Page 42 of What Lies Beneath

“Yes, miss,” the coachman replied, touching his hat with his fingers.

Genevieve experienced the oddest sense of unreality at hearing herself addressed so after being Mrs Harris for so long, but nodded in return. She held the door until the coach rolled into motion, praying Tilly had the good sense not to open it once they were moving. To her relief, this was so, but the child still hung out the window.

“Papa will come for you, Harry! He will!” she shouted, tears streaming down her face as the carriage turned the corner and out of sight.

Genevieve sucked in an unsteady breath and looked around the yard, aware of the grooms watching the scene. She could not linger here. Hurriedly, she picked up her skirts, and went to discover from the innkeeper the best way she could travel from here to Norfolk. He had proven himself trustworthy, and now she must rely upon him to do her another kindness.

Chapter 11

“Take your hands off her!” Viscount Amberson cried, but Hanover held her tight against his chest, the knife angled against the delicate skin of her throat.

Georgette watched pain flicker in her viscount’s eyes as he saw the point of the knife press against her flesh, and knew that he loved her. Despite everything, he had come to care for his dowdy, stern-faced governess. How she wanted to tell him she loved him too, with all her heart, but it was too late now. She had underestimated the depths of Lord Hanover’s depravity, his vile need for retribution, and now she would pay the price.

―Excerpt of His Grace and Disfavour, by an anonymous author.

2nd December 1850, Goshen Court, Monmouthshire.

At first Pip had read the story with only half his mind engaged, the other half still lingering in the decadence of the previous night. Little by little, however, the fascinating saga pulled him in, and then the oddest prickling sensation tiptoed down his spine.

Foolishness, he told himself as he read on, devouring the text faster and faster as the story unravelled before him. Don’t be utterly ridiculous, his mind insisted as echoes of the tale seemed to prick at his subconscious, yet there was truth here. He felt it in his bones, knew with utter certainty that he was Viscount Amberson. But why? Who had written this, and… and were they implying that Mrs Harris was Georgette?

He stood suddenly, staring down at the pamphlet with his heart thudding wildly. That was outrageous and wrong, and—

A knock at the study door jolted him from his thoughts.

“What?” he demanded crossly, raking a hand through his hair. He did not want interruptions right now, he needed to think.

Kerridge appeared, his expression wary. “Forgive me my lord, but—”

“Never mind the introductions, he knows who I am,” drawled an all-too-familiar voice.

Pip straightened at once as his father walked into the room. Old habits died hard. Pip gaped at him, the story momentarily forgotten as he took in the sight of his usually immaculate sire looking just a little rumpled and travel-worn. This was so extraordinary for Montagu, it could only speak of some dire event having overtaken him.

“Sir?” he said, so taken aback he could not think what else to say.

“I’ve had a very trying night,” Lord Montagu said tersely. “The blasted carriage hit a pothole before we reached Monmouth and the damned axle broke. Poor Hanson warned me I was out of my mind to travel in the dark and I do not like being proven wrong, especially when I am in such a damned hurry. I was forced to put up at—I can’t call it an inn—an establishment that purported to lease rooms, while repairs were made, which seemed to take twice as long as it ought. It was a vile experience, and I am not in the sunniest of tempers.” Trying to overcome the shock of his father’s sudden appearance, Pip shook himself back to his wits. “I am sorry for that, Father. My valet is at your disposal. I shall have a bath readied for you at once, but you must forgive me. Something of import has happened, or at least, I think it has, and I must beg your forgiveness, but I cannot speak—”

His father, omniscient as ever, stalked over to his desk and picked up a pamphlet. “Good God. Don’t tell me it’s only now sinking in? Does the poor young woman need to hit you over the head with the damned thing before you figure it out?”

Pip blinked. “Sir?”

Montagu sighed. “Your Mrs Harris is Miss Genevieve Hamilton. There, does that clarify things for you?”

Pip stared at his father, aghast. “But… But….”

“Where is she?” Montagu demanded, having no tolerance for Pip’s shock. He sounded angry and impatient and that, finally, roused Pip back to sense.

“This is none of your business,” Pip said, squaring his shoulders and looking his father in the eyes. That alone was no easy task, for those cool silver eyes seemed to see everything he was, everything he had ever done, and made Pip feel about six years old again. Reminding himself sternly that he was no such thing, he held his ground. “Mrs Harris, or Miss Hamilton, or whoever the hell she is, is my problem, not yours, and for your information, I intend to marry her.”

His father’s expression, so stern and forbidding, relaxed a degree at this information. “Well, that’s the most sensible decision you’ve ever come to,” he said dryly. “And I know it’s none of my affair, you insolent pup. Do you think, however, I would be here if it were not urgent?”

His father had never interfered in his life before, even when he’d realised Pip was keeping his grandchild a secret from him. He owed his father an apology.

“I beg your pardon, sir—”

“Oh, stow it,” Montagu said irritably, shocking Pip with the rather cant expression. “I’m more concerned for your Mrs Harris’ safety. Where is she?”

“Her safety?” Pip repeated, a sudden hollow sensation opening up inside him. “But why—”