The Greatest Lover Ever (32 page)

When Lady Arden had made the introductions and the courtesies had been exchanged, Violet said, “Did you come to collect me for our ride, Georgie? I am sorry to have kept you waiting.”

This was said with a meaningful expression, but Georgie simply smiled back at her as she poured herself some tea. “There is no need to rush off.”

Setting her cup and saucer aside, Lady Arden said, “Perhaps you gentlemen would care for a canter yourselves? I am sure I should be most obliged to you if you’d keep my dear girls safe. They
will
insist on slipping away from their groom.”

The gentlemen eagerly assented, failing to observe Violet’s lowering expression.

“By Jove!” said Wootton, rubbing his hands together. “We shall make a merry party, shall we not? Have no fear, Lady Arden. We shall deliver the young ladies safely home.”

“You speak as if we were parcels,” said Violet, giving a false little trill of laughter that set Georgie’s teeth on edge.

Lord Palmer raised his quizzing glass to his eye in a rakish way that sat so ill with his open, youthful face, Georgie stifled a laugh. “And most charming parcels at that.”

Being a well-mannered girl, Violet made no further attempt to escape the inevitable. With a covert roll of her eyes at Georgie, she excused herself to change with an air of weary resignation.

Georgie’s opinion of their callers did not change, either during the ensuing conversation or when the four of them rode out. The gentlemen, true to their words, kept up such a dawdling pace, Georgie might have screamed with frustration if it weren’t so entertaining to watch Violet deal with her admirers.

The gentlemen were so relentlessly patronizing, Georgie couldn’t blame Violet for her response. She ran rings around the poor dim-witted fellows, confounding them with insults that were cleverly couched as compliments, appearing to agree with their pompous pronouncements while saying the exact opposite.

Upon their return to the house, Violet smiled and spoke softly and said everything that was polite and correct. As soon as the door closed behind them, however, she gave a primordial cry of repressed fury, ripped off her hat, and stormed up to her bedchamber, muttering all the while.

Georgie lifted the skirts of her habit and followed.

She reached the bedchamber in time to see her sister fling her hat into a chair and fall back onto the bed with a huff that stirred the puffs of blond hair framing her face. “I cannot bear it. I cannot do the season. Not if they’re all like that.”

“You are being a
little
overdramatic, aren’t you?” said Georgie.

“Dramatic?” said Violet. “Do you
know
what that fool of a Wootton said to me?”

“The part about ladies being delicate like little kittens or the part about our brains being smaller and thus less able to reason than men’s? I heard every lamentable word,” said Georgie. “But they are not all like that, Violet. I promise you.”

“I’ll wager some of them are worse.” She raised her head and let it fall against the bed again with a dull thump.

Georgie picked up her sister’s hat and dusted its crown with her hand. “Those boys are raw and silly but essentially harmless. It’s the men like Lord Pearce you need to keep at a distance.”

Violet raised her head and banged it again. “Ouch.” She put her hands up to her hair and yanked out a pin. “I cannot believe you would put me through an afternoon such as we’ve spent for an entire season,” she complained.

“Oh, have some sense, Violet!” said Georgie, suddenly exasperated. “You are not some simple country maid. You are the heiress to an estate with many dependents. You have an obligation to marry the sort of man whose interests dovetail with yours. Someone who will be a good steward of your land.”

Violet bit her lip. “I wish to Heaven Papa had left Cloverleigh to you.”

“Do you know something, Violet?” Georgie snapped. “So do I! But he didn’t, and we must both make the best our lot.” She threw up her hands. “Good gracious, just listen to me. Anyone would think you’d been saddled with a millstone around your neck instead of vast wealth, not to mention beauty and brains. Although sometimes, my girl, I question the last part.”

Not at all helpful, but Georgie was too angry to temper her words. She swept from the room, feeling for the first time that her sister was a very spoiled young woman, indeed.

Dinner that night was stilted and uncomfortable. Lady Arden’s stream of chatter did not make up for the tension between Violet and Georgie. For once, the older lady forbore to interfere, however, perhaps judging it best to leave them to sort out their own differences.

Georgie was too tense even to contemplate making amends with Violet. The knowledge that Beckenham might be carrying out his plans for Pearce at this very moment almost obliterated all else from her thoughts. She made an excuse to retire early, but that was a mistake. She couldn’t sleep for worrying.

She woke late the following morning, having only managed to fall into a restless slumber shortly before dawn. In a bid to clear her head, she went for a solitary ride, ignoring Beckenham’s demands that she take someone with her. She hated dragging a busy groom hither and yon at her whim.

She roamed the verdant countryside of Winford, feeling the fresh air and the sights and sounds of the fields and lanes calm her spirit. Upon crossing into Cloverleigh land, she stopped now and then to speak with one of the tenants.

They seemed surprised and pleased to be remembered, and she realized she’d been away from here for far too long. As she asked after their children, wives, husbands, and farms, Georgie wondered if Violet would ever be at ease here with these people. She didn’t know how she might bring about a transfer of loyalty to her sister. Perhaps it would be for Violet to prove herself first.

The tenant farmers were a circumspect lot, but upon direct questioning, there were a few disparaging remarks about the bailiff Violet’s uncle had installed at Cloverleigh. Everyone would be happy once Violet was married to a decent man and the reins were out of her uncle’s hands.

“I’ll make my sister aware of your concerns, Mr. Hedge,” said Georgie. “She will take the matter up with her trustees and we’ll see what may be done.”

“Aye, but we’d rather have you, Miss Georgie, if you don’t mind me sayin’.” Mr. Hedge, who had always treated her in a fatherly fashion, shook his woolly head and regarded her beneath beetling brows. “A vast pity you and his lordship—” He stopped abruptly, coughing, halted by an elbow in the ribs from his wife.

Georgie laughed and leaned down toward the couple. In a conspiratorial murmur, she said, “As to that, dear Mr. Hedge, you may be the first in the district to wish us happy. For the second time, mark you!”

There was much jubilation at this news. Accepting an offer of hospitality from the delighted farmer and his wife, she found herself sitting down to a meal with them and their family. They dined at noon, unlike the Ton who took their main meal in the evening, and when Georgie eventually took her leave, she nearly groaned with happy repletion.

As she rode along the ridge that overlooked the redbrick mansion that had been her childhood home, she saw a curricle bowling up the drive, a man in fashionable dress driving it.

The new tenant, she assumed. The one who hadn’t spent a lot of time at Cloverleigh since he’d hired the house on a short-term lease.

Upon returning to the house, she stripped off her gloves and stopped at the terrace to greet Lady Arden.

“Where have you been, child?”

“Oh, all about,” said Georgie cheerfully. “I visited some of our tenants and dined with the Hedges.”

“Did you not think to take Violet?” said Lady Arden. “She must be introduced about the place. I know your stepmother loathes the country, but she’s been derelict in her duty keeping Violet away all these years.”

Guilt made a flush creep up Georgie’s throat. She had done nothing to persuade her stepmother to return.

A little ashamed now that she had slipped out that morning without requesting Violet’s company, Georgie said, “Did Violet eat breakfast?”

“No, she didn’t. I believe she claimed she had a headache and hasn’t come down all day.” Lady Arden watched Georgie closely. “Did something happen between you two yesterday? You were like a pair of icebergs at dinner last night.”

“Oh, we had a silly argument. Nothing to be concerned about,” said Georgie.

She hoped she spoke the truth. She wanted to make it up with Violet, but she wouldn’t retreat from anything she’d said. More than ever, she believed Violet’s duty was to the Cloverleigh estate.

“I’ll go up and see her, shall I?” she said, rising. “She might come down for tea.”

It wasn’t at all like Violet to sulk, so Georgie was rather surprised that no one had seen hide nor hair of her sister all day. By the time Georgie scratched on Violet’s door, it was past three in the afternoon.

When no answer came, Georgie called softly, “Violet?”

But there was no response from within. On a sudden rush of presentiment, Georgie turned the handle and pushed open the door.

The bedchamber was empty, the bed made.

A note lay on the coverlet, addressed to her.

*   *   *

“What are you doing here?” said Beckenham as Lydgate strode into the private parlor Beckenham had hired for his use at the York Hotel in Bath.

Without waiting for an answer, Beckenham lifted a finger to the waiter who had been laying out his breakfast at the table in the window embrasure. “Set another cover for his lordship, will you?”

Lydgate waited until the servant had withdrawn, then sent Beckenham a stern look. “Don’t cozen me, Becks. I came to find you of my own accord. Been hearing things. Terrible things.”

He all but shuddered, making Beckenham debate silently with himself whether to punch Lydgate’s lights out now or wait until he’d stated his purpose. He decided on the latter.

“Sit down, why don’t you?” He indicated the chair opposite him.

Mud splashed Lydgate’s boots, and the disarray of his hair seemed to be the product of actual wind, rather than the fashionable style known as the windswept.

Beckenham raised his brows. “Am I to take it you rode here
ventre à terre
to stop my marriage? Did Montford order you to intervene?”

“She’s not here, is she?” He glanced about him as if he expected Georgie to be hiding under the sofa.

“She is not.”

“Well, that’s something.” Lydgate tossed his hat and gloves onto an occasional table and sat down. He nodded toward the jar of ale in Beckenham’s hand. “Pour me some of that, will you? I need it.”

Beckenham complied, leaning over to fill Lydgate’s tankard.

“Much obliged.” Lydgate drank deeply. “No, of course I’m not here to stop your marriage. Why should I want to?
I
happen to think you’re cracked, but it’s not my affair when all is said and done.”

“That has never stopped you interfering before,” murmured Beckenham.

Lydgate held up his hands, palm out. “No. I shan’t dance at your wedding. But if you’re determined, far be it from me to try to dissuade you.”

“I love her,” said Beckenham shortly. The last thing he usually shared with his cousins was this kind of mawkish sentiment, but for some reason, he wanted them all to know. Lydgate would spread the word.

Lydgate observed him intently. Then a smile slowly spread across his face. “By Jove,” he said softly. “Don’t that beat the Dutch?”

Beckenham cleared his throat and gestured with his knife toward Lydgate’s plate. “The bacon’s very good.”

Seeming to snap out of his reverie, Lydgate obligingly addressed himself to the bacon. “I take it you’re here to ask the uncle’s permission to marry?”

Beckenham frowned. “Who? Oh, you mean the stepmother’s brother. I forgot he lived here. No, I hadn’t considered asking anyone’s permission.”

Which departure from correct behavior made Lydgate lift his brows. He didn’t comment, however, but said, “What, then?”

Beckenham set down his fork. “I have business with Pearce that must be conducted before the aunt’s demise.”

He stated it coldly, aware of how brutal he sounded. Even Lydgate blinked.

But he couldn’t let some misplaced sense of delicacy stop him carrying out his plan. The stakes were too high to allow himself the luxury of scruples this time.

He needed to get that letter from Pearce. Using Pearce’s Achilles’ heel as well as the imminent death of a relative to achieve his ends stuck in Beckenham’s throat. But if that’s what he had to do to rule a line beneath that episode with Pearce once and for all, he would do it. He would die for her. Breaking his own moral code ought to be nothing to it.

Slowly, Lydgate said, “So you would jeopardize his chances of inheriting unless he does whatever it is you want him to do.” He looked at Beckenham over the rim of his tankard. The tranquil blue stare made Beckenham uncomfortable.

Beckenham didn’t let his gaze waver. “That’s the size of it.”

“You know something to his discredit. Besides running from the duel, I mean.”

Beckenham gave a brief nod.

Tilting his head, Lydgate’s long fingers toyed idly with the saltcellar. “Do you mean to fight your way through the relatives to her deathbed to murmur some noxious tidbit into her ear?”

The implied criticism was justified, but he could survive Lydgate’s scorn. He could survive anything, as long as he didn’t lose Georgie. “A word to her man of business would be sufficient, I expect.”

“Ah.” Lydgate touched his lips with his napkin and set it beside his plate.

“Something wrong with the fare here?” said Beckenham.

Lydgate smiled coolly. “I find I’ve lost my appetite.”

“I have to see him.” Beckenham was frowning, shrugging away Lydgate’s disapproval. “So far, he’s fobbed me off. They say he’s attending his aunt’s sickbed, but he cannot be there every hour of the day, can he?”

“One would suppose not,” said Lydgate. He reached for his tankard. “He means to keep you kicking your heels here.”

“I tried bribing one of the aunt’s servants but it was no use. They were a closemouthed lot.”