makes his way back. No doubt he'll write and we'll know he's fine before long. Those Americans are always coming to port and stealing men.”

Jeffrey nearly choked. “Surely, that couldn't have happened.”

“I'd rather that than the alternative,” Dorothea said.

“And what is that, Mother?”

“He could have run off with some lightskirt,” she said, and Marjorie dug the nails of one hand into the palm of another to stop from giggling.

Jeffrey had given Dorothea a look of pure disbelief. “Those are your theories? Surely you've realized that something darker may have happened. Have you looked in the hospitals? The dead houses?”

Marjorie gave Jeffrey a level look and used all her willpower not to let him know she knew precisely what had happened to her brother. “We did, as a matter of fact. We found nothing. We've scoured every hospital in the city and found nothing. It's such a relief. And so we've concluded he must have run off—”

“—or been shanghaied,” Dorothea put in.

“Or been shanghaied, as difficult as that is to believe.”

Jeffrey seemed rather upset by that conclusion, and Marjorie glared at him as he looked down at his plate, only to smile pleasantly when he raised his head. “He could have fallen into the Thames,” he suggested.

Dorothea had struck the table with her palm, making Jeffrey start in surprise. “I'll have no more of this talk. George is not dead. I refuse to believe it. I'll have no more talk of this.”

Of course, there was more talk of it. Over the next few days, the two women spent an inordinate amount of time with Jeffrey. They explained to him sweetly that they felt so much safer having a man about the house and accompanying them to various amusements. As each day passed, Jeffrey became visibly more and more uncomfortable with all the talk of George. Finally, he pulled Marjorie aside.

“I think your mother must come to the conclusion your brother is not coming back.”

Marjorie looked at him as if he were quite mad. “Why ever would you say such a thing? Of course he's coming back.”

“Yes, yes. I hope that too, with all my heart, but at some point, you are going to have to acknowledge that he very well may have died. I do hate to say it, dear cousin, but what other conclusion can we possibly draw?”

Marjorie smiled. “That he was shanghaied. Or has run off. I refuse to contemplate that he is no longer with us. As does Mother.”

“But at some point won't you have to consider the future of—” He stopped abruptly.

Marjorie tilted her head curiously. “The future of what?”

Jeffrey shook his head. “Just . . . the future,” he mumbled.

Yes, this night at the opera would be wonderful. God, how she loathed him. Every time he said George's name, she wanted to shout at him. No, strike him. Hard. In his smug mouth.

“I feel like a child at my own birthday party,” Dorothea said as their carriage pulled up in front of the Royal Opera House. “There he is.”

Jeffrey stood waiting for them under the center arch. “I don't know how you do it, Mother. You are a far better actress than I.”

“I've had years of practice, my dear.”

Marjorie laughed and stepped out of their carriage with the assistance of a footman. Dorothea was next, and when the two women were on the ground, they walked toward Jeffrey, who looked dashing in his evening attire.

“Shall we go immediately to our box?” Dorothea said, which meant, of course, that they should immediately go to their box. The plan was for the three of them to sit in the box and have George appear right before the intermission. Jeffrey would no doubt rush off to find him, but George would be long gone.

Marjorie sat next to Jeffrey, her stomach a jumble of nerves. What if Jeffrey failed to notice George? What if he leapt up immediately and gave chase? Worse, what if he saw him and appeared delighted, throwing doubt on George's story.

If the Queen of England were sitting next to Marjorie during that performance, she wouldn't have noticed. By the time the first act was ending, she was so tense, she could hardly breathe. And then, George, his red hair seeming to glow, appeared sitting right next to Charles. Jeffrey was oblivious.

Marjorie looked at Charles, who was clearly waiting for Jeffrey to look up and across the room, but Jeffrey seemed riveted by what was happening on stage. Marjorie hadn't known that Jeffrey was such a fan of the opera.

Then, Charles, bless him, clapped loudly at an inopportune moment, drawing several eyes toward his box—including Jeffrey's. Marjorie ignored the clap, but was aware the moment Jeffrey spied George. He stiffened noticeably and let out a small sound that was difficult to interpret. Jeffrey looked back at Marjorie, as if to see whether she also saw her brother, and when he looked back to the box, George was gone. Marjorie wanted to shout out with joy.

Jeffrey leaned over to her. “I swear I just saw your brother sitting with Mr. Norris. Is that possible?”

Marjorie looked across the theater. “I don't see anyone who looks like George.”

“Not now. Before. He was there, then he disappeared.”

“I daresay, Mr. Norris would have told us if George had shown up at the opera, Jeffrey,” Marjorie said softly. “But perhaps we should investigate during the intermission. Oh, I do hope you're right.”

“Yes, as do I,” Jeffrey said, sounding vague and troubled.

On stage, a tenor was singing his last note, marking the end of the first act. After the applause, Marjorie stood. “Mother, Jeffrey claims to have seen George sitting with Mr. Norris. We're going to investigate.”

“What? George is here?” Dorothea seemed so genuinely delighted and surprised, that for a moment Marjorie thought her mother had forgotten their ruse. “Of course you should go. I do hope it is. Though, why wouldn't he have sat with us?”

As Marjorie was leaving, her mother gave her the most impish smile, almost making her look like a young girl. Jeffrey and Marjorie made their way through the crush of people to Charles's box, only to find him there with an elderly man he introduced as his uncle.

“Was there no one else in your box? I looked over and saw another man here,” Jeffrey said, looking a tad worried.

“Another man? No, it was just my uncle and me.”

“He thinks he saw George sitting with you,” Marjorie said, sounding bewildered. “It gave me such hope.”

Jeffrey looked around the small box as if someone might be hiding. “I swear I saw a man with red hair sitting right by you.”

“Are you certain it was my box you were looking at?”

“Very certain,” Jeffrey said, now sounding angry. He took a deep breath. “I suppose I could have been mistaken.”

“We all want to find him so much,” Marjorie said with sympathy, but behind her cousin's back she wrinkled her nose in distaste.

The evening was a great success. Jeffrey's confusion was palpable, and over the next few days, it grew even worse. He saw George in a bookstore, walking along the street, in Hyde Park. And in every instance, by the time he was able to investigate, George had disappeared. Making matters worse for poor, poor Jeffrey, no one he was with saw George. He was clearly becoming rattled.

Three days after the opera, Jeffrey came for tea, looking haggard and on edge. They sat in the front sitting room, which faced the street, talking over the clatter of the occasional carriage that went by, for it was a warm day and the windows were open to allow a breeze. Marjorie sat by the window, nibbling on a small sandwich, and her mother sat next to Jeffrey on the settee. They talked of the upcoming regatta and made plans to all go together. Though Marjorie tried to engage Jeffrey in the conversation, he muttered only a few words, then grew silent.

“Are you not feeling well, Jeffrey?” she asked innocently.

Her cousin shook his head. “I haven't been sleeping well. This whole thing about George has me a bit rattled.”

“I'm sure we'll have word from him any day now,” Dorothea said cheerfully, and Jeffrey gave her a look of complete disbelief.