Chapter Sixteen
Grasping a glass of brandy, Tom stood on the grand staircase in Worthington House in the presence of his grandfather.
Or, at least, the image of him. And it was an imposing one, from the impossibly large wig, one hand at his chest, his fingers adorned with the ring that marked him as the Viscount of Worthington.
It was the same ring his father wore. A ring that would one day be his.
“I hope you’re happy,” he muttered under his breath, before bitterness sliced through him, allowing some of the anger to rise to the surface.
He took a generous sip of the brandy. He’d been tempted to drown himself in the entire bottle, but thought the better of it.
Tonight’s outcome had nothing to do with John Osbourne, Mariah Moorhouse, or even Georgie.
He’d made this fucking mess for himself.
The very least he could do was bear the sting of it.
The look on Georgie’s face when she’d learned she’d lost had torn into him. She’d avoided his gaze, but he’d caught the way her throat worked as she swallowed what he could only surmise was disappointment. Maybe even more than that. For Tom, it had been devastation.
Georgiana Hawthorne loved him. She’d always loved him. And when she’d needed him, he’d left.
And somehow, he’d done it again. It was not the same, of course. He wasn’t leaving her. She was running to escape something on her own, and like him, blinded by pain, stumbling toward something that felt safe.
He took another sip of brandy, looking up at his grandfather. He would have thought Georgiana Hawthorne perfect. Perfectly bred, with impeccable connections.
John Osbourne was a good choice. She would be safe with him. Though the thought of her with him, sharing a bed, made Tom twist inside with jealousy.
She should have been his. And he, goddamn it, should have been hers.
“You look like a man ready for the gallows, not the altar.”
The sound of Viscount Worthington pulled Tom out of his woolgathering. He turned toward the bottom of the staircase where his father gazed up at him with very similar eyes to those of his grandfather, though far more patient.
“Good evening,” he said, turning away from the portrait.
“I have escaped your stepmother for the moment,” he said, “who will assault you very shortly with questions about courses, choices of soup, and your favorite dessert.”
Tom held up his glass in salute, then made his way down the stairs. “I appreciate the warning.”
“Your grandfather was a good man, but a demanding one,” his father said, gesturing to the portrait of the previous viscount. Regret pulled at the edge of the viscount’s mouth, his normally bright disposition falling into a frown. “I am sorry you are bearing the brunt of my mistake.”
Tom shook his head. “I would not be here if not for your insistence on claiming me. Do not apologize for providing me this privilege.”
Christ, he would never take this new life of his for granted. His days had become inexplicably easy. Even the act of finding a bride had, in the end, taken only a few parlor games. He’d won a bride who’d matched his every criterion to the letter.
“Love is a privilege far more rare, my son,” his father replied, putting a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “And perhaps I am a selfish man, but I would want that for you as well. Father’s stipulations have made that difficult for you, if not impossible.”
“The choice was mine to chase them,” Tom said, then attempted a smile. “Miss Morehouse will make a fine viscountess.”
“I shall be eager to meet her then.” His father smiled, but there was a curiosity in his countenance that suggested he had questions he did not feel he could ask.
“In the meantime, what do you say to a game of billiards? I fear your stepmother and grandmama will find me and I shall have to provide insight into flowers.”
Tom nodded, eager for the distraction. The two fell into an easy step toward the billiards room, the sound of their boots clicking on the tiled foyer. His father hailed a footman to light the room when Benedict approached Tom.
“Excuse me, your lordship,” he said, bowing to both gentlemen. “Mr. Worthington, there is someone here to see you. I tried to send her away, but she was rather insistent.”
Tom exchanged a look with his father before turning back to Benedict. “Did she leave a name?”
“Miss Duigood, sir.”
Duigood. The name sounded familiar, but Tom could not place it.
“Did she say what she wanted?”
Benedict shook his head. “She only said her business is of an extremely urgent nature and involves a common acquaintance.”
“I will wait for you,” his father said, taking the glass out of Tom’s hand. “See to your business. Anyone calling at this hour is not bringing good news. If I can be of assistance, you know where I am.”
The viscount continued on his way, while Tom followed Benedict to a small front parlor.
He entered to see a woman of small stature with thick dark hair pinned into a simple knot at the back of her head.
Recognition dawned as she turned to face him.
Though she may have been only a few years Georgie’s senior, she had been Georgie’s chaperone.
She looked up at him with such a mix of relief and urgency it immediately unsettled him.
“Mr. Worthington,” she said, dipping into a little curtsy. “I apologize for the intrusion.”
“Not at all,” he said. “You are Georg—that is, Lady Georgiana’s servant?”
“I was,” she said. “I acted as her companion while she was staying with Baroness D’Anville. She was under her protection during her stay in London.”
Tom did not miss the implication of her words.
“What has happened?”
“Lord Ashcombe arrived yesterday, with Viscount Hawthorne,” she said. “They have removed Lady Georgiana to their home.”
“I see,” he said.
“No, you do not see,” she said, impatient. “We have learned that Lord Sharpe is also in London. She was not home two hours when this note was delivered to the baroness.”
“She has come to beg for Mr. Osbourne’s immediate assistance,” she said, handing Tom the note. “She wishes to leave for Scotland as soon as might be possible.”
She handed Tom the note, written in Georgie’s hand.
His stomach dropped as he read it once, then again.
Her father intended to marry her off to Lord Sharpe five days hence, when the special license would be issued.
Tom raked his fingers through his hair. While the note was short, the urgency of her words could not be mistaken. She was terrified.
“Has her father found out about this?” he asked, gesturing toward the Lyon’s Den. “Has he sent for her?”
“Lord Sharpe is not a man to be trusted, I fear,” Miss Duigood said. “He is not a man known for his kindness. I fear for her if she becomes tied to him.”
“Why did you come to me?” he asked. “Lady Georgiana is asking for Mr. Osbourne’s help. He will be her husband.”
“We did not know where to find Mr. Osbourne,” she said. “And I do believe that you are Lady Georgiana’s friend, are you not?”
That descriptor twisted like a knife in his chest, but it was correct.
He would always love Georgiana. And if he could not be her husband, he would be her friend.
There was no way he was going to leave her to fend for herself.
He looked down at the note once, running his finger over the ink she’d put there.
“I am,” he said, announcing it like a vow. “Thank you for coming to me.”
“Can you find Mr. Osbourne?” she asked, blithely unaware of the wound she was inflicting with the mention of the man’s name.
“I will find Osbourne,” he said. “Indeed, he is invited to a ball my parents are throwing in my honor two days hence.”
“What do you need me to do?” she asked. “I fear Lady Georgiana will not be able to see callers while she is in her father’s home.”
“Then we have to get her out of Ashcombe House.”
Miss Duigood shook her head. “I am not certain that is possible. She is forbidden even from visiting with the baroness. If Mr. Osbourne is to rescue her, he will have to do it under the cover of darkness.”
Tom paced the floor, trying to dampen down the panic. Too many times, he’d seen young soldiers—officers and enlisted men alike—succumb to panic in the middle of a battle. He needed to clear his head and think.
The sound of his stepmother walking along the foyer outside with the housekeeper caught his attention, distracting him.
She was gesturing to a large table in the center of the main entry where, just yesterday, he’d overheard her discussing what kind of flowers would best coordinate with the new gown she’d ordered specifically for the ball.
The invitations were being sent tomorrow.
Inspiration struck, and for the first time, Tom was excited for the possibility of this society occasion. He turned to Miss Duigood.
“Did you say Marcus Hawthorne was with them?”
She nodded.
Marcus needed a wife. And Lord Ashcombe, if Tom remembered correctly, appreciated having his status fawned over. And a ball would be the perfect place to accomplish both. He just needed to ensure Georgie was with them.
“I will see to Osbourne,” he said. “Expect an invitation to my engagement ball, two days hence. We will ensure Lady Georgiana is out of both Sharpe’s and Ashcombe’s clutches.”
“I am not certain I will be able to get word to Lady Georgiana,” she said. “I would not be surprised if Lord Ashcombe is directing all correspondence to her to come to him instead.”
“I shall have the Viscountess Worthington send a special note to her, encouraging her to come,” he said. “And trust that she knows she is not alone.”
“Thank you, Mr. Worthington,” Miss Duigood said. “Indeed, you are a very good man. I just wish—”
Her eyes widened, as if she realized she was about to say something that would offend him. Heat flushed into her freckled cheeks as she put her gloved hands to her mouth.
“My apologies, sir.”
Tom shook his head, giving her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
“Do not apologize, Miss Duigood,” he said. “Indeed, I wish it too.”