A Daring Liaison

Chapter Six

Georgiana found herself whisked out the door and deposited in Charles Hunter’s carriage before she could even take leave of her

hostess. Where had she gone wrong? A dose of his own medicine had not cured Mr. Hunter of his relentless baiting. Instead it had

seemed to double his determination.

Occasionally, when he looked at her, she thought he might like her just a little. But more often his words had an edge to them that put

her on her guard and made her feel as if he did not like her at all. But if that was so, why did he pursue her so persistently? Whatever

was going on in his mind made Georgiana uneasy and she suspected Charles Hunter knew that. And encouraged it.

She could think of only one way to end it. “Mr. Hunter, what is it that you want from me?”

He looked surprised as the carriage started off with a jolt. “I am not certain what you mean, Mrs. Huffington.”

“I think you do. A moment ago you were calling me ‘my dear’ and now you are all formality again. What is it you want?”

“My proposition, you mean?”

“Precisely.”

“I propose to escort you to and from all public functions. We mix in the same circles, are invited to the same affairs and know the

same people. It should be an easy task, and I flatter myself in thinking I could keep you safe.”

“From what?”

“Accidental discharges of pistols, among other things. You mentioned last night that you think there might be more than mere

chance behind your many misfortunes. That you feel compelled to find what might lie at the bottom of it. The answer to your

questions, as it were. I stand ready to help you with all of that, and more if necessary. And the first step is to be your escort.”

Could he be serious? He’d mentioned it last night, but she thought he’d been joking, or trying to cozen her before trying to seduce

her. She shook her head. “No, Mr. Hunter, but thank you for your concern.”

“I promise not to interfere with your current husband hunt, as you so aptly described it.”

There it was again. That harsh edge that told her he was not at all fond of her. “I did not say I was on a husband hunt, Mr. Hunter. To

the contrary. I shall never wed again.”

“I am relieved to hear it. But things could change if the right man comes along. In that case, I would gladly step out of the way.”

“And if someone should put you out of the way before that happens? You are not forgetting what happens to men who become

involved with me, are you?”

He laughed and a shiver went up her spine.

The carriage pulled up at her town house and Mr. Hunter opened the door before his driver could dismount the box. He hopped

down and reached in to lift her out. She braced her hands on his shoulders as he swung her down and closed the carriage door.

“Home, Peter. Do not wait for me,” he called before escorting her up the stairs and holding his hand out. “Your key, Mrs. Huffington?”

She gave him what she hoped would be a quelling glance as she rapped on her door. A moment later her butler, Hathaway, opened

the door. When he saw who was on the step, he opened the door wider and stepped aside.

“Madam,” he said in a disapproving voice.

“Hathaway, this is Mr. Hunter. He has seen me home.”

Her guest moved past her into the foyer and glanced around before gesturing at a door on the right. “Library?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll take that nightcap now.”

“What—”

But he was already heading for the library. She handed her shawl and reticule to Hathaway, feeling an absurd need to explain. “Mr.

Hunter believes I need an escort for my safety.”

Hathaway’s expression did not change, but the corner of one eyebrow twitched. “Will you be needing me, madam?”

“Ah, no. I don’t—”

The butler bowed sharply from his waist and disappeared. Georgiana knew she would not see him again tonight. According to

Clara, Hathaway disappeared most nights after everyone was settled in and did not return until the wee hours of morning. To see his

ladylove, she’d said with a smirk. Georgiana could only hope he was less stern with his “ladylove” than he was with his employer.

She sighed and followed Mr. Hunter into the library. He’d already found the brandy decanter and was pouring a measure into a

crystal glass. “Would you like me to have a word with Hathaway?” he asked.

“A word? Why?”

“Someone should remind him who is paying him.”

Precisely. And it was long overdue. Since her guardian’s death, in fact. Still, “I suspect he does not like working for me. He barely

tolerated Lady Caroline. But he was hired by Lord Betman just before his death and has been with the family since. I cannot recall a

time he was not a part of life at Betman Hall.”

He carried his glass to the fireplace and left it on the mantel while he bent to stir the coals to life. “Then let him resign his position

and find work more to his liking. I would consider hiring someone who is loyal to you, Mrs. Huffington.”

“Hathaway is loyal. He is just cross because he had to wait for me to come home before he could call on his lady friend.”

Mr. Hunter’s lips quirked as if he was fighting a smile. “That is his job. It is what you pay him for.”

“Thank you, but no. I will handle Hathaway.”

He looked at her as if he doubted she was equal to the task, and she bristled. “Somehow we have managed without you, Mr. Hunter.

And where would you be the next time Hathaway needs a reminder?”

He straightened and rested his elbow on the mantel. His grin was a bit unnerving and she could only imagine what he was thinking.

Indeed, she now regretted asking the question.

“As...as for your proposal, I cannot think of any advantage to that. Only some rather serious consequences. To you, and to me.” Oh!

Why did he not say something? What was he thinking? His silence coupled with that little smile was nerve-racking.

The library door opened and Clara bustled in. “Mr. Hathaway sent me, madam. Said you might be needing me?”

Mr. Hunter’s eyebrows shot up at that statement. No doubt he was wondering what Hathaway thought they were up to. Dismissing

the maid would only cause household gossip. “Clara, this is Mr. Hunter. He was good enough to escort me home.”

Clara dropped a proper curtsy and smiled, obviously smitten with Mr. Hunter’s dark good looks. “I told her not to walk, I did.”

He came forward and gave the maid a polite inclination of his head, a nicety most servants were not afforded. “So you are the one

responsible for Mrs. Huffington’s impeccable appearance?”

Clara giggled—actually giggled. “Aye, sir. But it’s no problem. Mrs. Huffington could make sackcloth and ashes look stylish.”

“And a good thing that black actually becomes her, eh?”

Clara nearly choked on her laughter. “Oh, sir! You’re a wicked one, you are.”

A wicked one? But Clara’s flirtatious smile belied her words. Then she covered her mouth with both hands, apparently realizing she

had overstepped her place.

“I’ve been called worse, Clara,” Mr. Hunter interceded.

Indeed, Georgiana could think of a few names herself.

“But, as you can see, we are just having a nightcap and Mrs. Huffington will be up shortly.”

“Aye, sir,” she said, turning on her heel and heading back out the door.

Mr. Hunter took her hand and led her to a chair, indicating that she should sit. Like her servants, she did as he wished, then cursed

herself for complying so readily. What was it about this man that was so compelling?

“I have been thinking, Mrs. Huffington, that we should dispense with the ploy of my being your escort.”

She took a deep breath and nodded, fighting both relief and disappointment. “I am pleased you see the sense in that, Mr. Hunter. It

would be quite awkward—”

“Awkward? Yes, I suppose so. Your ‘escort’ sounds as if we are having an affair. In fact, I propose we make it an engagement.”

Engagement? Had he lost his mind? “But...I... Are you mad?”

“Probably. My friends and family will certainly think so. But I cannot think of a more efficient way to prove or disprove your theory of a

curse.”

“I think it far more likely that the events were coincidence, or that someone holds a grudge against me or my husbands. And I cannot

think why any of this is your concern. Unless... Has your sister asked you to assist me?”

“Sarah? No. The truth is, I find you—”

“Oh! Do not think you can flatter me, sir. I am acutely aware of how you think of me. It is in your eyes and manner. I have not forgotten

our earlier acquaintance, and the way you—” She broke off when she saw the flint-hard look enter his eyes.

“Then shall we say that I cannot resist a mystery? You do not have to like me, Mrs. Huffington, nor must I like you. The fact is that you

require some assistance with your current situation, and I am prepared to lend it. Although I will grant you that is a daring liason, my

reasons are my own. And, you must admit, we have a certain fascination for each other. A certain...je ne sais quoi.”

There it was—last night in his coach. The physical manifestation of their mutual attraction. Physical. Nothing more. “That will not

occur again, sir. So if you are lingering in the hopes of finding me unguarded again, disabuse yourself of the notion.”

He laughed as he took her hand to lift her to her feet. He did not step back to accommodate her and she found herself barely an inch

from his chest. She looked up, almost afraid of what she’d find in his eyes.

Heat. Smoldering heat. It rushed through her veins, prickled her skin and left her breathless. Fascination. Yes, that was the word for

it.

“Come, now, Mrs. Huffington. Since you dislike me so, it should not inconvenience you in the least should something untoward

happen to me.”

He lowered his head, his lips moving against hers as he whispered, “With very little effort, we shall be able to give a convincing

performance. Whatever is between us, Mrs. Huffington, will pass for affection with just a bit of help from us.”

“I...I...”

“You’re welcome.” He stepped back and headed for the door. “Rest tomorrow, Mrs. Huffington. Monday we shall announce our

engagement.”

* * *

Comfortably settled in his favorite chair before the fireplace in the library, Charles read the Times and sipped coffee. Sunday

newspapers were filled with all manner of useful information. Auctions, shipping news, birth, death and marriage notices,

engagement announcements, the scandals of the day and other news of society were standard fare. Though he had little use for the

gossip, he found it convenient to catch up on what was happening in his own circle.

One news article, however, caught his attention. A man had been found murdered in Whitechapel early yesterday morning, his throat

slit ear to ear. The report was of a robbery, but from the description, Charles knew it was the man who’d attacked him after he’d

taken Georgiana home from the theater. This, then, was the price of failure. Gibbons had stolen back the money he’d paid and killed

the man so he couldn’t talk. Charles would have to be even more careful now.

Crosley knocked softly, knowing Charles preferred to read uninterrupted. “Sir, you have callers. Shall I ask them to come back at a

more convenient time?”

Callers? On a Sunday afternoon? He glanced at his valet over his shoulder. “Who is it?” He prayed it wasn’t Georgiana Huffington

demanding that he cease and desist. He’d expected something of the sort ever since he’d left her last night.

“Lord Wycliffe and Sir Henry Richardson, sir.”

Although Charles had sent for them, he hadn’t expected them so early in the afternoon. “Show them in, Crosley, and put on another

pot of coffee.”

Reluctantly, he folded his paper, put it aside and pulled two more chairs in front of the fire. The day had turned gloomy with spring

rains turning the streets into a maze of puddles and mud. His friends would appreciate a warm fire and a hot drink.

“Bless you,” Wycliffe said as he entered the room. Richardson was fast on his heels and rubbing his hands together in an effort to

warm them. Crosley had taken their coats and they looked as if they were prepared to stay awhile.

Richardson glanced around the room, his gaze stopping on Charles’s cup.

“Crosley is bringing coffee,” he said and gestured to the chairs.

Wycliffe settled in with a sigh. “Have you any news?”

Richardson grinned. “She gave you a set-down, did she not?”

“I did not give her a chance. We will announce our engagement tomorrow night.”

“As the proverb says, Keep your friends close—and your enemies closer, eh?” Richardson raised his eyebrows.

Wycliffe folded his arms over his chest. “Does she know she is becoming engaged?”

“It was mentioned. She may have other ideas, but they will come to naught. She needs help, and she knows it. She is not foolish

enough to refuse.”

“I am beginning to think I have done Mrs. Huffington a disservice in appointing you to this investigation.”

“I think you’ve made the very best choice possible,” Charles countered. “Why do you suddenly think I am not the man for the job?”

“You are starting from a presumption of guilt rather than innocence. Everything you uncover, everything you learn, is tainted by that

perspective.”

“Are you afraid I will build a false case against her?” He couldn’t deny that, in the beginning, the thought had occurred to him. But he

wanted to see the true killer of Adam Booth punished.

“I sense something deeper between you. Do you have a...history?”

“We flirted during her come-out year, then moved on. As you know, she was quickly engaged to Arthur Allenby.”

Wycliffe became contemplative. “You did not renew your flirtation after Allenby’s death?”

Annoyance tweaked Charles when he realized that Wycliffe had a bit more than a suspicion that he and Mrs. Huffington were

something more than acquaintances. He was spared the necessity of a reply by the arrival of Crosley with a tray bearing cups and a

coffee service. The awkward silence continued as Crosley served them and then departed, closing the library door behind him.

Richardson broke the silence as he settled back in his chair and sighed contentedly. “There is a subtle note of anger when you

speak of Mrs. Huffington, Hunter. I propose you let me take over and you can chase clues.”

“Not a chance,” Charles growled. The very thought of Richardson cozying up to the woman in question caused a burning in his

stomach.

Wycliffe reached inside his jacket and pulled out a packet. “We will stay the course. The last thing we need at this point is for Mrs.

Huffington to hasten back to Kent before we can find an answer.” He handed the packet to Charles. “Here is Lady Caroline’s profile.

It goes back to her presentation at seventeen.”

Charles took the packet and set it aside. “And Georgiana Huffington?”

“What we know of her is in that file—everything from the time she became Lady Caroline’s ward. She was barely three years of age

then. I doubt there is anything worth knowing further back.”

“Give me a day to look this over.” Charles gestured at the packet. “These events, the deaths, may have nothing to do with Lady

Caroline. We cannot ignore the possibility that the answer lies with someone in Mrs. Huffington’s past. I met her the year she came

out. Something caused her to change that year. Perhaps there is a clue in that.”

Richardson finished his coffee and placed the cup and saucer on the tray. “She has no past beyond Lady Caroline. No family at all.

Georgiana was the daughter of Lady Caroline’s friend. The woman’s husband, an officer in the Royal Navy, was lost when his ship

went down off the coast of France, and she died within months.”

Charles said nothing, but reserved judgment. All he knew for certain at this point was that things—and people—were rarely what

they seemed. And that babies did not just appear out of thin air. No, if he wanted answers, he would have to get them from Mrs.

Huffington. As soon as possible.

“One more thing, Hunter. Have you met Lord Carlington?” Wycliffe asked and waited for Charles’s nod before continuing. “Gossip

has it that he and Lady Caroline were sweet on each other her first season. In fact, it was rumored that an engagement was in the

offing. Then Lady Caroline’s accident sent her back to Kent to recover. As you know, she did not return until she brought Georgiana

for her introduction to society.”

“You think he might know something?”

“He may be the only one still living who could fill in the holes of Lady Caroline’s story and know what happened that season. If she

had secrets, she might have confided in him.”

Charles nodded. He’d call on Lord Carlington tomorrow. He glanced at the packet on the table beside him. There had to be

something in there—some clue that would explain the odd occurrences.

“Meanwhile, Hunter, you should know I still have runners looking for Dick Gibbons. He will eventually surface, and when he does—”

When he does? “You will send for me. I mean to have the pleasure of dealing with that scum myself.”