“Can you find Mr. Osbourne?” she asked, blithely unaware of the wound she was inflicting with the mention of the man’s name.
“I will find Osbourne,” he said. “Indeed, he is invited to a ball my parents are throwing in my honor two days hence.”
“What do you need me to do?” she asked. “I fear Lady Georgiana will not be able to see callers while she is in her father’s home.”
“Then we have to get her out of Ashcombe House.”
Miss Duigood shook her head. “I am not certain that is possible. She is forbidden even from visiting with the baroness.If Mr. Osbourne is to rescue her, he will have to do it under the cover of darkness.”
Tom paced the floor, trying to dampen down the panic. Too many times, he’d seen young soldiers—officers and enlisted men alike—succumb to panic in the middle of a battle. He needed to clear his head and think.
The sound of his stepmother walking along the foyer outside with the housekeeper caught his attention, distracting him. She was gesturing to a large table in the center of the main entry where, just yesterday, he’d overheard her discussing what kind of flowers would best coordinate with the new gown she’d ordered specifically for the ball. The invitations were being sent tomorrow.
Inspiration struck, and for the first time, Tom was excited for the possibility of this society occasion. He turned to Miss Duigood.
“Did you say Marcus Hawthorne was with them?”
She nodded.
Marcus needed a wife. And Lord Ashcombe, if Tom remembered correctly, appreciated having his status fawned over. And a ball would be the perfect place to accomplish both. He just needed to ensure Georgie was with them.
“I will see to Osbourne,” he said. “Expect an invitation to my engagement ball, two days hence. We will ensure Lady Georgiana is out of both Sharpe’s and Ashcombe’s clutches.”
“I am not certain I will be able to get word to Lady Georgiana,” she said. “I would not be surprised if Lord Ashcombe is directing all correspondence to her to come to him instead.”
“I shall have the Viscountess Worthington send a special note to her, encouraging her to come,” he said. “And trust that she knows she is not alone.”
“Thank you, Mr. Worthington,” Miss Duigood said. “Indeed, you are a very good man. I just wish—”
Her eyes widened, as if she realized she was about to say something that would offend him. Heat flushed into her freckled cheeks as she put her gloved hands to her mouth.
“My apologies, sir.”
Tom shook his head, giving her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
“Do not apologize, Miss Duigood,” he said. “Indeed, I wish it too.”
Chapter Seventeen
It was agood thing Georgie had no appetite ahead of today’s dinner. Lord Sharpe’s diet was restricted to boiled food, owing to the belief that meals prepared in any other fashion excited the dark humors. If she had been starving, she would have been raiding the kitchens for whatever bit of cheese, fruit, or other delights deemed too rich and sinful for everyday consumption. But she’d barely been able to sleep, let alone eat, since sending her note yesterday.
She’d received no reply—not that she expected one. She’d even packed a small bag with a fresh chemise, her best traveling gown, and her mother’s locket, just in case he arrived in the middle of the night and she had to leave quickly. Not that Mr. Osbourne seemed to be the type for grand gestures like that.
As the night had gone on, doubts had started to crowd Georgie’s thoughts. What if Mr. Osbourne had changed his mind? What if he had already removed himself out of London, caught up in a fit of excitement about a breeding horse, leaving her on her own until Saturday? By then she could be dragged to the altar.
She lay in bed, unable to sleep, her fingers stroking the tiny little fox carved out of wood that Tom had carved for her so longago. She’d clung to the charm, worn smooth over the years. Why she carted it around still, she could not allow herself to think about. She loved him, and had managed, somehow, to lose him. Twice.
She’d spent the night straining to hear any indication that somehow Mr. Osbourne had received news of her predicament and was outside her window, ready to take her away. The only sounds were those of fighting cats and horses pulling carriages through the streets after a late-night social occasion.
She could not imagine she would ever stir out of doors again to a ball after marrying the baron. Lord Sharpe was dour personified. Even now, as she sat at the dinner table, watching her father and brother eating their plain boiled potatoes and poached cod without even the simplest of sauces, she could feel her heart withering in her chest. And while she was very much younger than the baron, and could have reliably outlived him, the fact he had outlived younger wives gave Georgie less hope than she might otherwise have.
He spoke at length, but only about a few subjects…the ruination of women through learning, and the general godlessness of the world.
“We must reject all trappings of vanity,” he said, a remarkable proposition considering he carried a title, arrived in a beautiful hack, and wore a coat, which, though of an older fashion, had been spun of the finest wool and adorned with what looked to be brass buttons. He’d gestured to Georgie’s gown, a simple yet elegant muslin frock adorned with embroidered flowers, and a string of pearls around her neck with barely disguised disdain. “It is in these ways that the devil enters into our lives, spreading his ill will amongst us.”
Georgie had watched her father and Marcus, who spoke politely, quietly agreeing. If she were being kind, she could understand why his railing on the dangers of evil might findan audience with Papa and her brother. Their mother had died when Georgie was eight. The house she grew up in, which had once been one of the most beautiful stately homes in all Cheshire, was a shadow of its former self, plagued by leaks and sinking walls. The land around it, which had once been lush, seemed to struggle from year to year. It had seemed like something had taken hold—but Georgie was certain the culprit had been despair rather than something one might attribute to some devilry brought on by brass buttons, savory roasted pork, or custard tarts.
What would a lifetime with this man be like?
