A Regency Invitation to the House Party of the Season (23 page)

She nodded, biting her lip.

He swore as he gave the horses the office. He had practically taken their lodgings apart searching for some clue to her whereabouts. There had been no note. And no pearl necklace. An appalling suspicion took root. ‘Georgie—William called, didn’t he?’

‘Yes. The…the next morning. He was very much concerned about the gossip—’

‘Gossip? What gossip?’

‘About…about our quarrel—what you said…’

He’d been out of society for too long. He couldn’t quite believe that there had been gossip. With Napoleon over the frontier and marching on Brussels, a battle looming that would decide the fate of all Europe…‘Wait a moment—you say
William
mentioned gossip?’

‘And Lady Carrington. She called as well.’

Anthony bit off a savage curse. He might have known it. Lady Carrington, supposedly chaperoning Georgie, had been icily disapproving of the match, seeing it as most unequal. Especially when she had her own daughter to establish and had thought his visits to the house were to court Miss Carrington, not the penniless nobody she had taken in at her husband’s insistence.

‘What did she say?’

Georgie flushed and turned away.

‘Tell me.’

‘That I would be lucky if you didn’t divorce me. That I had disgraced myself and your name. That—’

‘Enough. Georgie—didn’t you realise that she was being spiteful? That she was furious at our marriage? And—’

‘It was no worse than what you said!’

‘What
I
said?’

‘That you would not tolerate being cuckolded, that you would decide what to do about our marriage when you returned. That…that you had been a fool to marry a designing little trollop! That if I had so little understanding of my
duty
, then I might as well take myself off and save you the trouble! That you would only tolerate my lovers
after
I had provided your heirs!’

Stunned, Anthony heard those words as they would have been heard by a seventeen-year-old bride of two weeks, in the most public of public places, on top of his stipulation that he wanted a marriage of convenience for an heir. That the question of love did not enter into their union.

God help him, she had believed his angry words. So she had left, assuming that he would not care, would be only too glad to be rid of her. With bitter certainty he knew she had taken nothing. She had sold her mother’s wedding ring to get home. He wouldn’t have blamed her if she’d sold her own.

‘Georgie…’ His voice died in his throat as he saw her face. Shuttered, leached of all colour and expression. As though she could no longer bear to feel anything. ‘Georgie, I—’ Too late. They were drawing into Lynd. The public street was no place for this particular discussion. He’d learnt that lesson at least.

Instead he pulled up outside the inn and yelled for someone to take the horses.

A lad came running out. ‘Morning, Major!’

‘Hold ’em!’ snapped Anthony, softening the harsh command by flicking the boy a shilling. He leapt out of the curricle and strode into the inn.

Georgie watched him go, her mind whirling. He had never found the note. And someone had stolen the pearls. But who? Certainly not Timms. He was devoted to Anthony.

Did Anthony believe her? He had accepted her word about kissing Justin. He had even apologised. But this—all he had done was ask if Mr Lyndhurst-Flint had called…Her racing thoughts faltered, stumbled. No. It couldn’t be true.

William Lyndhurst-Flint. They kept coming back to him. Somehow he had confused the message she had given him for Anthony. Could
he
have stolen the pearls? And destroyed her note? To create trouble? But why?

The reason for Anthony’s house party crashed in upon her. He had intended to choose an heir. William Lyndhurst-Flint, with no fortune or expectations, had been a possible candidate. Had he always seen himself as Anthony’s heir?

A familiar deep voice jerked her out of the nightmare.

‘Thank you, Harry. Remember—do it quietly. And get word to me the minute you hear anything. Nothing else.’ Anthony had emerged from the inn with a stout florid individual who could only be the innkeeper.

‘Oh, aye, Major. Now let me get this straight. Middling tall. Thin. About forty? And brown hair. Wavy. Brown eyes.’

Anthony cast a very harassed glance at Georgie, and
said hurriedly, ‘Yes, yes. That’s all, man. I’ll not keep you any longer.’

‘Not at all, Major,’ the innkeeper assured him. He glanced up at Georgie and touched his forelock. ‘Morning, ma’am.’

She wilted under the blatant curiosity in his eyes, but murmured a greeting, wondering for whom Anthony was searching.

Anthony sighed. ‘Ah, yes. My dear, permit me to present Harry Bamford. Harry—this is Mrs Lyndhurst. My wife.’

Bamford tripped over his own feet. Recovering, he spluttered some sort of apology and stared at her.

Georgie smiled politely. She would have to get used to this.

Anthony intervened. ‘Yes, well. I won’t keep your boy any longer, Harry. Thank you, Davy.’ He tossed the boy another shilling.

The boy grinned. ‘Thank’ee, sir.’

Anthony’s smile flashed out as he ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘Have you been fishing recently, Davy?’

‘No, sir. Me mam says as you might’ve of changed your mind.’

‘Well, you’d better do some. Before you forget how. Tell your mother I haven’t changed my mind. Come in the evening. The trout are jumping then.’

‘Yessir!’

Anthony climbed back into the curricle and they drove out of the village.

‘What was that about?’ asked Georgie.

‘Hmm? Oh. Davy likes to come and fish. His mother was my nanny.’ He grinned reminiscently. ‘You could say I’ve a fellow feeling for the lad.’

Georgie was silent, trying to reconcile the man who
offered to find ponies for his young cousins and gave permission for an urchin to fish in his stream, with the man who wanted an heir. Then she caught the careful glance he was giving her and realised his strategy had nearly worked.

‘I meant—who is this man you asked about?’

Anthony’s face hardened. ‘Nothing that you need concern yourself about. A private matter.’

‘I see.’ She kept her voice steady with an effort. Any right she might have had to ask had been forfeited when she left him. Carefully, she said, ‘You don’t consider him dangerous, then?’

‘What?’

‘Surely, if I need not concern myself—’ She glanced at him and saw that his face had gone absolutely white.

‘You are to remain within the house and gardens unless you are with me,’ he said harshly.

‘But—’

‘The house and gardens,’ he repeated. ‘I’ve no intention of losing you again.’

Another Keep Out sign. Very well, she’d have to find out some other way. And whether or not William Lyndhurst-Flint could possibly have stolen the pearls.

‘O
h, good shot, Amy!’ Sarah, Countess of Mardon, clapped enthusiastically.

Aunt Harriet snorted. ‘Humph! Any gel who could account for Marcus Sinclair, within five minutes of him laying eyes on her again, has to be expert with a bow and arrow. Never seen anything like it!’

She shot a furtive glance at Sarah. ‘In fact, I’m fast coming to the conclusion that the men in this family are all more than capable of choosing the right female, without
my
advice! And even Cassie has come to her senses!’

Lady Quinlan laughed and set down her lemonade. ‘Mmm. Lovely. Is there any more?’

Georgie looked at the jug. ‘I think you’ve finished it,’ she said smiling. ‘I’ll fetch some more.’ She set off back to the house.

A moment later she heard Lady Quinlan’s voice. ‘Cousin! Wait please!’ Lady Quinlan was hurrying after her.

‘Is there something else?’ asked Georgie.

Lady Quinlan nodded. ‘Aunt Harriet would like a shawl.’

‘Very well. I’ll bring it.’

‘I could fetch the shawl,’ suggested Lady Quinlan.

Georgie looked at her sharply. There were things she needed to know. Things that Lady Quinlan might be able to tell her. ‘Thank you, Lady Quinlan,’ she said politely.

They strolled on, silence awkward between them.

Georgie didn’t think what she was about to ask would improve matters. ‘Lady Quinlan—do you know of a man answering the following description: medium height, thin, fortyish? With wavy brown hair and brown eyes?’

Lady Quinlan looked her surprise. ‘Why would I…oh! That sounds like that horrible man of William’s. Anthony dismissed him before you arrived.’ She flushed. ‘He was…er…behaving…er…inappropriately with my chaperon. She was dismissed as well.’

‘Oh,’ said Georgie. Then Anthony had merely been ensuring that an unsavoury character left the neighbourhood. She could well understand that he would want as few people as possible to know about the
inappropriate behaviour
. Lady Quinlan’s crimson cheeks were enough to give her the general idea.

They were approaching the terrace.

‘One other thing, Lady Quinlan.’ She took a very deep breath. ‘Why did Mr Sinclair kick you at breakfast?’

Lady Quinlan stopped dead, biting her lip.

‘Lady Quinlan?’

‘Did Anthony say anything about taking you to town?’ she asked eventually.

‘No,’ said Georgie. ‘But you said he couldn’t. Why not? Not that I wish to go, but—’

‘He isn’t received in London,’ said Lady Quinlan, a touch of bitterness in her voice.

Not received? Georgie tried without success to imagine why a well-born, wealthy and charming gentleman would not be received. ‘But—’

‘There was gossip. After Waterloo,’ said Lady Quinlan. ‘People around here know it was all nonsense, but London is different. People said that he ought to have been cashiered.’

‘But
why
? It doesn’t make sense…’

‘No?’ asked Lady Quinlan gently. ‘Tell me—would you want to associate with a man you believed had murdered his wife and ensured that her lover died in battle?’

‘No.
No.
’ What should have been a scream of protest came out as a broken whisper as the ground seemed to shift beneath her.

‘Yes,’ said Lady Quinlan. ‘That is why Marcus is in danger of arrest. Because he defended Anthony’s honour, and then the man he argued with was nearly murdered! So Marcus was accused. Forgive me if you do not like to hear this, but I am very fond of Anthony!’

Blindly Georgie nodded. She took a couple of steps and stopped, waiting for the world to steady.

‘Cousin?’

The suddenly worried note in Lady Quinlan’s voice barely penetrated the daze of horror.

She had ruined his life. No wonder he wouldn’t divorce her. After a scandal like this he couldn’t afford it. And indirectly she was responsible for Mr Sinclair’s predicament. So much unhappiness. All because of her.

‘Cassie!’

‘Oh! It’s Peter, back early from the shooting!’

Georgie looked around. Sure enough, Lord Quinlan was striding towards them. Desperately, she clung to her control. ‘How lovely for you. Why don’t you join him and I will fetch the shawl and lemonade. And…and perhaps something stronger for his lordship.’

Lady Quinlan hesitated. ‘If you are sure…Are you feeling quite the thing?’

Georgie summoned up a smile. ‘Oh, yes. I won’t be long.’

By the time she returned to the archery party with the lemonade and shawl, as well as ale for Lord Quinlan, she had managed to scrub away all traces of tears. To her relief, Lord Quinlan was regaling the other ladies with a highly coloured account of the day’s bag, which included an old boot retrieved by one of Anthony’s younger dogs.

‘If you could but have seen his face!’ chuckled Quinlan. ‘And the dog looked so dashed pleased with himself!’

Georgie laughed with the rest of them, pretending that she didn’t see the searching look Aunt Harriet directed at her. This time she must sort it out for herself.

She made the swiftest toilette that she could, remembering Anthony’s request that she leave him in privacy the previous day. She was still pinning up her hair when Timms appeared, staggering under the weight of a large copper can for Anthony’s bath.

‘Evening, mistress,’ he said cheerfully. ‘The Major’s just cleaning his gun. Be up soon, I dare say.’

Flushing, Georgie worked faster. She’d better hurry, then.

A knock on the door sent pins pattering across the floor.

‘Come—who is it?’ Her voice came out very huskily.

‘Quinlan.’ The door opened and Lord Quinlan strode in, frowning.

‘Oh!’ He blushed. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Saun…er, Mrs Lyndhurst. Thought it was Lyndhurst’s voice. I’ll take myself off. Thought he’d be up by now.’

Mutely she shook her head.

Lord Quinlan regarded her oddly. ‘Mrs Lyndhurst, are you feeling quite the thing?’

‘Yes,’ she lied. ‘I believe—that is, Timms tells me that Anthony is cleaning his gun.’

‘Ah. I’ll look in the gun room, then.’

Anthony locked the gun cupboard and put away the rags and oil. He could put it off no longer. He glanced out of the window at the deepening sky. Georgie would be dressed for dinner by now. He had to talk to her, beg her forgiveness for that morning.

The door opened and Quinlan walked in. ‘Ah, there you are.’

Anthony looked up at him, frowning. ‘Is something wrong?’

Quinlan’s mouth tightened. ‘I’m afraid so. You…er…might have noticed that ring Cassie has been wearing?’

Anthony nodded. ‘Yes.’

‘I gave it to her as a betrothal ring. My mother’s, actually.’ He grimaced and added, lightly enough, ‘About the only thing my father
didn’t
hock.’

Anthony winced. Despite the wry mockery, he knew damn well that what Quinlan had gone through with the Marquis was enough to sour anyone.

‘Thing is, Lyndhurst, it’s the only thing I had to give her, and, well, the blasted thing’s gone.’

Every drop of blood congealed as all the ramifications of that streaked through Anthony’s mind. ‘Gone?’ He clutched at the only straw in sight. ‘You don’t mean she’s lost it?’

It didn’t need Quinlan’s categoric headshake to consign that forlorn hope to the flames. ‘I don’t think so,’
he said. ‘She took it off before we went riding this morning. Doesn’t fit too well under gloves, of course. I saw her put it in her jewel case myself. She only looked for it just now.’

‘Damn it all to hell,’ said Anthony, conscious that his response was less than gracious. ‘Sorry, old man. I’ll call everyone together and then I suppose we’ll have to quiz the servants.’ He frowned. Hard to imagine any of them doing such a thing. They were all well paid and without exception they all adored Cassie.

‘You’re sure she put it in her jewel case? Not some other safe spot?’

Quinlan shook his head. ‘Quite sure. Look, Lyndhurst, I can understand your reluctance to call in a magistrate, what with all the trouble Sinclair is in, but that ring—well, it was my mother’s betrothal ring, and—’

‘It’s all right,’ Anthony forced a rueful smile. ‘You don’t have to explain.’ He knew exactly how Quinlan must feel. ‘I can assure you Marcus will say the same. We must get to the bottom of this.’ He swore. ‘Look,’ he went on, ‘I’ll go up and change for dinner. Could you tell Ufton that I want all the servants—
all
of them—together in the hall in half an hour?’

Quinlan nodded. ‘Thank you, Lyndhurst.’ His mouth quirked. ‘Er…is half an hour enough for you?’

Despite his anger, Anthony chuckled. ‘Not being a London dandy, like some I could mention, half an hour should be ample. And you may tell Cassie that if she finds that ring after all, I might just tan her backside for her!’

‘Cousin Georgiana! Is something wrong? What on earth is going on?’ asked Lady Mardon, coming into the drawing room just ahead of the Earl.

‘N…no,’ said Georgie. ‘What do you mean?’

‘The staff is in uproar,’ explained Lady Mardon, sinking gracefully into a chair. ‘Apparently Anthony has demanded that they all assemble in the hall in twenty minutes! Aunt Harriet is having a fit since the maid waiting on her is so upset, she broke a scent bottle all over the carpet!’ She wrinkled her nose. ‘It smells like a bordello in there.’

The Earl raised a languid brow. ‘While I admit that the atmosphere in Harriet’s room was a trifle overpowering, might one inquire precisely where your information about bordellos—
bordelli?
—was gained?’

‘One
might
,’ agreed Lady Mardon, ‘but, if one were sensible, one wouldn’t!’

The Earl gave a crack of laughter. ‘
Touché
. Remind me to enlarge your experience later on.’

Lady Mardon blushed and Georgie giggled. Obviously Lord Mardon wasn’t nearly as starched up as he appeared.

The Earl turned and stared.

Georgie felt all the blood drain out of her face. Oh, God! She’d just laughed—
laughed!
—at an Earl. And at his Countess. Over the sort of exchange that she ought to have pretended not to understand. Would she never grow up?

‘That’s much better, my dear,’ he said with a twinkle. ‘If I were you, I’d be thanking every god in the pantheon that Aunt Harriet
did
kick you out of her dressing room. Believe me, you don’t want to sleep in there tonight!’

‘Who doesn’t want to sleep where?’ asked Anthony, stalking in. Georgie swallowed. He looked furious. What had she done now?

‘Your wife,’ said the Earl. ‘Doesn’t want to sleep in Aunt Harriet’s dressing room. The maid broke a bottle
of scent. Upset apparently at your decree that the staff should assemble in the hall.’ He shrugged. ‘From the sounds of it, they all expect to be dismissed on the spot.’

‘John, don’t be so unfeeling,’ said Lady Mardon. ‘Something must be wrong. Anthony?’

He flicked a glance at Georgie. An uncomfortable glance, she thought.

‘We may as well wait until everyone is down,’ he said quietly. ‘No point in repeating it over and over.’

A chill condensed in Georgie’s stomach. His eyes were like flint. Hard, uncompromising. And he avoided her gaze.

The rest of the party assembled, Harriet fuming over the accident to her scent bottle. Mr Lyndhurst-Flint was the last to stroll in. ‘Devilish kick up,’ he said. ‘Why, I waited twenty minutes for my shaving water! Perhaps you might have a word to your staff, cousin.’ To Georgie’s shock he turned to her.

‘After all, they are your responsibility now.’

‘Stubble it, William,’ growled Mr Sinclair. ‘There are more pressing worries than your shaving water.’ He shot a glance at Anthony. ‘What’s all this about a missing ring?’

‘Cassie’s betrothal ring has been stolen,’ Anthony stated baldly. He flicked a glance at Georgie. ‘She left it behind when she went riding this morning and—’

‘Oh, nonsense!’ said Mr Lyndhurst-Flint with a scornful look at Lady Quinlan. ‘I dare say you’ve misplaced it.’

Lady Quinlan fixed him with a furious glare. ‘You may be careless with other people’s property, William! I am not! I placed it in my jewel case and Eliza saw me—’

He snorted. ‘There you are, then. It’s obvious. Come to think of it, she was sneaking off in a very havey-cavey sort of way this morning with Anthony’s man, what’s his name—’

‘Timms,’
snarled Anthony. ‘And I can think of far more likely contingencies than him having anything to do with it!’

‘Eliza wouldn’t do such a thing either!’ Cassie said abruptly.

‘Rot!’ said Mr Lyndhurst-Flint. ‘Servants. Really, Cassandra! This ridiculous taste of yours for low company is most unbecoming! Anyone would think—’

‘That you were about to offer my wife an apology.’ The edge in Quinlan’s voice would have shamed a razor.

Icy horror flooded Georgie as Anthony’s words echoed through her.
…I can think of far more likely contingencies than him having anything to do with it.
Surely, surely he didn’t think that
she
would have…She hung on to her self-control. He’d already shown how little he trusted her. If he thought she had taken the pearls, then—

‘Good God, Quinlan! Must you take a fellow up so?’ asked Mr Lyndhurst-Flint. ‘It’s plain enough. Ebdon saw her chance and—’

‘Enough, William!’ Anthony nearly exploded. ‘I’ll have no accusations against people not here to defend themselves. The staff should be gathered by now.’

Again his glance flickered to Georgie. She felt as if a knife had lodged deep inside. Gouging a fresh wound. One that might never heal.

Anthony drew a deep breath as he faced his staff.

‘I regret to say that Miss Cassie’s—rather, Lady Quinlan’s betrothal ring has been stolen. It will be necessary to—’ He broke off as an outraged babble erupted.
He didn’t blame them. ‘Necessary to question you all. We need to find out if anyone saw anything. Anyone who shouldn’t have been in Lady Quinlan’s chamber—’

‘Rubbish,’ said William. ‘All we need to do is find out where Ebdon sneaked off to this morning.’

Ebdon’s cry of frightened indignation was nearly lost as Anthony turned on William. ‘That’s enough!’