Chapter 29
“Wherein farce and violence are the order of the day.”
Georgiana flung her needlework aside as howls and barks came from below stairs.
Alex and Céleste had gone to lunch with his Aunt Seymour, but the old lady had been taken ill while they were there, and they had sent a message to let her know they wouldn’t be returning until the next day.
It was nothing serious, but Alex wanted to wait to see the doctor and reassure himself his aunt was in good hands.
They had been due to attend a masked ball tonight, but Alex had arranged that Lord Nibley and his sister should take her, a fact that made her smile.
She wondered if Alex believed he was matchmaking, though it did give her an opportunity to tell poor Percy that she had reached her decision.
But her hosts' absence meant she’d been left alone, which suited her well.
She’d barely managed to set a stitch that wasn’t crooked but, she didn’t care a jot.
Sebastian had asked her to marry him.
The delicious words of his proposal, the passionate way he had kissed her, all of it was examined and replayed in detail in her mind’s eye, to the detriment of her stitching.
She had hoped to hear from him today, if not see him in person, but she knew he must be spending time with his mother, trying to help her come to terms with his impending nuptials to a woman she couldn’t help but despise.
She would see him tonight though, at the ball, and the idea made anticipation burn with pleasant warmth through her veins.
The barking and yapping became ever more raucous, and her curiosity now piqued, Georgiana decided to investigate.
Opening the door, she looked out into the hallway to see the butler hurrying downstairs and the barking getting ever more intense.
Wondering what manner of devilry her dreadful canine had embarked upon now she decided she’d best follow, and then picked up her skirts and ran down the stairs to the kitchens as a scream of horror trembled the walls.
The scene that awaited her as she entered the hallowed territory that belonged solely to the dictatorship of the chef, Alphonse, was one that only Bruegel could have done justice to.
In fact, it put her forcibly in mind of The Fight Between Carnival and Lent, a painting that had struck her with amusement when she was very young.
Standing on the kitchen table in all his stately majesty was Alphonse. In one hand he wielded a ladle and in the other a shockingly expensive Westphalian ham, around one end of which were clamped the jaws of a determined looking spaniel.
“Oh, thank heavens,” Georgiana muttered, relieved beyond measure Céleste’s wicked Bandit was to blame and not Conrad.
Her reprieve was short lived, however, as a squirrel ran across a shelf of the dresser, sending china crashing to the floor in its wake as Conrad barked with wild abandon and chased it towards the larder.
“Good gracious,” she exclaimed as the housekeeper shrieked when the squirrel suddenly diverted and leapt across the room, tail whisking, a bare inch from her face. In her shock the beleaguered woman dropped a full jar of cornichons.
The glass shattered sending the pickling liquid over the hem of Georgiana’s skirts and filling the kitchen with the pungent aroma of vinegar.
The squirrel leapt again and swung from the oil lamp over their heads, chattering with fury as Conrad leapt up on the table beside Alphonse to get closer.
This was too much for Alphonse who took a swipe at Conrad with the ladle, missed and lost his footing. To give the elderly butler his due, he moved pretty fast to intercept the rather weighty chef before he hit the ground, but only succeeded in breaking his fall.
With a sinking heart as the scene descended further into chaos, Georgiana decided enough was enough.
She helped the winded butler to his feet as Alphonse rolled off him, and then ran down the passage that led to the scullery. Here she found two trembling housemaids lurking. Scolding them soundly for being so chicken-hearted, she sent them out into the fray armed with brooms and baskets.
After a fair amount of squealing, shrieking and running about, the squirrel - who was sadly Conrad’s responsibility after having brought the wretched thing in and letting it go - was safely confined in a picnic basket.
This was given into the care of the second footman to remove to Hyde Park without delay.
Georgiana was hard pressed to decide which of the haughty creatures was more disgusted by this arrangement.
The furious squirrel had taken to growling with unsettling ferocity from the confines of its prison, while the second footman gave a revolted sniff of disdain and picked up the basket as though it contained a bloody head rather than a small, disgruntled rodent.
With one problem less, Georgiana removed the ham from Alphonse’s hands with a stern demand to know who exactly he thought would want to eat the wretched thing now?
Alphonse, who had been sitting in a heap on the kitchen floor and keeping a continually yapping Bandit at bay with the ladle, finally saw the sense in this.
He relinquished the ham, if not the ladle, and Georgiana threw it into the garden. It was an easy matter then to remove the two reprobates who had caused all the trouble when they followed the ham as an unjust reward for their roguery.
With a sigh Georgiana returned her attention to the kitchen.
The housekeeper sat in the corner sobbing into her apron, Alphonse was helping himself to the earl’s best brandy and threatening to hand in his notice in passionate if broken English, and a scene of devastation lay before her whichever way she turned.
An hour later she had sent the butler, Alphonse and the housekeeper to have tea and cake in the back kitchen whilst the housemaids returned the kitchen to rights.
She had promised Alphonse two Westphalian hams to be delivered from Fortnum and Masons’ the very next day at her own expense, and a bottle of that fine establishment’s best brandy for each of them to settle their nerves.
Thus leaving them suitably mollified, she returned to the kitchen to find the maids putting everything in its place and climbed the stairs with a sigh, wondering if she would ever get the stench of vinegar out of her favourite sprigged muslin.
The sight that next greeted her was not, therefore, one she could meet with any equanimity. Baron Dalton, clearly finding the door unlocked and no footman or butler to deny him, had entered the house and was awaiting her.
She paused in the hallway, staring at him with disfavour.
“I’m sorry no one was here to receive you, Uncle,” she replied, keeping her tone polite if icy. “There was a commotion in the kitchens which needed our attention. I’m afraid Lord Falmouth cannot speak to you at present. If you would like to return later, perhaps ...”
“I know damn well Falmouth isn’t here, girl,” he replied with a sneer, his thin lips just as cruel and malicious as she remembered them.
“I waited until your guard dog had left the premises, though I never expected to have such luck as to evade the butler and his minions too.” He gave her a callous grin and gestured towards the drawing room. “Shall we ...?”
“I have no wish to further my acquaintance with you, Sir,” Georgiana replied, her heart hammering with unease. “So, I would ask that you leave now.”
The baron snorted and to her horror crossed the hall, grasped her by the wrist and hauled her behind him into the drawing room where he slammed the door shut.
“If you haven’t realised by now, I don’t give a damn what you want, then you have even less brain than I credited you for,” he said, his face full of hatred as she snatched her hand from his grasp and staggered away.
“Say your piece, you brute, and then get out before Falmouth returns. He doesn’t like bullies,” she said, sneering at him in return.
Before she had time to even consider that her words were not well placed before a man she knew inclined to violence, his hand snapped out and struck her face, a stinging blow that had her staggering backwards.
She fell onto the sofa behind her, tears of shock and pain blurring her eyes, but before she could scream or cry for help, he had her by the throat, his large hand squeezing just enough to make breathing very hard indeed.
“Listen to me, you little whore. I’ve seen the way you’ve got the men running after you like you’re a bitch on heat, and if you think I’m vacating my home for a tart with no more class than a threepenny upright, you’re sadly out on your reckoning.”
He squeezed a little tighter as Georgiana clawed at his hand to no avail.
“This is the thing you’re going to do. I will send you a message in two days, telling you where and when, and then you will come along like a good girl and marry Mr Rufford.”
He released her and she fell to her knees, gasping as tears fell from her eyes. She hauled in a breath and moved away from him, watching as he stared at her as though she was less than nothing.
“And if I don’t?” she demanded, pulling herself back up onto the sofa, determined that he shouldn’t see her tremble before him, even if her knees were unlikely to carry her from the room if she tried to run from him.
He reached into his pocket and for an appalled and horrifying second, she saw the glint of a knife and thought he meant to kill her.
Instead he grasped hold of her hair, pulling her head cruelly backwards, and cut off one thick ringlet, holding it up in front of her face with triumph in his eyes.
“If you don’t, I’ll make sure every man of the town is given a share of this little token and a fair price to illustrate to anyone who’ll listen about how they spent their nights availing themselves of your pleasures.”
Georgiana gasped and shook her head.
“Please, no! You can keep the house, and the money, I don’t want it. Just leave me be, I beg of you.”
“No,” he replied. “You’re not the kind of woman who leaves well enough alone. Oh, you’re cowed enough for now with my fist in your sights,” he said, his face bearing such malice for her she felt truly afraid.
“But I wouldn’t want you getting the idea you can get the better of me and get back what you believe is yours.
No, you’ll do as I say now, or I’ll finish the job of ruining you that your slattern of a mother began.
” He strode to the door before pausing and turning back.
“You’ll receive my message and you’ll do as you’re bid or face the consequences. ”
“I’ll never do as you want,” she exploded, rage overcoming fear as the unfairness of it took a hold of her and put fire in her blood.
“You come here, accusing me of being worthless when you’re nothing but a vile bully who uses his fists to force himself on those who can’t fight back.
I’ll never put myself further into your power, never! ”
He didn’t even blink, his serpentine eyes staring at her with cool disgust.
“Then I’ll ruin you,” he replied, before closing the door in her face.
Georgiana sat trembling, unsure of what to do, of whom to turn to. Her first thought was to run to Lord Falmouth, but he had been to so much trouble on her behalf already and with his Aunt Seymour taken ill too ...
She would have to wait until tomorrow to speak with him. But Sebastian would surely know what to do. In any case she must tell him before such dreadful stories could come to his ears by another means.
It would be quite improper of her to arrive on his doorstep alone; she would have to send a message to ask him to call immediately. But looking at the mantel clock, however, she saw how very late it had grown.
It was almost time to get ready for the masquerade ball where she would see him anyway. She would have to contrive to speak to him privately there and they would think of something.
They had to.