Page 91 of One Night with a Rake

“Now,” she said when he stood there stupidly. Georgette strode to the door and checked the hallway for servants. The Handel fanfare was still parading along at a sprightly pace.

“Yes, yes, of course.” He hurried to her side. “But oughtn’t we tell the marquis where you’ve gone?”

“If we only have until midnight, there’s no time to dawdle,” Georgette said. Besides, if she didn’t quit Yorkingham House in the next few minutes, there’d be no way to leave later. After they located the missing note, she’d have Roger drive her to Nathaniel’s town house in Cheapside. He’d know what to do. “Have you an equipage?”

“My gig is in the alley.”

“Good.” Georgette stole down the hallway in the opposite direction of the grand staircase with Roger at her heels. Once she reached the end of the corridor, she led him down the servants’ narrow stairs. It opened finally into the kitchen. She stopped in the shadows, wondering how to proceed.

Cook was still in high feather. Flour whitening her arms to the elbows, she shrieked orders left and right. Even the indomitable Mr. Humphrey gave her a wide berth and quit the kitchen as quickly as he could, making his getaway through the servants’ parlor and up another set of stairs that led to the public areas of the house. The stairs Georgette and Roger had just come down serviced the rooms used primarily by the family.

Mr. Rigsby and his footmen hopped to, fetching and carrying as each new dish was pronounced fit to serve. Some carted their trays only as far as the dumbwaiter that would hoist the food to the butler’s pantry, while others followed Mr. Humphrey’s example and scurried away to other levels of the house.

Only the bootblack boy seemed unconcerned, yawning hugely through the uproar as he hunkered by the big fireplace, turning a rack of chickens on the spit.

“It’s cold out, milady,” Roger whispered in her ear. “If I may?” He removed his garrick and draped it over her shoulders.

Georgette was surprised by his thoughtfulness and knew she’d appreciate the warmth if they managed to make it past the gauntlet of servants. But the garment smelled of Roger Fishwick, a heavy-handed lavender scent spiced with the tang of male sweat.

“I suggest we duck through the scullery,” Roger said. The doorway to the small cell that held a soapstone sink was directly next to the back stairway door. “That’s how I managed to get in before.”

“There’s a girl in there washing up, I’ll be bound,” Georgette whispered back. “Cook has surely dirtied every pot and pan in the place.”

Roger shook his head. “There was a scullery maid in there, but she was dozing in the corner when I came through. With a little luck, perhaps she still is.”

Georgette took a deep breath and waited for another outburst from Cook that would draw every eye away from her hiding place. She didn’t have long to wait.

“Bertha, you imbecile!” Cook screeched. “The petit fours should be dusted with powdered sugar, not cinnamon!”

“Go.” Roger gave Georgette a small push on the shoulder and she slipped around the corner into the dim scullery. The sink was piled high with a leaning tower of pots and pans and crockery. But the maid Roger had mentioned was still slumped in the corner on her high stool, her head lolling forward, her shoulder propped against the wall. How on earth she could sleep while pandemonium erupted in the kitchen next door, Georgette had no clue.

She must be simply exhausted, Georgette reasoned and resolved to look into the hours and duties assigned to the poor girl.

“Hurry,” Roger hissed as he ushered her out so quickly the tail of the garrick she had draped about her caught in the door. Georgette gave it a yank and rushed to the waiting gig. Roger steadied her with a hand to her elbow because light snow had begun to fall, making the going slick underfoot.

Neither of them noticed when Roger’s black-and-white-checked deerstalker fell out of the garrick’s shallow pocket.

Thirty-four

Nathaniel trudged up the snow-rimed steps to the red silk-draped doors of Yorkingham House. He’d thought he could stay away from this cursed ball, thought seeing Georgette acclaimed as the royal duke’s future consort would be too painful to bear.

Staying away proved to be worse.

One way or another, he had to make sure she was happy and settled.

He rapped the knocker, but Humphrey didn’t come immediately to open the door. The blasts of a Handel fanfare pierced the crisp, cold air, then stopped abruptly mid-phrase. Frantic shouts punctuated the music’s end.

Nate didn’t wait any longer. He tried to turn the knob and when it wouldn’t give, he rammed his shoulder into the door and forced it open.

He strode into the marble foyer, but was promptly ignored by Lady Yorkingham and the gaggle of frantic servants at her heels.

“Fan out,” her ladyship ordered. “She must be here someplace. Oh, where on earth can that girl have gotten off to?”

She could only be talking about Georgette. Nathaniel’s lips twitched in a smile. He might have told Lady Yorkingham there was a certain curtained alcove in the library of which Georgette was particularly fond, but if she was exerting a little independence over the matter of wedding the duke, far be it from him to interfere. He allowed himself the tiniest scrap of hope that she’d changed her mind and would choose him instead.

“And for heaven’s sake, Humphrey, tell the musicians to play something.” She took a step, then jerked to a stop to add, “Anything but Handel.”

Lady Yorkingham plowed toward the adjoining parlor, heels clacking, hands gesticulating in the air. The rest of the servants scattered like beetles before a lit candle. They were clearly desperate to find Lady Georgette before His Royal Highness the Duke of Cambridge realized the lady whom he’d condescended to court in a public fashion couldn’t be bothered to make an appearance at her own ball.