An Elegant Façade (Hawthorne House Book #2) (14 page)

At the entrance to the ballroom Colin froze, his concern rising to disastrous levels.

Four dummies had been pulled into the ballroom. Ryland stood several feet away from them, throwing knives into various parts of the straw bodies. Once he’d emptied his hands, he collected the knives and started again.

“You might as well come in since you’re here,” he said after emptying his hands once more.

Colin strode into the ballroom as Ryland collected the knives. “I thought things were going better?”

He’d been deliberately staying away from all things related to the Hawthorne females for the past week, but his friendships with Ryland and Trent meant he’d still heard how things were going. The last he’d heard concerning Miranda was that she was on the verge of not only forgiving Ryland but admitting she loved him as well. What had gone wrong?

Ryland slung a knife through the air with particularly heavy
force. It buried to the hilt in the chest of the tallest dummy. “I love her too much to let her get killed.” He speared Colin with a glare. “You aren’t supposed to be here either.”

“I took a smuggler ship to France so you’d have food to bribe those villagers with. After that, sneaking in through your kitchens seems simple.” Colin crossed his arms over his chest.

Ryland scoffed. “It was your own ship, and you made me take a rowboat to the edge of the cove.”

Colin shrugged.

“The case has gone bad. He knows we’re after him, and he’s threatening us.”

Colin waited. Ryland had been a spy for nine years. His life had been threatened more times than Colin wanted to count. There had to be more to the story.

“He threatened
her
.”

Air whooshed from Colin’s lungs. This was what he’d been afraid of when Ryland didn’t truly walk away from the case. “Is she safe?”

“She should be. As long as I stay away from her. I haven’t seen her for three days. If I continue to stay away, our man might think she isn’t that important to me after all.”

It was possible Lady Miranda would think the same thing. Now Colin understood the knife throwing.

“Do you know who?”

“I have my suspicions, but until he’s caught, I can’t do anything.”

Colin shifted his weight from foot to foot as Ryland threw three more knives in quick succession. “What can I do?”

Ryland sighed and rubbed a hand over his forehead. “Nothing. I’ve got a man checking on a suspect’s estate, like you taught me to do. Once he gets back I’ll know more. Until then, stay away. We aren’t publicly connected. The fewer targets this maniac has, the better.”

Georgina’s misgivings continued the next day. The weather obliged her sour mood and opened the skies to pour a deluge of rain across London.

She couldn’t afford second thoughts. Ashcombe wasn’t exactly tripping over his feet to call upon her, but he was showing more interest than anyone else on her list. As much as she didn’t believe the duke was pursuing Miranda, Georgina also didn’t truly believe that he wanted her either. Other than the dance at the masquerade, the duke had all but ignored Georgina. She’d made the mistake of not encouraging any of the other men earlier this Season, choosing to focus on the duke instead. Now any marital intentions those men possessed were being directed at other young ladies.

Panic nibbled at Georgina’s toes, sending a restless energy across her shoulders and down to her fingers. She set off for the solarium, where she’d set up her paints earlier that morning. A few well-placed slashes of color and all of this would start to make sense. Everything made more sense when she was painting. At least then things turned out the way she wanted them to.

The canvas waited, pristine and untouched, a perfect surface for her to create anything she wished. If only life were as easy
to construct. But life had more than one painter, and the picture seemed to be changing faster than she could adjust.

She yanked open the drawer of her paint box and withdrew her palette and brushes. The colors blended as she fixed her paints with less care than normal. Muddy browns and greys marred the edges of the vibrant colors as they infringed on each other’s space. She would have to select the paint she used with care.

Just like her husband.

Not that she was entirely certain she had a choice, but it was possible the earl wouldn’t suit her needs. It was one reason why he originally had been so low on her list of potential suitors.

He was rich, handsome, and many ladies sought his attention. But once he was married, would his position remain supreme? If his popularity was tied to his bachelor status, it would dissipate upon marriage, and then where would she be?

In a better position than pitied spinster—that’s where.

The fact that the earl wasn’t always a very nice man could not even be allowed to enter the consideration.

Georgina swirled her paintbrush in a dollop of pink paint.

The waratah in the conservatory was the perfect muse for her current mood. She’d never seen such an ugly flower in her life. What had possessed the caretaker to plant such a thing?

Vibrant colors sliced across the canvas, their lines a bit harsher than the plant actually called for, but she wasn’t feeling soft at the moment.

She was feeling desperate.

“Don’t marry Ashcombe.”

At first Georgina thought the strangled, whispered words had come from her own mind, so her paintbrush never stopped moving. Conversations with herself were a fairly common occurrence after all. When one kept as vital a secret as she did, her options for honest discussion were limited.

Then she realized the interruption had been Miranda, who appeared to have come to the conservatory for the express purpose of dispensing her sisterly advice.

Georgina kept the paintbrush moving. “Whyever not? He’s extremely eligible. I would of course prefer a marquis or a duke or even one of those foreign princes, but they seem to be out of town. If I must settle for an earl, let him be a rich and popular one.”

“But he’s awful.”

Hearing her sister voice the same concern she herself had brought up mere moments earlier strengthened the panic. The earl was a good idea. He had to be.

Georgina turned to glare at her older sister. “Because he didn’t want you? There are a hundred reasons why he might not have offered for—”

Miranda stepped forward. “He did.”

“No, he didn’t.” Georgina swallowed. He couldn’t have. If Lord Ashcombe had offered for Miranda and been turned down, that made Georgina a paltry second choice. It was bad enough to accept a man who’d been turned down, but turned down by one’s own sister . . . ?

Miranda sat on the vacant stool beside Georgina. “Yes, he did. He went to Griffith to work out the details.”

Georgina turned back to her painting but didn’t apply the brush to the canvas. Maybe things hadn’t truly progressed as far as Miranda thought. After all, Georgina hadn’t known about it and she’d hung on every possible piece of gossip for the past three years. “What happened? Obviously you didn’t marry him.”

“He wanted . . .” Miranda swallowed. Whatever tale she had to tell was clearly difficult.

Should she take Miranda’s hand? Make one of those humming noises Harriette used so often? Georgina had never been cast in the role of comforter.

With a deep breath, Miranda was once more her strong collected self. “He wanted land. It was his condition. If the estate from Papa’s mother wasn’t included in the dowry, he would rescind his attentions.”

So he hadn’t ever truly made Miranda an offer. Georgina applied herself to mixing more pink paint. Honestly, if a small
parcel of land bought Georgina permanent acceptance, she’d pay it gladly.

Miranda wasn’t done making her point though. “He didn’t care about me. All that mattered was what he could gain from Griffith through the match.”

The words sliced into Georgina’s heart, laying open a place she rarely allowed herself to look. It didn’t matter if her future husband cared about her. It couldn’t.

She gently dabbed against the canvas. The choking feeling in her throat made her words low. “He must have cared a bit. He was willing to marry you.”

“He was willing to marry Griffith’s connections.” Miranda licked her lips. “He’s still willing to marry for them.”

And Miranda didn’t want Georgina being a pawn like so many other young ladies.

As if Miranda could understand Georgina’s problem.

That’s because you haven’t told her.

The new voice in her head made her jump. She covered the jitters by exchanging her brush for another, amazed she didn’t fumble the entire box to the floor.

What was Mr. McCrae doing as the voice of reason in her head? His one moment of good advice did not give him the right to set up permanent residence in her mind.

She stabbed at the painting. “Get out.”

Miranda winced and turned to leave the room.

Georgina hadn’t been directing the command at Miranda, but she didn’t call her sister back. The truth was her plan was beginning to lose a bit of its appeal now that she was actually in it. Marrying for love was a family tradition.

Her mother had even managed to do it twice, surprising herself most of all when she ended her widowed status a year and a half ago.

Miranda refused to settle for anyone who didn’t want her for herself alone. An unreasonable requirement, but then again, she had no reason to relinquish her ideals.

Miranda wasn’t fundamentally flawed.

Neither are you.

Georgina dropped the brush and it bounced against the canvas before falling to the floor. How had the man gotten inside her head? He’d never even said such words to her. What made her think he would be more supportive than anyone else? He didn’t even know her secret.

She picked up the brush and frowned at the canvas. A deep green streak sliced through her partially completed flower. Another endeavor failed because of the interference of Mr. McCrae.

This was getting ridiculous.

Colin’s neck was stiff from spending the night carefully positioned in a chair so as not to muss his clothing overmuch. He’d gone away as Ryland requested, but only the short walk to his club. His home was a twenty-minute hackney ride away, and if Ryland needed him, Colin wanted to be able to get there quickly.

Lord Trent’s arrival had been a welcome distraction. Especially when the rain began to fall in torrential buckets.

Since the rain had never let up and neither man had pressing engagements, they’d both stayed. It was now approaching midnight. Before long Colin was going to be making himself comfortable in a club chair once more.

The number 6 billiard ball dropped into the pocket with a satisfying thud. Colin grinned at the scowl on Lord Trent’s face. They’d been meeting regularly for billiards, and those pressure-free moments were fast becoming Colin’s favorite times of the day, even when he wasn’t trying to forget that his closest friend was tracking down a criminal in a monsoon.

Lord Trent was uncomplicated. Colin rather appreciated having a friend who didn’t risk his life on a regular basis and had little to no interest in Colin’s investment acumen.

“I believe you’ve been deliberately deceiving us, Mr. McCrae. Word around the club is that your billiards game is only slightly
above mediocre.” Lord Trent leaned on his cue stick and raised his eyebrows.

Colin choked on air, and his next shot went wide, bouncing erratically against the edges of the table. “The club discusses my billiard prowess?”

Lord Trent lined his shot up with a grin and a scoffing laugh. “No. Well, not often. It was a passing remark.” His cue connected with the balls, sending a red orb swirling into a pocket. “Probably because Sir Humphry so rarely wins.”

“Perhaps I was preoccupied that day.”

“Perhaps you were trying to calculate the potential profitability of his new arc lamp.”

Colin couldn’t keep the grin off his face, though he knew it had to look smug. “I already knew the potential profitability of the arc lamp. Why else would I have invested in mining potash?”

Lord Trent’s low whistle accompanied the sinking of another ball. “Maybe we should be talking business instead of billiards.”

“Only if you want to get us kicked out of the club.”

Lord Trent’s next shot went wide of the intended pocket. “Not that I have much to invest. I leave the bulk of my funds in Griffith’s hands.”

“Then it’s doing well.” Colin rounded the table, looking for the best play.

“How would you know?”

“His Grace and I don’t play billiards.” Colin lined up his shot and sank two more balls.

Lord Trent laughed. “How long have you
not been playing billiards together?”

“More than three years. Long enough to know your money is in good hands.”

“True. But it’s probably time to grow up and handle it myself.” Lord Trent propped his hip against the table. “He gave me an estate, you know. Well, sold it to me, but we both know the price he charged was insanely low.”

“And the lease on a house in London as well, no?” Colin had
wisely kept his mouth shut about both transactions, even though Riverton could have made considerably more in both cases.

“Yes.” Lord Trent leaned over the table but didn’t take his shot. “So tell me, Mr. McCrae, if I were to take control of my own financial assets, what would I do first?”

Colin leaned against the table and crossed his arms. Even though the place was quiet due to the rainstorm, Colin chose his words with care. Who knew when the wrong ears would be listening? Despite the War Office contacts that had gotten him the club membership, he would be evicted in a moment if he violated the rules.

The servant approaching with a single piece of paper on a silver tray kept Colin from speaking further. “Pardon me, my lord. This message arrived for you.”

Lord Trent raised the crookedly folded and poorly sealed paper with lifted eyebrows. Whoever had sent it must have been in quite a hurry.

Which usually meant bad news.

Lord Trent’s face paled and his cue clattered to the ground, drawing the attention of the handful of men scattered about the other end of the room.

Colin scooped up the cue and pressed it into Lord Trent’s hand. “Finish the play.”

Lord Trent’s eyes were glazed as they looked up. “What?”

“Finish the play. Whatever’s in that note, it’s personal. And unless you want everyone in here nosing around in your business, you’ll shove it in your pocket and finish the play.” Colin made sure to keep his voice low and firm so to break through the haze that appeared to be engulfing Lord Trent’s thoughts.

As he looked around the table, Lord Trent’s eyes cleared and his posture stiffened. “Isn’t it your turn?”

Colin gave the younger man a mental pat on the back. He’d recovered nicely. “Doesn’t matter. Hit the ball.”

“Right.” Lord Trent leaned over the table to send the balls crashing into each other with no real direction. “I need to leave.”

“Of course, but let’s do it right.”

Colin was struggling with his own composure but managed to sink two balls before deliberately missing to give Lord Trent the final shot. The fact that the hasty note had come for Lord Trent and not Colin meant it had probably come from Riverton.

Which meant Lady Miranda might have become involved despite Ryland’s safety measures.

The last ball finally dropped into a pocket. The game had been played entirely out of order, but the table had been cleared.

“Ah, you win.” Colin pitched his voice loud enough to be heard by those nearby but not loud enough to draw undue attention. “I owe you those figures then. Do you want them now?”

Lord Trent’s grin was more wooden than normal, but genuine gratitude was in his eyes. “Of course. Can’t have you backing out. I’ll have a carriage brought around.”