Page 86 of One Night with a Rake

What had happened?

She wondered if he was pursuing Vesta and Mr. Bagley’s killer without her. If so, he might be in danger. Or would her presence only hamper his investigation? Usually, the idea that Nathaniel might be better off without her in tow never entered her mind.

She pondered it now.

He does seem to have to spend an inordinate amount of time carting me off over his shoulder.

She frowned down at her plate and decided to abandon the cause of breakfast.

Georgette wandered through Yorkingham House with no idea how to fill the time till she had to dress for the ball. Mercy had wheedled her into promising to go in search of a new bonnet to complement the cast-off gown Mercy would be wearing to the Ladies’ Maids’ Ball that evening, but they couldn’t even set out till Mercy finished a few chores.

If Georgette was at loose ends, the rest of the household bristled with activity. In the ballroom, her mother’s army of workers was busy festooning the grand space with reams of red silk, lace-trimmed hearts, and papier-mâché flowers. Cook was in upheaval in the kitchen preparing the dainty dishes destined for the sideboards set up in an anteroom off the ballroom. Mrs. Thistle had marshaled every maid in Yorkingham House to polish the brass and scrub the floors till she could see her reflection in the gleaming marble and hardwood.

The daughter of the house was about to become a future royal duchess. His Highness might make his formal declaration that night in Yorkingham House. The very air vibrated with expectancy.

Yet if a certain second son would only say the word, Georgette would blithely run off to Gretna Green with him without a backward glance.

Thirty-two

Lord Roger Fishwick strolled into White’s at half-past nine in the morning with only a slight wobble in his walk. True, he wasn’t entirely sober, but he wasn’t as drunk as usual after an all-night carouse either.

A few gentlemen were engaged in a card game, but for once, Lord Gobberd wasn’t among them. Instead, that overblown windbag had commandeered one of the stuffed chairs by the large window, the better to see and be seen as he read his freshly ironed newspaper and slurped down his morning coffee.

At least he’s a useful overblown windbag, Roger thought. Anything the teeniest bit scandalous about anyone was sure to have caught Gobberd’s notice, and he wasn’t shy about sharing his knowledge.

Roger slid into the chair opposite him and signaled to the waiting footman to bring him a steaming cup.

“The Jamaican brew, and step lively,” he ordered. Tea simply wouldn’t do. A pot of chocolate was for women or men with no hair on their chests. To keep Roger awake and upright, it had to be Arabica beans so stout they could lift the cup and carry it across the table on their own.

Gobberd peered over the top of his paper, his slanting gaze taking in the bedraggled state of Roger’s neckcloth and the grubbiness of his cuffs.

“Haven’t found your bed yet, I see, Fishwick.”

“No matter,” Roger said with a cheerful snort. “I found someone else’s.”

Gobberd laughed heartily at that. “I knew there was a reason I liked you, son. You remind me of me.”

A much younger and fitter version of you, Roger thought as the footman brought his coffee. Unfortunately, the servant jostled the cup in the saucer as he set it down and spilled some of the precious brew. Roger gave him a blistering tongue-lashing and the fellow backed away, apologizing profusely and promising to bring a fresh pot, not just a fresh cup.

“And a plate of biscuits too, while you’re about it,” Roger said with an imperious glare. Once the fellow hotfooted it back to the kitchen, Roger turned back to Lord Gobberd. “What’s wrong with the help this morning?”

“That poor fellow isn’t one of the regulars,” Gobberd said. “The usual wait staff has the day off to prepare for that blasted Ladies’ Maids’ Ball this evening. The whole city’s in a boiling stew over it.” Gobberd cleared his throat loudly and, to Roger’s stomach’s discomfort, snorted wetly. “A lot of nonsense, if you ask me. Does a real disservice to the lower classes. Gives ’em airs above their station.”

The substitute footman came back, walking with such care it looked as if he scarcely drew breath. Roger took a sip of the coffee.

“It’s cold,” he complained. When the footman started to remove the tray, Roger stopped him with a glare. “Leave it. I’ve no hope you’d get it right even if you did try again.”

“Not to mention that he’ll probably spit in your cup next time,” Gobberd muttered behind his paper. “It’s only coffee. Why so particular?”

Roger swallowed back his reply. “Only” coffee.

Gobberd’s use of “only” whisked him back to his childhood when it seemed all he heard was “only.” It had been only his marks in school…only his seat on a horse…only the way he spoke with his mouth full…

Only. Only. Only.

His parents tried to control everything about him, all the while trying to make it seem as if it was for his own good.

As if they cared.