Georgie Lee Page 2

  Martha yanked the lacing so hard Cathleen stumbled back a step, her skin crawling as the woman hissed over her shoulder. “You’ll do whatever we ask you to do or find yourself in the gutter. Now finish getting dressed and go downstairs. Lucien needs you.”

  Martha marched out of the room and Cathleen shoved the door shut. Turning, she caught the edge of the table with her knee, making the small glass bottles in their wooden holder on top rattle. She removed one, tilting it to the light. The dried raspberry leaves inside tumbled to the side.

  High voices outside caught her attention and she looked out the window and across the street to where a milkmaid stood at an iron gate speaking with a housekeeper. Other men and women passed them on the sidewalk, carrying trays of pies or bread or dressed for business. She watched the people, wishing she was secure in a small shop somewhere, selling her tinctures and liniments.

  Placing the bottle back with the others, she took stock of the remaining spices, noting with a sigh how little remained. When Thomas was alive, though they were never rich, she’d had enough to purchase her herbs. It all came to an end the morning a soldier from his regiment knocked on her door. She tapped the cork tighter on the bottle of dried nettle. Her shoulders slumped with the weight of how far she’d fallen since his death.

  “No,” she said out loud, pulling open the wardrobe. She couldn’t change the events of last night but she could use them to her advantage while thwarting Lucien and Martha. Slipping a plain brown muslin dress over her head, she continued to develop her plan. She doubted the earl would help her but she had to try. It was the only way she could hope to secure a better future for herself.

  * * *

  Devon followed the scarecrow of a butler downstairs, the morning stiffness in his thigh easing with each step. During the short walk, he took in the discolored wallpaper and the rectangular outlines of vanished paintings. Downstairs, the hallways were dark, the closed doors blocking out the morning sun except for one room where the door stood slightly ajar, revealing a single chair near the window.

  “Milord.” The butler bowed, stopping at a room near the front of the house.

  Devon stepped inside, noting the empty bookshelves and threadbare chairs decorating the small office. Closing the door behind him, he walked with purpose across the faded carpet and came to stand in front of the desk. Wells watched him with disapproval. Devon narrowed his eyes at the baronet, pinning him with the same look of disdain he reserved for pickpockets and prostitutes.

  “I brought you into my house last night because I couldn’t bear to leave you drunk in the gutter,” Wells began. “I did not think you, the Hero of Hougoumont, a man hailed for his bravery at Waterloo, would take advantage of my hospitality by seducing my sister.”

  “Wouldn’t it have been easier to take me to my own house?” Devon challenged, suspicious of Well’s story and his motives.

  “My house was closer. Given the late hour, it seemed easier to bring you here.”

  “And get me in your sister’s bed.”

  “You doubt my word, sir?” Wells challenged, gripping the arms of his chair.

  Sensing something practiced in all this theatrical anger, Devon laced his fingers behind his back. “Why don’t you tell me how you wish to resolve the matter? I have other business to attend to today.”

  Wells sat back, picking at the edge of the leather blotter. “My sister is a widow and free to make her own choices. However, since she is under my care, I can’t have her reputation tarnished because of your recklessness. Marriage of course would be the proper course of action.”

  Devon stood stone silent.

  “However, I know a man of your standing can’t be expected to make such a commitment based simply on the events of one night,” Wells continued, the edge in his voice faltering under Devon’s unrelenting stare. “As we’re both gentlemen of the world, we know every dalliance can’t end with a match. Surely you understand my meaning.”

  “I do not.”

  Wells cleared his throat, tugging on his cravat before sitting up straight and resting his elbows on the desk in a studied, thoughtful pose. “I’m prepared to forgive and forget this indiscretion, if you’re willing to make an appropriate restitution.”

  “How much?” Devon demanded in a low voice.

  Wells cleared his throat again. “One thousand pounds.”

  Devon fought the urge to reach across the desk and throttle the man. He didn’t think well of the lady he’d seduced, but to have her brother ransom her reputation in such a disgusting manner made his blood boil.

  “I’ll think on the matter.” Devon turned and headed for the door. Let the Wellses bandy the story about society. It would damage their reputations more than his.

  Wells hurried after him. “What do you mean, you’ll think on it?”

  Devon spun around, towering over the thinner man, who stopped short. “I believe I spoke clearly.”

  “But we’ve settled nothing.”

  “Would you prefer to call me out?”

  Lucien shrank back, his lip curling in disgust.

  “I see your sister’s reputation is not so precious to you.” Devon stormed into the foyer, stopping at the sight of Cathleen on the stairs. He narrowed his eyes at her.

  Unlike Wells, she didn’t flinch. Perhaps she felt bold from previous successful encounters and couldn’t bring herself to be ashamed. However, the slight redness creeping over her cheeks and the way she twisted her wedding ring on her finger made him think twice. Guilt wracked him a second time, but he ignored it, refusing to be drawn in by this woman again.

  “I’ll send word when I’ve made a decision,” Devon tossed over his shoulder and walked out the front door.

  Chapter Two

  The musicians at the end of the ballroom brought the reel to its energetic conclusion and polite applause filled the candlelit room. Devon clasped his hands behind his back, stepping closer to the wall to avoid the rush to form up the next set. Two matrons standing nearby eyed him hungrily, the stouter one inclining her head at her daughter in the hopes that the Hero of Hougoumont might ask her to dance. Thankfully, an older gentleman approached the homely young lady, sparing Devon the awkwardness of pretending he hadn’t seen the obvious invitation.

  Why did I bother coming tonight?

  Deep laughter drew his attention to a nearby group of young lords who were the worse for wine and boredom. Devon knew the men intimately—at least he had in the days before Waterloo. They’d all been at Oxford together before a certain restlessness drove Devon to purchase a commission. He remembered the night before he’d left for France, when they’d feted him at White’s. Through glass after glass of wine they’d spun tales of glory and bravery on the battlefield, joking and laughing until dawn. It was the last time Devon had been jovial in their presence or caroused like one of them. Living in comfort in London did not prepare gentlemen to understand the horrors of war. It certainly hadn’t prepared Devon.

  Lord Chisholm stood laughing with the men, tapping the lid of a silver snuff box. He caught Devon’s eyes and, offering his excuses to the others, wove his way through the crowd, bowing to the two matrons before reaching Devon.

  “Good evening, Malton.” Chisholm greeted him heartily, a large smile on his wide face. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you at one of these.”

  “I haven’t had the legs for dancing.” Devon tried to sound cheerful but the jest came out flat. Chisholm shifted slightly, covering the awkwardness by opening the snuff box and inhaling a pinch.

  “How are you doing, old chap?” Chisholm asked with genuine concern. Of all his old friends, only Chisholm ever attempted to understand what Devon had been through and how it changed him. The others expected the old Devon to return from Waterloo, accept the mantle of hero and parade it through town. They could barely fathom or tolerate the brooding man who’d come back in his place, refusing to be honored, unable to see the lives he’d saved, only the one man whose life he couldn’t. Their entreatie
s to forget the war soon grew louder than his mother’s and he began avoiding their company.

  “As well as can be expected. And you?”

  “Growing tired of those empty-headed louts. Where the bloody hell have you been? No one could crack a joke like you, especially at the expense of all these pretentious peacocks.”

  “There seems to be a larger flock this year,” Devon answered wryly.

  Chisholm snorted out a restrained laugh. “I see you haven’t lost your touch.”

  “Only my interest.”

  From across the room, Chisholm’s wife nodded for him to join her and he sighed. “My wife is in need of my services. Her cousin is in town for the Season. It seems we’re to launch her into society and hopefully the arms of a man with a title. Any interest, Malton?”

  Devon looked at the girl standing at Lady Chisholm’s arm. With her blonde hair elegantly coiffed and her pink beribboned dress the height of fashion, she might be sweet enough for some but she held no appeal for him. “None at all, thank you.”

  “You were smart not to spring the parson’s mousetrap. Perhaps I’ll see you at White’s?”

  “Perhaps.” They both knew it wasn’t likely.

  “Good night, Malton.” Lord Chisholm left to rejoin his wife and her cousin.

  Devon rolled his shoulders, trying to dispel the exhaustion sitting hard in his muscles. Despite the few hours of peace he’d enjoyed in the arms of Lucien’s sister, the endless nights chasing sleep and then wrenching himself from nightmares were taking their toll. The boredom of the ball only increased his fatigue.

  I should have stayed home. Chisholm was right, Devon usually avoided such gatherings but tonight he wanted, almost craved, company. Was this the faint beginning of his melancholy lifting, or was there another, more complicated reason?

  Thoughts of the woman from last night filled his mind. He remembered almost nothing of what had passed between them, but the sound of her soft voice and the memory of her soothing touch continued to haunt him. The warm smile he’d awakened to was so different from the steely gaze she’d fixed him with on the stairs, a look that didn’t hold the same hate she’d reserved for her brother and sister-in-law. Instead it spoke of defiance, as if neither Lucien nor Devon could destroy her. If only he could look his past in the eyes with the same determination, but the more time passed, the more he felt the past winning.

  The voice of the stout matron caught his attention.

  “If I was Sir Wells’s sister, I’d stay home instead of embarrassing myself in such an unfashionable dress.”

  “I’m sure it’s the best she can afford,” her thin friend tutted. “Considering her brother’s debts, it is a wonder they haven’t fled to France.”

  Devon’s body went rigid, all his fond remembrances gone in a flash of anger. Following the matron’s gaze, he spied Wells’s sister making her way through the crowd. She wore a white dress edged in the bright blue and red of the Egyptian style favored a few years ago. The simple look gave her a regal bearing none of the other women in their fashionable frills could match. The embroidered neckline dipped between the tantalizing crease of her breasts, the fitted bodice cupping their gentle curve before the skirt widened, flowing over round hips that swayed with her steady gait. She moved with purpose, like an officer on a mission. Her light brown eyes caught his, only breaking the connection when she stepped around a portly gentleman who scrutinized her through his gazing glass.

  Devon’s anger faded to a subtle ache deep in his loins. Two small curls freed from her upswept hair tantalized him with way they caressed the length of her neck. She pushed one away from her cheek with a hand swathed by an elbow length white glove. For a moment, he imagined her hand skimming his bare chest while he took the other, slowly drawing the glove down the length of her arm, his fingers tracing the delicate skin of her wrist before the glove dropped to the floor.

  She drew closer and Devon focused his attention on the dancers, shaking off the need tightening his body. He had no desire to speak with her and felt Wells’s hand in her approach. He hadn’t given the baronet an answer. No doubt he’d sent his sister to twist the garrote. It would do little good, for all the feminine entreaties in the world wouldn’t force him to make a decision tonight, or perhaps ever.

  Watching the couples progressing down the line, he sensed her beside him in the faint raspberry scent carrying over the candle smoke and the sweat of the crowd.

  “Lord Malton, it’s a pleasure to see you again.”

  “I cannot say the same, madame.” He took a step, ready to walk off, but she placed a firm hand on his arm.

  “Cut me if you must, but first please hear what I have to say.”

  He pulled his arm away, the pressure of her fingers still vivid on his skin. “If you seek an answer to your brother’s proposal, you will be disappointed.”

  “I wish to discuss something of a more delicate nature.”

  He leaned in close, dropping his voice to a hiss. “A little early to approach me about a by-blow.”

  She didn’t flinch or turn away.

  Straightening, he pulled on the sleeves of his coat, his curiosity piqued by her boldness. “Speak quickly.”

  The matrons watched, taking no pains to conceal their interest. Opening her fan, Wells’s sister fluttered it in front of her face as she moved around to his other side, placing him between her and the matrons’ curiosity. “Might we go somewhere more private?”

  “No doubt your brother will be on the other side of the door waiting to trap me again. This time I’ll challenge him to a duel and be rid of the problem.”

  She stopped the fan and lowered her voice. “I’d gladly welcome such an honorable end to my half brother. It’s certainly more than he deserves. I only wish you’d done it this morning. Then I could salvage what little is left of our father’s estate.”

  Her response surprised him and he flashed a sardonic smile. “Shall I call him out now?”

  “If it pleases you, but I have a more amiable solution for ridding us of him.”

  Devon, finding amusement for the first time since venturing out tonight, allowed curiosity to get the better of him. He studied the room. Society and the two matrons were captivated by Lady Felton, who partnered with a young man many believed to be her lover. No one would miss them. “We can discuss the matter in Lord Felton’s study. I’ll go first to make sure it’s empty. It’s down the narrow hall, off the main one, first door on the right.”

  He bowed and she curtseyed, then he started off through the crowd. Moving around a group of debating men, he strolled through the foyer, passing the wide gaming room doorway. Inside, Wells sat hunched across the table from Lord Rothdale, his face dark. His voluptuous wife stood behind him watching the cards, her eyes alight with barely concealed anger. He thought of warning Lord Rothdale about the danger of gambling with Wells, but judging by the way Lord Rothdale twirled the end of his mustache, he sensed the baronet was taking a well-deserved beating. Better to leave the scoundrel to his fate.

  The crowd thinned as he moved away from the door and down the hall. He turned a corner into a deserted hallway and slipped through the first door on the right. In the dimly lit room, the dusty smell of old paper mixed with smoke filled his nose. Coals smoldered in the grate and Devon removed one reed from the holder and lit the end, then lit the candles along the mantle. The gold letters on the books lining the shelves sparkled in the flickering light, which danced when the door opened. He didn’t turn to greet her, hearing the door click shut as he waved out the reed and tossed it in the grate.

  “Lock it. I have no desire to be surprised by your brother, no matter how earnestly you wish to be rid of him.”

  She nodded, and turned the brass key in the lock.

  Walking to the settee and taking a seat, she studied the high wall of books across from her. “My father’s library looked like this once, before Lucien inherited it.”

  “Yes, his debts are well known in society, which explains his des
ire to fleece men like me.”

  “I’m truly sorry for what he’s done to you.”

  “Are you?” He moved to a nearby table and removed the stopper from a crystal decanter, then reached for an empty glass. “It seems you traded your wares quite easily. Though I don’t understand how a brother could barter his sister’s good name for money, nor how his sister could so easily go along with his scheme.”

  “Perhaps if you had not been so drunk, Lucien wouldn’t have caught you in his trap.”

  He froze, the decanter hovering over the glass, the amber liquid dancing dangerously close to the edge but not spilling over. He replaced the stopper and returned the decanter and glass to the table. Taking the chair across from her, he traced his fingers over the brass nail heads decorating the leather arm. “I assume you brought me here to discuss more than my drinking habits?”

  “I brought you here because I’ve heard a great deal about your bravery in France. You see, my husband fell at Waterloo.”

  His hands tightened on the leather. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you. When he was alive we weren’t rich, but we were happy and comfortable. After he died, fate saw fit to cast me upon the mercy of a half brother who’d gladly see me starve if I didn’t participate in his devious plans.”

  “Surely you have other family. Perhaps your husband’s family might take you in?”

  “Do you truly believe I’d debase myself if I possessed other options?”

  “I don’t know what you’re capable of doing except bedding a man you don’t know.”

  “We did not indulge.”

  He sat up straight, the words hitting him like a slap. “Excuse me?”

  “Nothing happened between us.”

  He stared at her, not sure how to answer, fighting through the haze of his memories for the truth. He remembered her hands on him in the darkness, his nakedness, but nothing more. “You were beside me when I woke.”