Thirty-three
By eight o’clock that evening, Georgette was fretting like a colt on a lunge line.
She fidgeted in the upstairs parlor while the guests were being announced one by one in the ballroom below.
Her mother had decided it would create a grander moment if Georgette descended the curving staircase and processed into the ballroom accompanied by a fanfare of strings and brass.
She was even supposed to make her entrance after the Duke of Cambridge arrived.
“That will probably upset all sorts of precedence,” Georgette had argued.
What she really wanted to do was find a quiet alcove in the ballroom and hide till the whole thing was over.
The way her mother was arranging matters, every eye would be upon them when she and the royal duke met for the first time.
“That’s as may be, dearest, and I’ll admit it’s a calculated risk, but we want the duke to see you at your regal best,” her mother had insisted. “What’s more imperious than being the last to arrive?”
Since Lady Yorkingham had given in on the matter of the red gown and reluctantly admitted the shimmering pale pink was the better choice, Georgette decided to allow her mother this small victory.
Besides, the fact that she was about to upstage the duke might just irk him enough that he’d cast his royal eyes elsewhere.
She wished for that with all her heart.
As much as she wanted to please her parents, she was beginning to realize she could never accept the royal duke’s suit. Court life would suffocate her. She wasn’t cut out to be a princess, but she’d be powdered and pressed and squeezed into the mold of one.
If she said “yes” to His Royal Highness, she’d be forever saying “no” to her real self.
Her parents would be devastated, but however much she loved them, she couldn’t live for them. The ton would consider her addlepated. She didn’t care. Even if she lived out her years as an eccentric spinster, at least she’d still be Georgette.
She might not have Nathaniel, but she’d still be herself.
Georgette parted the curtain and gazed down on the street where carriages lined up past the corner.
The queue of equipages curved around the bend in the street beyond.
Bejeweled women swathed in fur-trimmed capes and men with starched neckcloths and silver-headed walking sticks disembarked and made their stately way into burgeoning Yorkingham House.
If she were ever going to make a break for it, now was the time. But where would she go?
One needed a prospective bridegroom in order to steal away to Scotland. Where did a lady go when she wanted to steal herself?
Maybe Paris…
Her imagination whirred like a windmill in a gale.
She’d go to Paris. It wasn’t a permanent solution, but it was a start.
To travel in safety, Georgette would need some portable wealth.
She was wearing a strand of pearls with a ruby clasp.
The locked jewelry chest in her chamber held a diamond brooch and a pair of emerald earbobs that were so heavy it hurt to wear them for an entire evening.
The matching choker was fashioned of goodly sized gems. All told, the contents of her jewel box were enough to keep her comfortably for years.
“Maybe I can start a ‘House of Sirens’ type rehabilitation school for the demimonde of France,” she whispered to herself. Then because she couldn’t bear to give up completely on the dream of personal happiness, she added, “And maybe Nathaniel will come find me there.”
She dropped the curtain and turned away from the window, only to almost run headlong into Roger Fishwick.
“My lord, what are you doing here?” Georgette stumbled back a pace in surprise. She hadn’t heard his footfalls behind her and she was sure she’d not seen his name on the guest list.
“My apologies.” He executed a perfectly correct bow, but the bead of perspiration trickling from his temple marred the image of gentility he was trying to project.
“I didn’t mean to intrude on your privacy, and truth to tell, I had the devil’s own time getting past your staff, but I had no choice. I had to see you.”
A pompous blast of Purcell wafted up to the second-story parlor. The duke must have arrived. At any moment, the Handel tune that was her cue to appear would sound with a squeal of trumpets and full-throated strings.
“Now is not the most opportune—” she began.
“Oh, I know,” Roger interrupted and started pacing, wringing his hands as he went. “Do you think I don’t? This evening is supposed to be your great triumph, and believe me, the last thing I want to do is interfere.”
Then why was he, devil take the man? Roger had no way to know he was interfering with her determined flight away from her supposed “great triumph,” but he was still keeping her from her hastily assembled plans.
“I suppose they figured since you and I were childhood friends, I was the natural choice,” he mumbled.
The natural choice for what? The Purcell ended with a flourish and the silence from below was pregnant with anticipation.
Once the Handel began, if Georgette didn’t appear, her mother would send a legion of servants to collect her.
If she was going to make good her escape, she still needed to steal up to her chamber for the rest of her jewelry.
“They who?” she asked with undisguised impatience. “What are you talking about?”
“This.” He pulled out a bedraggled object that was tucked inside his waistcoat. The confection of lace was misshapen, as if it had been smashed by a carriage wheel, but Georgette recognized the cheerful scarlet tulle and tiny chain of embroidered daisies on the netting.
It was Mercy’s new bonnet.
She took it from his hands. “Where did you get this?”
“The hat was delivered to my house this evening along with a note.” He fished in his pockets, his expression more panicked each time he turned out one and it came up empty. “Don’t tell me I’ve lost it. Oh, no.”
He put both hands to his temples, clearly distressed. “I was certain I had it when I left the house, honestly. Oh, milady, please forgive me.”
“What did the note say?” Georgette demanded. A hollow sickness spread through her belly. Something horrible had happened to Mercy. She wouldn’t have parted with her beloved bonnet otherwise. “Has there been an accident?”
“An accident? No.” Roger rubbed his forehead as if he’d massage the information from his brain.
“More like an abduction. The note said something on the order of how if you want your maid back, you must deliver a certain sum to a certain place by the stroke of midnight or…I’m sorry, milady. I can’t remember more.”
Georgette wanted to shake Roger Fishwick till his teeth rattled, but she forced herself to an outward show of calm. “What about Mr. Darling? The footman she was with is quite a formidable fellow.”
“They didn’t mention a footman.”
Some evil must have befallen Reuben Darling too. He’d never have let anything happen to Mercy otherwise. “Do you think you might have left the note at your home?”
His expression brightened at that, his pale eyes going round. “You know, I may have. I was in that much of a hurry to reach you with this news.”
A trio of brass trumpeted in the parlor below. Georgette bid her scheme of running away to France adieu and screwed up her courage to do what was necessary for Mercy.
“Will you take me to your town house so we can look for the note?” Georgette asked.
“Oh, most assuredly,” Roger said.
“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.