Page 80 of Prince of Scandal

Never had he been happier to see London.

Ashton lounged against the luxurious leather squab in the carriage borrowed from the Marquess of Salisbury, and Georgiana mumbled in her sleep as she shifted on his lap, trying to burrow closer. She might not have said so, but his precious little minx had been just as rattled by the past few days as he’d been. Georgiana sought reassurance in touch, needing that physical connection and the sweet release she found in being spanked. He hated to deny her, but having seen the bruises on her arms and ankle, that small scratch on her neck, and the fact she wasn’t feeling well with her menses, he’d decided the only solution was holding her. And feeding her strudel.

That would have to suffice for now. But when they were wed…his princess would learn the true depth of his feelings. How magnificent they would be together as husband and wife.

“Ashton? What are you thinking about?” mumbled Georgiana.

“Bed,” he said truthfully.

She snorted. “Bed for bedding, or bed for sleeping, old man?”

Ashton glanced down at her, his lips curving into a reluctant smile. “No use attempting to be provocative, little one. I’m not spanking you again until our wedding night.”

“Bah,” said Georgiana, pouting. Then she sat up and peered out the carriage window. “Do you think…would you take me to Hanover Square? Not to Kingsford House. I want to see Pippa. Hopefully Lilian as well.”

He swallowed hard, suppressing the powerful instinct to keep her with him. No. He wasn’t going to be overprotective after what happened. “Of course. I’ll drop you there then fetch you this afternoon. I need to go back to Wigmore Street and talk to Sir Alan and Phoebe.”

“Please tell them I’ll see them tomorrow. I just…er…”

“Georgiana,” he said gently. “You can see as few or as many people as you feel able to.”

She sighed ruefully and linked her fingers with his. “I love Phoebe so much. And I’m so grateful for what she did. But I want to see my sisters first.”

Within a half hour, Georgiana was safely ensconced at Pinehurst House, where she could reunite with her sisters without her grandmother’s recriminations or lectures. After kissing his woman thoroughly, Ashton continued on to Wigmore Street, where he was greeted with cheers and tears by Sir Alan and Phoebe, and heel-clicking concern by Franz.

“Is Gigi well? Is Osbourne dead?” Phoebe demanded, near-dragging Ashton into the parlor and shoving him onto the chaise, before pouring him a cup of tea.

“Blossom,” said Sir Alan in exasperation. “Give the man a moment.”

“What? These are the questions on everyone’s lips.”

“Yes,” said Ashton simply. “To both. Georgiana is currently recovering with her sisters, but sends her love and will see you soon.”

Phoebe nodded in satisfaction. “Good. How did the major die? I hope it was exceedingly painful, after everything.”

“He suffered several stab wounds, was shot, then fell from an inn rooftop onto cobblestones.”

“How…unfortunate.”

Sir Alan sat forward on his chair and took a slice of fruitcake from the tea tray. “Sounds fitting, right out of a gothic novel. I wager it made a mess, though. Poor innkeepers.”

Ashton grimaced. The sight of a twisted, broken and bloodied body was something he never wished to see again, and while a part of him hated that he’d not been able to shoot the bastard dead, all four of them could say, hand on heart, that they’d not committed murder on that rooftop. It was aggravating, though, that Osbourne hadn’t provided any important information to Northam about the friends in Surrey. Was it true? The comments about new members and the society never stopping? In that case, the viscount and his superiors, whoever they were, had a hell of a task on their hands. But that was for them to chase. He was quite done with English intrigues.

“The innkeepers were compensated handsomely for their troubles,” he murmured. “But what has been happening here?”

Phoebe and Sir Alan exchanged a grin. Then Phoebe yelled, “Franz! The letter!”

His manservant near-sprinted into the room, a large missive of cream parchment with the official Prussian royal seal stamped in blue wax in his outstretched hand. “It arrived just before you did, Your Highness. From what I gather, the Prince Regent deemed your letter an urgent diplomatic missive and arranged the swiftest riders to Norwich. From there it crossed the sea in a private vessel to Amsterdam, a chain of riders took it to Hanover, then Berlin for the king’s reply, and back again. No one has slept.”

Ashton blinked as he stared at the dirt-smudged and rain-dotted parchment, clear evidence of multiple hands. How the hell had Northam managed to arrange not only the Prince Regent’s support, but also such a Herculean feat of travel to be achieved in four days? “This is quite astonishing.”

“Well, open it, for heaven’s sake,” said Phoebe eagerly. “Are we going to be attending a royal wedding or not?”

His heart in his mouth, Ashton took the letter opener that Franz offered, and slid it under the seal. Then he carefully unfolded the letter and began reading it aloud.

Cousin Wilhelm Heinrich Ashton,

I have carefully considered your letter regarding your proposed bride, Lady Georgiana Nash. While my first instinct is to decline—”