St. Albans’s cravat was creased and haphazardly tied, and his usually elegant jacket was covered with straw and grass, making it appear as if he’d been doing something he ought not to have been.
Lips twitching, Adeline slid Georgie an amused look. They were not the only ones to have noticed. Mr. Barfleur, one of the younger gentlemen, opened his mouth to speak and got elbowed in the side by his companion.
Lord Turner entered the dining room, took one glance at St. Albans, and said, “What the devil, er, deuce happened to you?”
“Geese.” His lordship closed his eyes and shuddered. “I hope never to have to obtain anything from those creatures again.”
Next to Georgie, Turley dropped his head into one hand and his shoulders started to shake. Mary Turner’s eyes widened and she covered her mouth with her hand, and Amanda Fitzwalter groaned.
“What?” the earl demanded.
“You were supposed to have found a painting . . .” Amanda’s words trailed off. “Never mind. Please go change, and I shall send up luncheon for you and Miss Blomefield.”
“Thank you. I shall. What time are we due to depart for the market town?”
“In an hour. That should give you sufficient time to eat and change.” Amanda glanced at her husband, who gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head. “Off you go then.”
“I shall see you shortly.” St. Albans gave a stiff bow and left the room.
Turley let loose the laughter he’d been hiding and that started the rest of the gentlemen. After a few moments, Georgie punched him in his side.
“What?” He gave her an injured look. “It’s deuced funny, if you ask me. If I hadn’t listened to you we would not have found the . . . Good Lord!”
So he had realized that they had been left alone for a considerable period of time in a remote room, and they were not meant to be left alone. She wondered if the possible ramifications had dawned on him. Unfortunately, all they could do was trust that neither Mary nor Amanda said anything.
Lips pressed into a line and brows raised, she gave him one of her mother’s looks. “Indeed.”
Across the table, Adeline’s brows drew together. That was a conversation that Georgie would not be able to avoid. She and Turley had already told their friends about how they found the gypsy hunt items. What she wanted to know now was where the other painting of a lady with geese was and how it differed from theirs.
“Geor . . . Miss Featherton”—Turley hastily corrected himself. Had he been calling her by her first name in his mind?—“I—um.”
“Not here.” If they discussed it at all it would definitely not be here. “Everything is fine.” Except that six other people now knew they had been together, without benefit of a chaperone and for a considerable amount of time. If he proposed in order to save her reputation, she would . . . she would . . . well, she would do something more drastic than hit him in the side. She wanted to tell him she did not ever wish to discuss it, but he would never agree to that.
“Yes, of course.” He finally seemed to realize that other ears were turned their way. “Not here.” A smile appeared slowly on his lips. “Geese are interesting animals,” he said to no one in particular. “Did you know they even began the theme of a seventeenth-century protest song against aristocrats who rob from the common man?” Only Frits’s lips tipped up as if he knew what was coming.
Without waiting for anyone to answer Turley began to sing.
The law locks up the man or woman
Who steals the goose from off the common,
But turns the bigger robber loose
Who steals the common from off the goose.
The law condemns the man or woman
Who steals the goose from off the common,
But leave the greater villain loose
Who steals the common from off the goose.
Whose is the Kingdom, the power and the glory?
For ever and ever, will it be the same old story?
The law demands that we atone
