The Rake (28 page)

"Because you and Shaw look like someone's beaten you half to death, and you've been banned from White's. Not exactly your usual day."

"
Hm
.
It's been fairly uneventful, I thought."

"Fine.
Don't tell me, then. But just know," the duke said, taking a step closer and lowering his voice, "that if you hurt Georgiana again, you will regret it."

After what Tristan had been through that day to avoid just that, he'd had enough. "I assure you," he said in the same hard tone, "that I am taking all of this very seriously. And if you ever threaten me again, you'd best do so over a pistol."

Grey nodded. "Just so we understand one another."

"I think we do."

With a faint scent of lavender, Georgiana appeared between the two of them. "My goodness," she said, "you two are stomping and snorting like bulls. Do behave, or take your little battle out to the pasture, won't you?"

"Snort," Grey said, and strolled over to rejoin his wife.

"I was going to say that," Tristan protested, unable to keep from taking her fingers in his. "Worried about me?"

"Emma just had this room refurnished. I didn't want you to break anything."

Her eyes warmed, and the sudden dryness in his throat made him swallow. No one but Georgiana could make him feel like a green schoolboy.

"Come and see the galleon Edward's drawn," she continued, tugging on his hand. "He's going to be the cabin boy, you know."

"And we'll all join the crew as pirates, no doubt."

Edward popped to his feet. "Could we?"

Tristan lifted his eyebrow. "No."

"Oh, I'd like to be a pirate," Edwina chimed in. "We could all wear trousers and curse."

"Yes!" Edward galloped over to his aunt. "And Dragon could be the ship's mascot!"

"Dragon?"
Emma asked, chuckling.

"My kitten," Edwina explained.

"And I could ride my pony on deck!"

"Good heavens," Georgiana choked, laughing breathlessly, "
we'd
be the scourge of the seven seas."

"We'd be the laughingstock of the seven seas, you mean," Tristan corrected, his heart beating a fast tattoo at the sight of her smile.

"Well, if word gets out to the Admiralty that my first command would feature kittens and ponies and the aunties in trousers, I might as well become a pirate," Bradshaw said dryly. "I suppose you'd want to knit our skull and crossbones, Aunt
Milly
?"

"Oh, heavens no.
Not a skull.
Perhaps a teacup.
That's much more civilized."

Even Frederica was chuckling now. "You should suggest that to the East India Company, then."

"Can't you hear the screams of terror as we hoist the teacup flag?" Andrew, who'd been sitting beside Aunt
Milly
, chimed in.

"I'd be screaming, myself." Tristan pulled out his pocket watch. "Children and pirates, it's nearly half past midnight. I think we need to take our leave."

If it had been he alone, he would have stayed all night, or at least as long as Georgiana remained. After the past few weeks, he didn't even like letting her out of his sight. Too many things could still go wrong.

She and Frederica decided to leave, as well, so at least he was able to escort her down the stairs and out the front door. "Take care," he said, wishing he could kiss her good night.

"I will. And I'm going to call on Amelia tomorrow."

"Good luck." He reluctantly released her hand as she disappeared into her aunt's coach. "Let me know what happens."

"Oh, I will. You can wager on that."

"Not at White's," the dowager duchess said as a footman closed and latched the door.

If being banned from White's were his only problem, he would be a happy man. Sighing, he ushered his family into the pair of coaches they'd commandeered. Edward was so sleepy that he allowed Bradshaw to hoist him over one shoulder. They could all use some sleep. He, of course, had to do his monthly accounts tonight so he could meet with his solicitor in the morning and determine how many days he had remaining before he either had to marry or begin selling off property.

Dire as that was
,
he was still more concerned about Georgiana's meeting with Amelia. The chit had surprised him with her venom, and he could only hope that
Georgie
had more luck than he. With the way things had been going, though, he doubted she would. So he would have to come up with another plan.

Tristan smiled as he settled back in the darkness of the coach. After tonight, he thought he knew just what that plan would entail.

Frederica Wycliffe preceded Georgiana upstairs to the second floor of Hawthorne House. Someone needed to say something, and as her niece's parent in absentia, the task seemed to have fallen to her.

She stopped in the doorway of her bedchamber.
"Georgiana?"

Her niece
halted,
an absent half smile on her face.
"Yes, Aunt?"

"Is he going to ask you to marry him?"

"What?" Georgiana flushed.
"Tristan?"

"Westbrook already asked, and you put him off. Yes, Dare. Is he?"

"I don't know. Heavens, what would make you say such a thing?"

"Goodness knows why, but you've had a
tendre
for that man for years. And I know he broke your heart once. Are you going to allow him the opportunity to do so again?"

Her niece laughed. "I am much older and wiser these days. And I haven't even decided if I like him, yet."

"Really," the duchess said, unable to keep the skepticism from her voice. "It looked to me as though you'd already made up your mind about that."

Georgiana's smile faded. "Do you have something you wish to say to me, Aunt Frederica?"

"Just a few days ago, you were in hysterics over him. I'll admit he seems to have matured since his father's death, but do you really think he's someone to whom you can give your heart, my dear?"

"That is a very good question. I'll let you know when I have an answer." Georgiana turned away again, heading off toward her own bedchamber. "I do wish my heart and my head would make the same decisions, though."

Frederica frowned. This was even worse than she'd thought. "Don't
we
all."

Tristan wanted to bang his head against something hard. "I know it's bad," he grumbled, settling for glaring across the desk at his solicitor. "I see the numbers just as plainly as you do."

"Yes, my lord, of course you do,"
Beacham
said in a soothing voice, pushing his spectacles back up to the bridge of his nose. "What I meant to say was
,
the situation is
very
bad.
Untenable, almost."

"Almost," Tristan repeated, springing onto the word and holding on for dear life. "It's salvageable, then."

"Eh, well, you see—"

"What?"
Tristan hammered his fist against the desk.

The solicitor jumped, his spectacles sliding down his nose again. Swallowing, he shoved them back into place. "The
Glauden
estate at
Dunborough
isn't entailed, my lord. I know of several nobles, and even one or two merchants, looking for a small piece of land in Scotland. For hunting, you know."

Tristan shook his head. "
Glauden's
been in my family for two hundred years. I will not be the one to lose it." And Robert had spent last winter there. If Bit felt comfortable someplace, he wasn't about to take it away from him.

"To be honest, my lord, even knowing your ... skill at wagering, and even after seeing the resulting figures, I'm not certain how you've managed to keep solvent. It's something of a miracle to me, really."

"What matters is that
I
won't be the one to begin selling off any of the familial properties. Give me another option."

"You've already sold off the majority of your personal possessions. Your stable, with the exception of Charlemagne, your yacht, that hunting lodge in Yorkshire, the—"

"Be helpful,
Beacham
, for God's sake," Tristan interrupted. He knew precisely what he'd given up, and that it wasn't enough. "What will it take for me to be able to keep paying my taxes, my staff, and my food bills for the next three months, say?"

"Another miracle," the solicitor mumbled, running a hand over his nearly bald head as though that would stimulate his brain activity.

"Pounds and pence, if you please."

Beacham
sighed, leaning forward to flip open one of his seemingly hundreds of ledger books.
"Three hundred pounds a month."

"That's steep."

"Yes. Most of your creditors will continue to honor your papers for another few months, but only if you don't incur any further debt."

Tristan supposed that was good news, yet he felt as though someone had just summoned a priest to deliver last rites.
"All right.
I can manage three hundred quid." He had no idea how, but he would do it, because it was necessary.

"Yes, my lord."

"And now for the bad news," Tristan continued. "Paying off all my creditors, bringing in enough blunt for seed, stock, everything.
How much?"

"Everything, my lord?
Don't you wish to set your sights on a more... practical figure?"

"I am holding my breath in anticipation of your finally answering a question without some commentary attached," Tristan said, glaring. If he began smashing things, poor
Beacham
might expire from fright.

"Yes, my lord. In order to return all of your properties and yourself to a state of solvency, all at once, you would need approximately seventy-eight thousand, five hundred twenty-one pounds."

Tristan blinked. "Approximately," he repeated. At least when
Beacham
delivered a death blow, he did it with power and precision.

"Yes, my lord. It may be done in increments, of course, which is probably a wiser and more easily achieved course of action, but that will ultimately increase the amount of money needed."

"Of course."

The amount was close to what he'd expected, but hearing someone else confirm the number made it somehow worse. "How long do I have to acquire the three hundred pounds for this month?" he asked, sitting back in his old, comfortable chair.

"A
week,
would be my guess, or two if you manage to ... wager against the right people. And win, of course."

"I haven't had much time for wagering, lately." There was also the matter of being banned from White's, where he always found his wealthiest opponents.

Beacham
cleared his throat. "If I may be so bold, I had heard, my lord, that you were pursuing a young lady with the idea of marriage. Given that you refuse to sell any
property, that
may be your only viable alternative."

"Yes, I do have someone in mind, but she will need some convincing."

Fate might be fickle, but it also seemed to know what it was doing. Lady Georgiana Halley had an annual income of nearly twenty thousand quid, and even without her dowry, he happened to know that she'd been investing very wisely over the past six years. All of his family's estates would be saved within one second of her saying her vows to him. The problem was
,
he didn't know whether he could convince her to say them.

His determination to make her his wife had more to do with need and desire than money, but if she'd been a pauper, his obsession with her would probably have ended with him in the Old Bailey for bankruptcy. If she turned him down ... He simply wouldn't think about that.

The solicitor stirred, and Tristan shook himself back to the present. "Thank you,
Beacham
. Let's set our next meeting for Tuesday, and we'll see if I'm in better or worse condition than today."

"Very good, my lord."

From the solicitor's expression, he didn't expect anything to improve. Tristan had his own doubts about that as well.

He would have to tell Georgiana precisely how desperately he needed her money before he proposed. They'd danced around true feelings and true issues for years. It was well past time for the truth.

The damnedest part of it all was that he
wanted
to marry Georgiana. When Amelia had told him about the letter and the
stockings, that
had become the most important item on his agenda. He needed to protect Georgiana from any rumors that might surface.

The idea of living without Georgiana was completely unacceptable. Even if it meant selling off every last damned stitch of clothing he owned, he couldn't consider marriage with someone else. It would be she, or no one. And it
would
be she.

One thing he'd learned in all this mess was simple: He needed to tell her the truth, however angry or hurt it might make her. He could woo her, he knew
,
if he had the time to do it. She needed to see, over and over, that he'd changed.

But three months didn't seem enough time to prove
himself
, much less the two days left under Amelia
Johns's
ultimatum. With four brothers, two aunts, and a handful of properties all staffed by people who looked to him for the food on their tables and the clothes on their backs, he didn't have much of an alternative.

He went upstairs to dress for the House of Lords. As he passed the open door of Bit's bedchamber, he glanced inside, expecting to see his brother sitting by the window, reading. Instead, Robert was shrugging into a riding jacket.

"Bit?" he said, stopping dead.

His brother glanced over his shoulder at Tristan,
then
pulled on a pair of riding gloves. "What?"

"What are you doing?"

"Dressing."
Continuing to do so, Bit settled a blue beaver hat on his black, too-long hair.

"Why?"

The old Robert, the one before Waterloo, would have made some comment about not wanting to go out into the streets naked on such a chilly day. This Bit, though, just brushed past him.

"Are you all right, at least?"

"Yes."

That would have to do, though Tristan wished he had time to shadow Robert and make certain he truly was all right. Following him about wouldn't accomplish anything, however. Besides being very good at not being followed, Bit needed help, and Tristan had no idea what sort of help, or who could best provide it.

"Blast it all," he muttered, continuing on to his own bedchamber. Georgiana was the only one with whom Bit seemed able to converse in full sentences, and she was on her way to negotiate with Amelia Johns. What a bloody wonderful day they were all having.

"And where are you off to?"

Georgiana started, nearly ripping the button off her pelisse as she whipped around. "Aunt Frederica, you startled me."

"I can see that." The dowager duchess continued gazing at her, settling for lifting an eyebrow at her niece's choice of attire.

Georgie
glanced down at her gown. Pale green and very simple, it was probably the most demure dress she owned. Looking as innocent as possible had seemed a good idea.

"I have a few errands." That didn't seem to cause her aunt to continue on down the hallway, so she smiled. "Did you want anything from
Mendelsohns
?"

"Ah. They had some new lace I wanted to look at. Do you mind if I come along?"

Drat.
She couldn't very well drag her aunt with her when she went to Amelia's to ask for the return of her stockings. Well, that was what she deserved for trying to deceive her. "Of course I don't mind. I only thought you'd find it dull."

"Nonsense.
I'll get my reticule." Frederica left the doorway just as Pascoe appeared in it.

"Lady Georgiana," the butler enunciated, "you have a caller. Shall I inform him that you are out?"

Him.
A male caller could be anyone, and she knew for a fact that the Marquis of Westbrook would be calling later that afternoon. But of course her pulse sped anyway, just on the chance it might be Tristan. Her aunt had stopped again, though, and Georgiana stifled a sigh. Subterfuge was far more difficult than she would have imagined. "Yes, please convey my apologies, Pascoe."

"Very good, my lady."
The butler headed back downstairs.

Cursing to herself, Georgiana watched him descend. "Pascoe, who is it, by the way? You didn't say," she called.

The butler stopped. "He had no card, my lady, or I would have given it to you. It is Robert
Carroway
, I believe.
All the
gentleman said was that he wished to speak with you."

"Robert
Carroway
?" Georgiana hurried down the stairs. "Do you mind waiting, Aunt?" she called over her shoulder.

"Never mind, dear.
I'm going to luncheon with Lady Dorchester. Your schedule is far too erratic for me."

"Thank you!" Georgiana smiled as she reached the sitting room doorway—and nearly collided with Bit as she charged into the room. He stepped back, avoiding her, though it looked as though he'd been on his way out. That didn't surprise her.

"Bit, good morning," she said, backing up to give him room.

"Apologies," he muttered, as though it hurt him to speak. He strode past her into the foyer.
"My mistake."

"I was just about to go for a walk," she said to his back, throwing her reticule to Pascoe, who caught it and put it behind him with nothing more than a raised eyebrow. "Would you care to join me?"

He slowed, nodding the back of his head at her. She needed a chaperone. Mary was upstairs mending the gown she'd worn to Grey and Emma's last night, which had mysteriously lost
two
buttons. A downstairs maid, her arms full of table linens, emerged from a doorway. "Josephine, please put those down and join me for a walk."

"M
.. .
me
, my lady?"

Pascoe stepped forward.
"Do as Lady Georgiana says, Josephine.
At once."

In less than a moment they were out the door, Robert walking so quickly that Georgiana didn't even take the time to collect her bonnet or parasol. "Robert," she said, trying to catch up to him without breaking into a run, "your pace is somewhat brisk for a stroll."