The Rake (32 page)

He shook his head. "My thanks, but I can't stay. Parliament's meeting this afternoon."

"Regent Street seems a bit out of your way, then, my lord," Evelyn said.

"Whom did you bribe to find out my whereabouts?" Georgiana asked, smiling at him.

"No one.
I used my intuition after Pascoe said you'd gone out to luncheon. I happen to know you're fond of cucumber sandwiches, and I happen to know that you prefer the ones here. Ergo, here I am."

"And why were you calling on me, when you are expected in the House of Lords momentarily?"

"It's been nearly a day since I last saw you," he said, leaning his chin on his hand to gaze at her. "I missed you."

Georgiana blushed. She knew she should reply with something coy and witty, but it was difficult to think logically when most of her was occupied with keeping herself from pouncing on him and smothering his mouth with kisses.

"That's a very nice thing to say," she settled for, and saw the swift look of surprise in his eyes, quickly blanketed.

"You seemed out of sorts when you called on my aunts yesterday. They were concerned about you. May I pass anything on to them?"

"Yes. Tell them..." She stopped, because while the message she wanted to give Tristan was that she felt better, that would never do when she cried off going to the soiree tonight. "Tell them I was sorry to cut my visit short, but I had a bit of a headache."

He leaned closer, apparently forgetting that her friends sat directly beside them, and that they were in a crowded outdoor cafe with a hundred interested witnesses. "And how do you feel today?"

"Better, but tired," she said in a low voice. "Now go away, Tristan."

A sensuous smile curved the corners of his mouth. "Why?"

She decided that he couldn't help being desirable and exciting. "Because I find you very annoying, and you're interrupting my luncheon."

The smile deepened, touching his eyes. "I find you very annoying, too," he replied softly. Sitting back and glancing at her companions, he pushed away from the table. "Good day, ladies. I expect I'll see you this evening?"

"Oh, yes, the
Everston
soiree,"
Evie
said.
"Until then, Lord Dare."

His gaze remained on Georgiana.
"Until then."

"Oh, my," Lucinda said, as he strolled away. "My butter's melted."

Georgiana laughed. "Lucinda!"

She knew what her friend meant, though. The conversation had felt sensuous and intimate, and somehow very significant. He'd come just to find out how she was feeling, and to let her know that he still meant to pursue her, whatever happened with Amelia.

It left her feeling more optimistic, and more courageous. She would regret not seeing him tonight, but she had a crime to commit.

Georgiana sent Mary to inform Aunt Frederica that she wouldn't be attending the
Everston
soiree, and then strode as fast as she could back and forth in her bedchamber for the next fifteen minutes. Pausing at the doorway at the end of each circuit to listen, she hitched up the skirt of her shift and went over to the window and back again.

Frederica would wait until the last possible moment to come and see her, in case she changed her mind. Of course her aunt would think that she declined to attend because of Dare—which was correct, but not in the way her aunt could possibly have imagined.

At last she heard the dowager duchess coming down the hallway, and she sprang over to lie on her bed. She was out of breath and flushed, which was what she'd intended, but that coupled with her supreme nervousness made her worry that everyone would think she was having an apoplexy.

"Georgiana?"
Frederica cracked open the door and leaned her head in.

"I'm sorry, Aunt Frederica," she said, trying to keep from running out of air. "I just don't feel well."

The dowager duchess approached the bed, leaning down to put her hand across Georgiana's forehead. "My goodness, you're burning up! I'll have Pascoe fetch a physician at once."

"Oh, no!
Please don't. I just need to rest."

"Georgiana, don't be silly." She hurried to the door.
"Pascoe!"

Oh, dear. This would never work.
"Aunt Frederica, wait."

Her aunt faced her again. "What, child?"

"I'm lying to you."

"Oh, really?"
A delicate eyebrow
arched,
the sarcasm in her voice difficult to miss.

"I spent twenty minutes striding about so I could tell you that I didn't feel well." She sat up, motioning her aunt to the edge of the bed. "All of that nonsense about my being able to take care of everything myself is just—well, nonsense."

"Thank goodness you've finally realized that. Now we'll stay in tonight, and you'll tell me all your troubles."

Georgiana squeezed her hand. "No. You look so... lovely, and I truly just want to sit about and read a book and not have to do anything."

That was the truth, whether it was what she actually intended to do this evening, or not. Aunt Frederica kissed her on the forehead and rose. "Read then, my love, and I shall enjoy the attention I'll receive from telling everyone that I fear you're on your deathbed."

Georgiana chuckled. "You are very wicked, but please don't tell that to Grey or Emma. They'll charge over here and frighten everyone to death."

"True enough." The duchess paused in the doorway, putting up a hand to stop Pascoe as the butler charged into view.
"Any particular instructions regarding Lord Dare?"

Frederica Wycliffe was quite possibly the most astute person she'd ever known, and after everything she'd put her aunt through—not just over the past weeks, but over the past six years—pretending now that there was no connection between herself and Tristan would be an insult. "Please tell him the truth, Aunt Frederica. He'll know, anyway."

"Yes, I think he might."

"
Your
Grace," the butler panted, "my apologies, but did you require—"

"Yes, I require you to escort me down the stairs," the duchess said, favoring him with a smile that actually made him blush, the first time Georgiana had ever seen the butler out of countenance. Frederica sent her a wink and closed the door, leaving her in calm silence.

At least the silence was calm, because she certainly wasn't. The evening was far too young for her to slip out yet; even though Amelia and her parents would be at the soiree, their servants would still be awake and sure to notice a stranger in the upstairs rooms.

She assumed that was where her stockings and the note would be, so she would begin her search in Amelia's bedchamber and hope for the best. If her things weren't there, she had no idea what she would do. She wouldn't have the opportunity to make another search later, since two days from now Amelia would begin to let other people—no doubt her tittering, giggling friends—know about the items she'd acquired.

For the next three hours Georgiana wandered from room to room, attempting four different times to sit down and read, and almost immediately giving up again. She couldn't sit still, much less concentrate on anything. When the glances the butler and the rest of the household staff sent her began to look pained, she apologized and dismissed them for the evening.

She was willing to wager that by now the Johns household was already dark and quiet, too. Georgiana drew in a deep, shaky breath.
It was now or never.

She pulled the dowdy brown muslin out of her wardrobe again and donned it. Her most practical walking boots followed. She tied her hair back in a simple knot that hung down her back, both so it wouldn't get in her way, and so if anyone happened to see her, they hopefully wouldn't recognize her.

This wasn't just for Tristan; this was also for her. The last time someone had wronged her, she had sat still and wept and felt sorry for herself. Tonight, she was taking action.

Blowing out the lamp on her bed stand, she tiptoed into the hall and closed her door. Pascoe had left the downstairs door unlocked for Aunt Frederica, and she slipped outside and down the front steps without anyone hearing or seeing her. She had a few moments of trepidation when a hack didn't stop for her at once, but when she made her way down to the better-traveled corner, a beat-up old coach pulled up beside her.

"Where to, miss?" the bearded driver asked, leaning down to yank open the door.

She gave the address and climbed in, sitting stiffly in one corner as the hack rocked into motion again. Her heart beat a fast, steady hammer against her ribs, and her fists were clenched. Georgiana forced herself to relax, and grabbed on to the tendril of excitement buried somewhere deep under her skin that told her this was going to be the most daring thing she ever did.

She felt naked, for she'd intentionally left Hawthorne House without a shawl or reticule, carrying just enough money for the hack. Bringing a reticule to a robbery had seemed too silly, and quite possibly dangerous if she lost it somewhere. Her pockets were large enough to carry the stockings and the letter.

The coach lurched to a halt, and the driver yanked open the door again. Taking another deep breath, Georgiana clambered out, handed the driver up the correct change, and watched as he drove back into the darkness. "Here we go," she said to no one in particular, and slipped up the dark drive to Johns House.

All of the windows were dark. That left her feeling a little more confident, and she climbed the shallow front steps, remembering to stay in the shadows, and pushed down on the handle of the front door. It didn't budge. She pushed down again, harder.
Nothing.

"Damnation," she whispered. How were the Johns supposed to return home if their front door was locked? What a shabby lot of servants they had. Perhaps, though, the family came in through the kitchen door, closer to the stable.

She descended the steps again and ducked into the small garden on the south side of the house. Halfway toward the stable, she stopped. One of the windows on the bottom floor was cracked open. "Thank goodness." She pushed through the shrubbery and grasped the bottom of the window. With a shove it slid up—too far and too fast.

Gasping, she froze. No sound came from the house, and after a moment she let her breath out shakily. Hiking her skirt to her knees, she clambered over the sill and into the dark house. The hem of her gown caught on the window latch, and as she freed it she nearly lost her balance. Catching herself up against the solid bookcase that abutted the window, Georgiana tried to collect her fraying wits.

The hard part was finished, she told herself. Now that she was in the house, it would merely be a matter of searching through a few empty bedchambers until she found the correct one. She took a step away from the bookcase, and then another, almost feeling her way toward the even darker doorway. Then something moved in the corner of her vision, and she drew in a breath to shriek.

A hand clamped over her mouth. Georgiana struck out blindly, her fist meeting something solid, and then she lost her balance, falling facedown to the floor with a heavy form on top of her.

"Georgiana, stop it," Tristan's familiar murmur sounded in her ear.

With a muffled half sob she relaxed, and he removed his hand from her mouth. "What are you doing here?" she whispered.

He shifted off of her and helped her to her feet. "The same thing you are, I would imagine."

In the deep gloom she could make out little more than a large dark form and faintly luminous eyes, and a set of white teeth formed in a smile. He
would
think this was amusing. "How did you know it was me?"

"I smelled lavender," he answered, running his fingers through the tail of hair that hung over her shoulder. "And then I heard you curse."

"Ladies don't curse," she returned in the same, nearly soundless voice. His presence calmed her immensely, but his touch set her nerves fluttering in a completely different, much more pleasant, way.

Belatedly, it dawned on her that he
was
here for the same reason she was. Tristan had broken into Johns House to steal back her things so no one could hurt her with them. Georgiana rose up on her toes and touched her lips to his. He kissed her back, drawing her up against him.

"What was that for?" he whispered. "Not that I'm complaining."

"To thank you.
This is quite heroic of you."

She felt more than saw his sudden frown. "Don't thank me,
Georgie
. This is my fault."

"No, it's n—"

"I'll take care of things from here," he continued, ignoring her protest. "Go home, and I'll let you know when I have your items."

"No.
You
go home, and I'll let you know when I have my things back."

"
Georgi
—"

"They are my things, Tristan. I want to do this." She grabbed him by the lapels and shook him a little. "I need to do this. I won't be someone's victim again."

He was silent for a long moment, until finally, she felt him sigh.
"All right.
But follow me, and do exactly as I tell you."

She started to protest again, but thought better of it. She knew from personal experience that he'd snuck about in dark houses more than she had.
"Fine."

"You saw Westbrook yesterday," he murmured, taking her shoulders in his hands. "What did you tell him?"

"This really isn't the time or place for that conversation."

"It's the perfect place for it. Tell me that you told him no."

Georgiana looked into his shadowed eyes. Comfort and peace had their merits, but they were nothing compared with the heat and humor of Lord Dare. "I told him no."

"Good. Let's go, then."

Tristan took Georgiana's hand and led the way into the hall. The servants had put out every light on the ground floor, making traversing the hallway to the stairs difficult. At least if a servant appeared, he and
Georgie
would have a good chance of hiding before they were seen.

At the top of the stairs he hesitated. Georgiana bumped into him from behind, and uttered another barely audible curse.

"Do you know where you're going?" she whispered.

He faced her. "And why would I know the location of Amelia's bedchamber?"

"You knew where mine was."

"That was different."

"How so?"

"Because I was half-mad for you.
Now be quiet. I'm thinking."

" 'Was
?'
" she
repeated.

"Am. Hush."

Amelia, despite her willingness to shed all of her clothes in his bedchamber, was always fully covered when she went out-of-doors. She'd said something about strong sunlight disagreeing with her delicate complexion, as he recalled.

"Her room will be in the west wing, I think."

"We could find it faster if we split up."

He shook his head, tightening his grip on her fingers as they crept along the balcony toward the west-facing bedchambers. Stunned as he was by her sudden appearance in the Johns sitting room window, her skirt hiked up past her knees, he wasn't about to let her out of his sight now. "They won't be home from the soiree for hours. We have time."