Chess would be a good distraction from her bleak future.
The next morning,Georgie woke with a start, sitting bolt upright when she realized she lay in a strange bed instead of drowsing upright on a hard coach seat. Clutching the covers to her throat, she looked around the room. She was no longer on the road being jostled by the other passengers in the mail coach. She had found a safe haven… for the time being, at least.
She had not been able to see the room very well the previous evening by the light of the single candle the housekeeper had allotted her. Looking around in the daylight, it was small but neat as a pin, meticulously swept and dusted. She had never stayed in a rectory before.
A small voice whispered to her that it was terribly scandalous—even ruinous—for her to stay under the same roof as an unmarried man, even if he was a clergyman. Georgie repressed that voice with the same firmness she had used to repress the voice which had told her how scandalous it would be for her to go in pursuit of her otters. She already knew that, by doing so, she had given up any claim to be a lady when society found out what she had done. One additional scandal could not further harm her already ruined reputation.
What abouthisreputation?
Georgie sighed and pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them as she contemplated that problem. Her relief at discovering he was another man entirely and her otters were in no danger had been so great, she had not taken amoment to think through all the implications of staying with him. Her joy at finding Bonny, Betsy, and Buttercup not only alive, but well, had overcome her good sense as well.
She would need to keep her distance and continue her disguise until she determined her next course of action. If he never found out she was a woman, he could not be tarred with her misbehavior. Besides, he was a man, and at least a marquess’s son if he was addressed as “Lord Peter.” It was likely he would ride out any scandal far more easily than she. She could only hope he would not denounce her from the pulpit when—if—he discovered her true identity.
With that decided, she slid from the bed and crossed to the window, Freddy’s nightshirt flapping around her knees. Her room overlooked the kitchen garden, with the chicken coop that housed her otters visible a little distance away beyond the low wall that enclosed the garden. They were safe for now, but how would she care for them in the future? Whatwasher future?
A sharp rap sounded at the door, and Georgie dove back under the covers before calling, “Come in!”
The housekeeper—Mrs. Barwick, that was her name—bustled in with a steaming pitcher of water, setting it on the washstand. “Good morning to tha, young sir.”
Georgie cleared her throat and tried to lower her voice. “Good morning.”
“The vicar was called out early this morning to tend to poor Mrs. Miller, so he won’t be at breakfast. I’ve brought you some water for washing.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Barwick.”
“Does tha require aught else, Mr. Morley? A razor?”
Georgie kept the blankets clutched beneath her chin. “No. Thank you. I shall be down shortly.”
“Very well.” Mrs. Barwick bustled back out, but Georgie did not trust the older woman’s shrewd eyes. She waited for the doorto close completely and the footsteps to fade down the hallway before she sprang from the bed and turned the key in the lock.
Binding her breasts for her journey had proven quite uncomfortable despite the necessity. After she washed, she experimented with another way to tie the length of cloth to allow her to breathe more freely. Fortunately, she was not overly gifted in that area, so she decided she would not need to tie it as tightly as she had while traveling by mail coach. Not only would the layers of her waistcoat and jacket disguise her figure, she felt certain she would be safe from any unwanted advances even if Lord Peter discovered she was a woman.
It still felt peculiar to step into her brother’s clothes, but she was becoming more used to them by the day. There was something rather freeing about being able to stride around in boots and trousers rather than worrying about too-narrow skirts right when one of the otters was flinging itself into danger.
Once dressed, she made her way downstairs and peeked into doors until she came across the small room that seemed to serve as the breakfast room. Two places were set at the table with a folded newspaper lying next to one. Georgie seated herself at the other spot as Mrs. Barwick came in bearing a plate of muffins in one hand and a pot of tea in the other.
“Eggs will be done in a few minutes, young sir. How many would you like?”
“Oh! One would be fine to start, Mrs. Barwick. Thank you.”
The housekeeper sniffed, but swept back out of the room without another comment.
Georgie poured herself a cup of tea and looked longingly at the newspaper. Lord Peter wasn’t here to read it, so it couldn’t do any harm for her to read it first. Could it?
It was theMorning Chroniclefrom London, only three days old. For a moment, she contemplated how expensive it must be to have it sent to this corner of Yorkshire in such a short amountof time. It had taken at least half a day for the hired coach to bring her here once she had reached the city of York itself.
After another moment’s hesitation, she pulled the newspaper to her place and began to read.
She glanced up slightly when Mrs. Barwick came in with her soft-boiled egg, but otherwise remained glued to the paper, scanning the political news before looking at the employment advertisements. They were depressingly few, and all seemed to require references she lacked.
There was one friend she had retained from her abbreviated season in Bath: Caroline Swanton, now Caroline Langdon. Georgie would write to her and see if she knew of anyone seeking a paid companion.
The door opened again and Lord Peter came in, looking disheveled and exhausted. His chestnut-brown curls were tangled, as though he had been running his hands through them all night. He sank into his chair at the head of the table, elbows askew and jacket front unbuttoned.
Silently, Georgie poured him a cup of tea, and he nodded his thanks before draining the steaming liquid in a long draught that made her wince.
“How is Mrs. Miller?” she asked tentatively, but he shook his head, his face blank. Mrs. Barwick chose that moment to return and regard Lord Peter sympathetically.
