A Daring Liaison

Chapter Sixteen

Charles went to the library sideboard and glanced over his shoulder. “Brandy?” A quick drink and he’d send them on their way. He

was rather anxious to join Georgiana upstairs.

Richardson closed the library door and turned the lock. “Whiskey, if you have it. I need something strong.”

“You, Wycliffe?”

“Make mine a whiskey, too.”

Charles turned up three glasses and poured. “I gather you are fresh back from Cornwall and have come to tell me what you’ve

learned, but it could have waited until tomorrow.”

“Crosley said you were getting married,” Richardson said as he took his glass and went to look out the front window. “Say it isn’t so,

Hunter. Who will I carouse with?”

“Sorry. ’Tis done. Mrs. Huffington is now Mrs. Hunter.”

Richardson looked back at him as if he’d lost his mind. “You’re a walking target, Hunter.”

“I’ve been a walking target since Gibbons decided he wanted me dead. Mrs. Huffington has nothing to do with that.”

Wycliffe took his glass and sat in a chair in front of the fireplace. He stretched his legs toward the fire and sighed. “We will get to

Gibbons next. But let Harry give his report so he can get some much deserved sleep.”

“Aye. I’m looking for my bed. Something that does not move when I close my eyes.”

Charles gave Richardson a long look. The man did look exhausted. He steered them back to the subject at hand. “Did you learn

anything new?”

Richardson looked down at his scuffed boots and sighed. “I did. And a few more questions, too. You’re not going to like it, Hunter.

Especially now.”

“Now?”

“Now that you’ve married the girl.”

Charles took a deep breath followed by a swallow of whiskey. “Out with it, then.”

“Mousehole is a closemouthed village. They sure as hell do not trust strangers. Took a bit of convincing to get anyone to talk, but I

eventually put the pieces together after visiting the parish pastor, a washerwoman, the foundling home and the local banker in

Penzance.”

Charles gave in to restless pacing. “You’ve been busy.”

Richardson laughed. “Somewhat of an understatement, that. Everyone remembered Georgiana—they called her Jane then. Her

circumstances were quite different from the usual. She was not local, but arrived by private coach at the church attended by a wet

nurse and a servant. According to the pastor, she was not a toddler. She was barely more than a few days old. A small parcel was

delivered with her, which included a letter, a few items of clothing for the child and twenty pounds to pay for her keep for the coming

year—an unheard of amount in those parts.”

Quite unheard of, Charles thought. He glanced at Wycliffe and detected a hint of surprise. The suspicion that had been growing in

him for the last few days was taking on an ominous form.

“The only woman in the village who had enough milk to spare was a washerwoman. The pastor handed the baby off to her for the

next two years. And each year another twenty pounds arrived.

“When Jane was two and a half, the washerwoman took her to a foundling home in St. Ives. They refused her. Said they were full. So

she took Jane back to the parson. He admits that he only paid the washerwoman five pounds a year for the child’s care and kept the

rest for the ‘poor.’”

“The poor parson, most likely,” Wycliffe muttered.

Richardson snorted in agreement. “This time the parson left Jane with an impoverished family who could benefit from the five

pounds. They already had six children, so Jane was just one of a neglected brood. She was bright, the woman says, quiet and

withdrawn most of the time, and she learned quickly to stay out of her husband’s way.”

“No one recalls a story about a captain and his heartbroken wife?” Charles knew the answer, but he needed confirmation.

“Quite bewildered when I asked them about it. Pure fabrication, I’d say. Or the best kept secret in Mousehole.”

“How long did she stay with that family?”

“Something less than a year, I gather. The woman said that the following summer, a coach arrived and, after asking around, came to

their squalid little cottage and a servant got out and asked for Jane. She said her husband did not want to give the girl up because

of the money that came with her. After consulting someone within the coach, Jane was purchased for thirty pounds. She was taken

into the coach as she was, and they drove away. The woman says she never saw Jane again.”

Wycliffe stood and poured himself another whiskey. “Is there anything to confirm that this little Jane is Georgiana?”

Richardson squirmed and glanced at Charles for one telling moment, then back at Wycliffe. “There was a coat of arms on the coach,

and a woman within who wore a black veil. Both of those things were unprecedented in Mousehole. By description, the child was

fair, had dark green eyes and had arrived with more cash than most of them had seen altogether at one time.”

Charles knew the logical conclusion. And from their uncomfortable silence, so did Richardson and Wycliffe. “Jane was very likely

Georgiana,” he said. “And Caroline was most likely her mother.”

“Do you think she had second thoughts about giving the child up?”

“The trip to bring her back from Mousehole would have happened after Lord Betman’s death. Lady Caroline may not have wanted to

give Georgiana up, but her father would have insisted because of the scandal it would cause.”

Richardson glanced out the window again. “You do not looked surprised, Hunter.”

“Not much. It is not unheard of for a peeress to be caught in an indiscretion and have to ‘visit the continent’ for a while. Nor is it

particularly unusual for her to maintain an interest in that child afterward. When we dined with Lord Carlington, he showed us a

miniature of Lady Caroline. Georgiana’s hair and eyes are remarkably similar.”

“Then Georgiana is a—”

“Don’t say it, Richardson. Not if you are my friend.”

Harry nodded, all trace of his usual mockery gone.

“Blast it all! None of this helps us at all,” Wycliffe concluded. “Georgiana’s past, while tragic, cannot have a bearing on what has

happened to her husbands. Considering her circumstances, her marriages were...quite good.”

Above her? And her marriage to him would be considered the same. “I’ve learned that Lady Caroline arranged those marriages. I

have been trying to think what her criteria were. What did Arthur Allenby and Gower Huffington have in common?”

Richardson scratched his head. “Allenby was young, and Huffington was mature. Both had quite comfortable fortunes. Both had little

family. Neither were titled. But there is nothing so remarkable in those things.”

“Both had country estates and neither was often in town,” Wycliffe added.

“Seems as if Lady Caroline wanted Georgiana settled comfortably in the countryside.”

“And she achieved that. Twice. But why should that matter to her? She’d done all she could to hide Georgiana’s past. We’ve only

discovered it because we were looking for something else and found this instead.” Charles thought of Georgiana waiting for him

upstairs and wondered how much of the truth she knew.

He swallowed the remainder of his whiskey and poured more. A change of subject was in order.

“About Gibbons?” he asked.

Richardson turned from his position near the window. “Wycliffe filled me in while we were waiting for you. I am asleep on my feet,

gentlemen. I’m going home. I’ll catch up with you tomorrow.”

Charles opened the library door for him and nodded to a discreetly waiting Crosley to see him out. Turning back to Wycliffe, he said,

“Hope it’s better news than Richardson’s.”

“Gibbons has been seen loitering around the Crown and Bear. I find that odd considering he knows you frequent the place and your

brother-in-law owns it.”

“Odd? Not if he’s looking to kill me. Good Lord. I’ve searched seven months with nary a glimpse of him, and now that my attention is

elsewhere, he’s everywhere I turn.”

“Gibbons must be desperate,” Wycliffe said.

Charles stopped his pacing to look down into the fire. “No more so than I.”

“What would you say if Gibbons offered a truce, Hunter? Would you agree?”

He shook his head. “He killed Adam Booth and shot me. Those are hard things to ignore. Aside from that, I have no faith he’d keep

a truce. Gibbons never honored an agreement in his life.”

“And if he asked for a meeting? Would you want to know what he had to say?”

What could Gibbons possibly have to say to him? Now, that was tempting. “Perhaps. Let’s go. We can fetch Devlin along the way.”

Wycliffe stood and clapped Charles on the back. “Not tonight, Hunter. It’s your wedding night. Go upstairs. Make love to your wife.

Forget your pride. It will not keep you warm.”

“I don’t know if I can do that,” he admitted.

“Then you are a bigger fool than I’d ever thought possible.”

* * *

Georgiana’s hair spread across her pillow and her lashes lay in dark spikes against her pale cheeks, almost as if they’d been

formed by tears. Regrets, sweet Georgiana? Her lips—those soft petals that beckoned him—were slightly parted. He longed to kiss

her awake but he merely stood there, studying the woman he had married. In the flicker of dim candlelight she looked almost

ethereal.

In the face of better judgment, of past rejections, of vague suspicions, he’d married her. Knowing she was keeping secrets from him,

he’d married her. He could not distinguish what he was feeling—the odd misgivings. Was it anger? Or something darker?

She’d fallen asleep waiting for him, and he could not regret it. He’d have welcomed any delay in talking to her because he did not

know what to say. Would she be shocked to learn that her ‘aunt’ Caroline had been her mother? Or had she known and kept it from

him?

Tomorrow. They’d sort it out tomorrow.

A black leather-bound journal lay facedown against her chest, her hand curled over it. She must have fallen asleep reading.

Carefully, he slipped the slender volume from under her hand and smiled at her soft sigh.

He glanced at the writing, wondering if it were hers, and wondering if he would learn more about her from these pages than he had

in the past week of conversations and confessions. But the date of the entry was from years before, and the handwriting was not

Georgiana’s.

June 7, 1816

Thank heaven the unpleasantness is past. I have spoken with Mr. Hunter, and I believe I have successfully misdirected him by telling

him Georgiana is embarrassed by his attentions. My conscience troubles me little over the lie, though I was distressed to see the

depth of his attachment. Had I known how close they were growing, I would have ended it sooner. After Georgiana’s

encouragement, he had every right to expect a different outcome.

As for Georgiana, I have warned her against fast behavior and told her that Mr. Hunter has lost interest in her. She is crushed, but it

is for the best. I simply cannot have her marry into such a family as the Hunters. Despite their country seat, they are city dwellers.

Some London busybody would snoop into Georgiana’s past to everyone’s ruin. ’Twill be better by far to have her settled in the

country with no one to ask questions. Mr. Allenby seems a good prospect, as he is so smitten that he will believe she is exactly what

she appears to be. His parents will not object, owing to the size of her dowry.

If only she would not cry into her pillow every night....

So, after all these years, he finally knew what had happened that long-ago spring. Lady Caroline had betrayed them both. No

wonder, then, that Georgiana had been so cool and distant when they’d been reintroduced. No wonder she’d been confused by his

thinly veiled anger. She must have thought him quite a bounder. Lady Caroline had driven a wedge between them that would have

lasted a lifetime had Wycliffe not coerced him into investigating her husbands’ deaths.

He flipped the pages to the end and read how Georgiana had begged Caroline to recant her engagement to Allenby, and how

Caroline had remained firm, nearly pushing her down the aisle. Enlightening, to say the least. Georgiana had not loved Allenby. All

the easier for her to kill him?

He shivered. Where had that thought come from? They were married now. And he knew now that she had never deceived him. The

time for doubts was past.

He closed the volume, wondering, how much more might he learn from Caroline’s other journals? And where were they? After

tonight, he would most especially like to read the account of Caroline’s “accident” and Georgiana’s birth. Though he was fairly

certain he knew it, would the name of her father be mentioned?

He glanced at Georgiana again. His earlier suspicion had likely been right. Her spiked lashes were due to tears. He could not

imagine the pain of learning that the person she’d trusted most in the world had betrayed her. Had forced her into two marriages she

hadn’t wanted.

He opened her bed-table drawer to put the book away, vowing to discuss the matter with Georgiana tomorrow. As he slipped the

book into the drawer, his fingers brushed a thick vial. He pulled it out and read the label in the guttering candlelight.

Laudanum. A vague suspicion began to nag at him. Wycliffe had warned him to look for it, and here it was.

Damn. This was not how he’d thought he’d spend his wedding night.

* * *

Georgiana woke and stretched. She sat up in bed and looked around, disoriented. The last she could remember was waiting for

Charles. And she’d been reading her... Caroline’s journal. Good heavens! It was gone!

She threw her covers back and dropped to her knees to look under the bed. Had it fallen from her hand?

“It is in the drawer, Georgiana.”

Her pulse pounded and she sat back on her heels, searching the shadows. Something stirred in the chair in the far corner. A dark

figure unfolded and rose like a specter. She could only see his form, but it was enough to reveal that it was Charles. Relief washed

through her.

“Oh! You frightened me half to death. What were you doing in the corner?”

“Waiting for you to wake.”

She glanced toward the draperies to see a thin line of daylight where they met. “Have you been there all night?”

“Yes.” He came toward her.

Something was wrong. Some change in his manner. Not the slightest bit of warmth in his voice. Her pulse, which had begun to

steady, skipped a beat or two. “Why did you not wake me?”

“You looked as if you needed the sleep.”

“I tried to wait up for you, but after all the excitement, I think I was more exhausted than I realized.” She accepted his offered hand

and got to her feet.

“I’ve been thinking, Georgiana. I have decided to hold off making the formal announcement that we’ve married. Nor shall I post

notices in any of the newspapers.”

Perversely, though that had been her thought last night, she now took offense to it. “Hold off? But I thought that was the whole point of

marrying—to alert the villain that I had married again. To draw him out.”

He gave a negligent shrug. “Or draw her out. Did you ever think our culprit might be a woman, Georgiana?”

“I...I never considered that. Why would a woman want my husbands dead?”

“Jealousy? Dislike?” His voice had been offhand, but it lowered a moment later. “To do you a favor and extricate you from

unpleasant or unwanted marriages?”

She had never seen Charles in such a strange mood, almost as if he were trying to tell her something but did not want to give it

voice. “Why?”

He released her hand and stepped back, then snatched her wrapper from the foot of her bed and tossed it to her. “Put your wrapper

on, Georgiana. I cannot think with you standing there half naked.”

Embarrassed, she looked down at her sheer lawn nightgown. It did reveal rather more of her than was modest. She slipped her

arms into the sleeves and secured the tie. “Sorry,” she murmured.

He went to stand in front of the banked fire. “Have my servants made you comfortable?”

“They...they’ve been most hospitable. Clara and Sanders are settling in well. Clara is taken with your bathroom. She says the tub is

the largest she’s ever seen.”

One corner of Charles’s mouth quirked in the semblance of a smile. “There is another in the servant’s wing, though the tub is not as

large.”

“She will be delighted, I am sure.” She looked around and tried to hide her nervousness and the questions that rose to her mind.

Was it odd that Charles had not come to bed with her but had preferred to spend the night in a chair?

She turned to see if there was a bell-pull by her bed. “Do you want tea, Charles?”

He was silent so long she turned to look at him. He rested one elbow on the mantel and was watching her with what she could only

describe as detached curiosity. “I’ve told the servants to stay away unless I call them.”

Things were not going well at all. Perhaps it would be best to be blunt. “Why do you not tell me what is wrong, Charles? What do you

want of me?”

“Answers, Georgiana.”

A feeling of dread settled in her heart. For all his control, she now understood that Charles was quite angry. His earlier comment,

that perhaps the killer, if there was one, was a woman, suddenly became clear. “Do you think... Can you be suggesting that I killed

my husbands?”

“The possibility crossed my mind.”

“Before or after our marriage? Because if you suspected me before, Charles, you’d have been insanely reckless to have gone

through with it.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“By whom?”

“Never mind that, Georgiana. Just answer the question. Was it you?”

She gripped the bedpost to brace herself and sat on the side of the bed before her knees could give out. He thought she was a

killer! He thought her capable of the most heinous crime possible. He had seduced her, slept with her and now married her, and he

could believe such a thing of her?

Tears stung in her eyes. That he could even ask....

“Would you believe my answer? Or would you require proof?”

“Proof, if you have it.”

“I do not. How could I have proof of something I have not done?”

“Then you are saying you are innocent?”

Something snapped in her mind and her anger bubbled up from deep inside. “That you can even ask such a question disgusts me.

Why did you marry me, if you think me guilty of such a crime?”

He spread his arms wide in a bewildered gesture. “I think I may not have had all the facts when I made that decision.”

She glanced toward her dressing table. He’d said the little journal she’d been reading was in the drawer. Placed there by Charles.

Had he read it? She had thought he’d be pleased to learn she had not jilted him her first season. Instead he had become a

suspicious tyrant.

“You are thinking I read your aunt’s journal.” His voice was deep and steady, and she realized this was a part of him she’d never

seen before. “You are wondering how much I know, are you not?”

She met his stare and did not flinch. “Did you?”

“You answer my question first, Georgiana. Did you rid yourself of your husbands?”

A deep well of pain churned inside her. He’d never believed in her. He deserved to believe whatever he pleased. “Will you be able

to sleep knowing I am in the next room? Wondering if you will be my next victim? Waiting for my footsteps?”

“Damn it, Georgiana! Give me an answer.”

“Not until you are rational.” The servants would not come unless he rang? Well and good. She went to the outer door and shouted at

the top of her lungs. “Clara! Tea, if you please!”

By the time she turned, he was gone.