“I am not convinced of it,” Lady Heathway said. “I still say, be on your guard about Miss Wilcox. She’s a fine enough girl, but Lord Langley must reach a deal higher!”
“Oh Penelope, Jasper is never even here,” Lady Mendleton said. “Does that not speak volumes?”
“Never, you say?” Lady Heathway asked skeptically.
“Really never,” Lady Mendleton said. “He practically lives at his club these days.”
“Well, that is something, I suppose.”
Georgiana hardly knew what to do in the face of this conversation. Should she go in and interrupt or run the other direction? She was very much inclined to run, as Lady Mendleton had just now very casually pointed out her worst fear. Jasper was never here, he practically lived at his club now. And, it seemed to be his choice.
Oh, she knew that poor Lady Mendleton had gone wrong on one point—there was not an engagement in the works between Lord Langley and Lady Annabelle, not if Mr. Pottsgrove had anything to say about it. But Georgiana was afraid she was right in everything else. He was never here by his own choice. It was the fact that had been staring her in the face all along, and the fact she’d been trying to reason away.
A deep clear of the throat startled her and she spun around.
Mr. Perry stood staring at her. In a crisp tone, he said, “Do you require assistance, Miss Wilcox?”
“Goodness, no,” she said hurriedly. “I was only going up to freshen myself from my walk in the garden.”
She scurried past him and up the stairs, feeling his eyes on her back as she went.
Georgiana flew down the corridor, startling a housemaid as she went. Safe in her own room, she shut the door behind her and let out a breath.
Mr. Perry had caught her eavesdropping and she could not be more humiliated. God only knew what the butler took her for.
But what she had overheard! It was only what she had known in her heart, but to hear it spoken of aloud made it somehow more real, more irrefutable.
Jasper kept himself away very deliberately.
She could not escape the reality that swam in front of her eyes, A man interested in a lady does not avoid her, especially when she is conveniently located in his own house. There could be no circumstance to account for it. Her own interest, her love, if she were to be brutally honest, was entirely one-sided.
What a mess she’d made of things! How was she to go forward? She supposed she would return to her father, her prospects much the same as she had left him. What else could she do? Marry some poor fellow who did not realize that her heart would always be elsewhere? It would be too cruel. She could not do it, not even to secure a future.
Georgiana sat on the windowsill and watched the resident tree sparrows go in and out of their nest box. They seemed busy and well-satisfied with themselves, and Georgiana presumed there were hatched chicks in the box.
“Oh yes,” she said to them, “things appear to go on swimmingly foryou. As for me, I have made a mess of it.”
As if he heard her, and understood her, the male sparrow paused to stare at her. His round black eyes seemed to hold little sympathy.
“You are right, of course,” she said. “After all, whatever has befallen me has been caused by me, and nobody else. At least I’ve told nobody my secret and it can be mine to bear alone. Lord Langley never declared himself, it was only the way he looked at me…”
Georgiana paused, a glimmer of hope like a small candle out in a dark field began to flicker.
There had been looks. It had not been only her imagination. Lady Heathway had noticed looks. She had very specifically gone to Lady Mendleton about her concern over looks.
Then perhaps…but then perhaps not. Perhaps she should give up all hope, but then there had been looks.
She must just wait and see. She was ridiculous, she was certain of it. It was as if she were on a sinking ship and somehow holding out hope that it would sail on to arrive safely at port. And yet, she would wait and see. She could not bear to do otherwise.
*
The Stuart hadtaken a house in a prominent neighborhood and boldly walked into London society, though his handful of advisors had counseled otherwise. They might think he ought to hide himself away, but creeping around the shadows was anathema to him. They did not understand the fundamental thing he understood—the English were incredibly stupid and generally believed what they were told.
He’d taken his place with nary a raised eyebrow, though they were a pack of idiots to believe he was a lord who’d been lounging in Ireland these past years. Did nobody check patents? Did nobody have an ear for accents? The Tsarina would have taken apart his story in less than a day. For that matter, the Russian Noble Register would have done him in, as to be listed in it one must produce a veritable mountain of documents. But not here, no—he’d taken on the identity of a man recently dead, Lord Astur. Aside from being hard to check, as the man had been rather a recluse on a remote estate in Ireland, it had tickled him to choose that particular identity. When he was king, stories would be written of his ascent and the wit and daring of his selection would be understood. An extraton the end would tell the tale.
Fortunately for him, the English were a dull-witted lot—wear the right clothes, put it about that there was money in one’s pockets by losing one large bet at a club and laughing it off, and make oneself agreeable. These buffoons did not inquire further until a marriage contract was on the table.
He had been right about what he would find here. His instincts always were right, precisely why he ought to be king. No, he reminded himself, hewasking. He had been king since his father died. That he had been denied his throne was a separate matter. He was a king ordained by God and by God he would get it back from those weak-minded Germans and hold dominion over these thickheaded Englishmen.
