“I am.”
The intensity left Padgett’s gaze. “Very well. Mr. Charles Bingley will be left out of any further inquiries into this matter.” He tapped the pages he held on the desk, ordering them. “Now, for your next assignment.”
“Next assignment?” Was the general mad? “I must go north, to assist Darcy.”
Padgett shook his head as Richard spoke. “No. You must continue to do your duty. Mr. Darcy believes you to be on the Continent and will have the situation in hand.”
“As he had halting this tragedy in hand?” Did Padgett not realize that Georgiana’s life hung in the balance? Her entire future? Why, they were already days behind her and Wickham. It would take every effort, every resource, to overtake the two and stop their union.
“There is nothing you can add to what Mr. Darcy will already be doing,” Padgett said calmly. “He is capable, motivated, possessed of considerable financial resources, and,” Padgett held up a hand when Richard would have interrupted, “I see I must reiterate, believes you to be on the Continent.”
“He will have written to me. Surely it would not surprise him were I to rush back to England.” Even as Richard said the words, he knew he’d lost. Padgett may have excused his earlier anger, may even feel remorse and responsibility for what was at this very moment befalling Richard’s cousins, but he would insist Richard do his duty.
More than that, he was likely right. Richard would simply be another person riding madly about the Scottish countryside with the barest hope of finding Georgiana before it was too late.
“Smith will have the paperwork for you,” Padgett said, apparently reading Richard’s capitulation on his face. “As always, once you have committed the details to memory, burn what you are given. It is a simple task, here in London. Nothing so elaborate as infiltrating B.B.B. Shipping & Co. was.” Padgettoffered a slight, mirthless smile as he added, “In case you do, indeed, need to put in an appearance here in England, I do not want you too deeply entwined.”
That was better than Richard had hoped for, and went further by way of apology even than Padgett’s sincere words of earlier. Richard nodded. “Thank you, sir.”
“I truly am sorry, Colonel. I do not enjoy seeing such a fine family name sullied, and I regret the, admittedly small, part I played.”
“Yes, sir. That is appreciated.” Anger still simmered in Richard, but there was no point in antagonizing Padgett.
“You are dismissed. See Smith on your way out.”
“Yes, sir.” Richard saluted, then left. He took the thin file Harold Smith proffered, and tried not to grind his teeth as he made his way out the back entrance of the firm of Watson, Hastings, and Vane.
Chapter Four
Georgiana trailed George down the wide steps, dazed. Their wedding had been nothing like what she’d heard whispered about at school. For one, George hadn’t been willing to go to a blacksmith, as everyone else did. Instead, when they’d disembarked in Edinburgh, he’d insisted on locating both an attorney and the local sheriff. Spending more of the money they’d sold her jewelry for, George had their marriage documented, in duplicate, and the papers signed. By them, their hastily called in witnesses, the attorney he’d found, and the sheriff. Now, they were on their way to a bank, where George planned to leave a copy.
Georgiana trailed him down the narrow street. His strides long and purposeful, he hardly seemed to notice her presence. He did whistle, though, and kept a hand on the coat pocket in which he’d stowed the signed, folded pages.
In the stories she’d heard, the couple always stood before a blacksmith in Gretna Green, holding hands above his anvil. He would have a delightfully unassuming name, like Joseph Paisley or David Lang, and he would ask the two, before witnesses, if their love was an unbreakable bond. If they wished to be together forever, to the end of their days. They would agree, and he would demand they declare such before the witnesses. The two would do so, using words made eloquent by the depths of their love, and then their passion would overcome them, and they would share their first kiss as man and wife.
In the stories, there were no sheriffs, no attorneys, and no paperwork. George had been so concerned with all of that that he hadn’t declared his love at all, or even held her hand.
Georgiana swallowed back tears. What if he hadn’t declared his love because he felt none? Was she a fool? The biggest,greatest fool to ever live? What if George didn’t love her? If he’d only ever wanted—
He spun to face her. His smile warm, he held out a hand. “Dearest, what are you doing back there? Come, walk beside me. You are my wife. At long last, we are together.”
Relief washed through her. She was silly. Her handsome, smiling George did love her. He had been so patient, after all. Taken such care of her. If all he’d wanted was her money, he could have seduced her and then gone to her brother with the knowledge that she was ruined. Only a good, honest gentleman would devote so much time to securing their union in such a proper fashion.
Still…the paperwork. The attorney. The bank. None of that was the least bit romantic. Oughtn’t her wedding be romantic?
She reached him and he took her hand, his warm even through their gloves. George gave her fingers a gentle squeeze, then tugged her up beside him, tucking her arm through his. Walking like this, their shoulders touching, their arms twined, made her feel so warm inside. Giddy. Almost as if she floated.
Yet… “Why are you so determined to have a written record of our union in a bank?” Georgiana watched him from the corner of her eye. “Surely, informing others is enough.”
Not that any of the books she’d read or stories she’d heard had spoken of such matters. They always ended when that blissful moment of union was achieved. That was, after all, the culmination of life. The moment for which Georgiana had been born, had gone to school, had attended so many lessons on comportment. Her wedding day. The moment years of education and work came to fruition, when she became a man’s wife.
George cast her a look tinged with amused condescension. “You truly do not know your brother, do you?”
She wished George wouldn’t look at her as if she were a witless child. “I know him well. He is my brother.”
But George was already shaking his head. “You know a part of him. The side he chooses to present to you. You never see the man who robbed me of the living your father left me, or forbade me admittance to Pemberley. That man, the unfeeling, dictatorial one, he hides that man from you.”
Georgiana frowned. Fitzwilliam could be strict with her, but it was true he was never capriciously cruel as he’d been to George. And for no good reason. Her poor George. He used to be Fitzwilliam’s closest companion. At least, until jealousy over how Georgiana’s father had loved George more than he’d loved Fitzwilliam divided them.
