A Daring Liaison

Chapter Seven

Georgiana read her aunt’s will for the third time. She had expected most of what she’d found there—generous bequests to family

retainers, instructions for the disbursement of a few personal items to an old friend, a sealed packet to be hand delivered to Lord

Carlington and one for herself. The rest and remainder of her worldly goods were to go to Georgiana. Funds, investments, real

property and personal effects, including the Betman jewels and Betman Hall, were all to be hers. Generous, certainly. Undeserved,

perhaps. But hers, nonetheless. And no mention of the Foxworthys.

She had long been aware that Caroline’s fondness for her was born more from obligation than any true affection. Still, the fact

remained that she’d been closer to the woman than anyone else from the moment she’d been taken to Betman Hall. Their

relationship hadn’t been everything Georgiana had longed for, neither had it provided her with a sense of belonging, but it had been

enough for a little girl who’d been left in a foundling home for three years before anyone had come for her. Enough for a penniless

orphan who’d been destined for a life of servitude and poverty.

The chime of the tall case clock in one corner of the study pulled her from her musings and she set the personal packet aside with

the others and took a sip of her tea, pondering the meaning of it all. Aunt Caroline had never mentioned friends aside from the two

to whom she’d left bequests, and those friendships had been maintained through correspondence since her disfigurement. No

friends had come to call, nor had she called on them when in town. But one acquaintance, Mrs. Thayer, had agreed to be Georgiana

’s sponsor for her introduction to society, as Lady Caroline would not make an appearance herself.

Lord Carlington’s connection to her aunt was a complete mystery. Lady Caroline had been as close to a recluse as anyone

Georgiana had ever known. When they’d come to town, she’d worn a veil and dealt with invitations and other social obligations by

mail. She’d even remained behind closed doors whenever anyone called on Georgiana. When had she known Lord Carlington?

Georgiana now wondered if she had been mistaken in the extent of Caroline’s outside connections. After all, Caroline had never

even mentioned the Foxworthy brothers, let alone made a provision for them. But Walter Foxworthy was suing to control it all, and

Georgiana into the bargain. Heaven only knew what surprises might lie ahead for her in the next weeks.

Well, she’d put it off long enough. It was time to deal with Aunt Caroline’s last requests. With no small measure of trepidation, she

broke the seal on the thick packet with her name on it and dumped the contents onto her lap. No personal items, just three sealed

letters with names and addresses on the outside. And a fourth for her.

She broke the seal on the letter with her name and unfolded the page.

My dear Georgiana,

I am sorry to lay this burden upon you, but there is no one else I can trust—only you. I know you will faithfully follow my instructions to

the letter.

You must personally deliver the enclosed bequests, Georgie, lest they fall into the wrong hands. And you must be present when they

are opened, lest there be questions. The reason for this will become apparent presently.

Wrong hands? Whatever could she mean?

Save the delivery to Lord Carlington for last. He will have many questions for you, but you will have few answers. Tell him, please,

that I never stopped loving him.

There is so much I should have told you, so much I would still like to tell you, but that would be a disservice to you. Please always

know that you eased my loneliness and delighted me with your companionship.

Now and ever, Caroline

Georgiana glanced at the following pages and sighed. Just more lists and an occasional name. She had no heart for reading more

and folded the instructions. She did not know what she’d expected, but surely more than this. Some personal words, some

endearment. As always, Caroline had evidenced a gentle kindness, but...but there was something missing. No mention of love, or

even of fondness. She’d been an obligation, if not an imposition. She’d known it, but she had wondered if, at the end, her guardian

would give her that crumb. I love you, my dear.

She fought tears as she slipped the stack of letters back into the packet and wondered what it would feel like to be truly loved. For a

brief moment in time, she’d thought Charles Hunter had felt strongly for her, but then Lady Caroline had advised her that his

emotions were simply the excitement of the hunt. Oh, but they’d been so indescribably thrilling. She’d felt almost as if she were flying

for those brief weeks all those years ago—loving, feeling loved. Almost feeling as if she belonged. But she’d never felt it again, nor

would she feel it in the future. No more marriages for her. No more hopes of love and a family of her own.

She leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, remembering what Charles Hunter had done to her in his coach. She wasn’t

foolish enough to think that was love. Sometimes she suspected he could barely tolerate her. But if anyone had been wronged back

then, surely it had been her.

Was it a mistake to let him pretend they were engaged? Even prepared, he was risking his life. Why would he put himself in such a

position? The chase? The passion? The conquest? His love of danger?

She stood and went to stir the coals in the fire as the afternoon drizzle continued outside the window. She supposed his reasons

really didn’t matter. She only needed to know what—or who—was behind her ill fortune. She wanted to obtain justice for her

deceased husbands.

* * *

Charles handed his dripping hat and coat to Hathaway, ignoring the man’s disdain. He fought the temptation to say something

scathing since he did not want to overstep Mrs. Huffington’s authority with her servants, but if she did not handle this man soon, he

would.

“I shall inform Mrs. Huffington that you are here,” Hathaway said, a slight curl to his lip.

Charles clenched his teeth and ground out, “Never mind, Hathaway. I shall announce myself.”

“But, sir—”

He did not acknowledge the man’s protest as he continued toward the library. That much of the house, at least, he was familiar with.

She stood as he entered the room and the expression on her face surprised him. Fear? Surprise?

“Oh! Mr. Hunter. I did not hear the bell.”

He went to the decanter on a side table and poured himself a glass of sherry as if he was completely comfortable here. In fact, when

he glanced at the two chairs facing the fireplace with a small table between them, all he could think of was a day long ago, when he’

d sat where Miss Huffington sat now, listening to Lady Caroline tell him in detail how unwelcome his attentions were to her ward. He

swallowed the sherry and poured another before facing her, squelching the old anger at Miss Huffington’s cowardice in not facing

him herself.

“Hathaway let me in. I told him I’d announce myself.”

“I see.”

Disapproval from her, too? The sherry hit bottom and he smiled with the warmth and confidence it brought. “You had better get used

to it, Miss Huffington. Once we announce our engagement tomorrow, people will expect me to become a frequent caller here.”

“But my servants will talk.”

“Servants always talk. There is nothing we can do about that but use it to our advantage.” He poured another glass and took it to her

before sitting in the vacant chair. “We shall let them believe our engagement is genuine. If we are to carry this off, no one must know

the truth.”

She nodded as she took the glass and sank back against the cushions of her own chair. “Very well. Is that the purpose of your visit

here today? To accustom the servants to your presence?”

“No. I have been thinking about your concern that the answer to this mystery could lie in your past. I’ve come to ask you what you

remember.”

She looked down at the fire. “I do not recall a past, Mr. Hunter. My earliest memories are of seeing Aunt Caroline for the first time

and being terrified. I was just a toddler, you see, and did not understand her disfigurement. I thought she was a monster, and when I

was taken away with her, I...well, I cried.”

He recalled seeing the vivid scars on Lady Caroline’s face through the veil she wore, so he could imagine the effect it had had on a

small child. He hadn’t been terrified, but he’d been curious. “Did she ever speak of her injury?”

“Never. I asked once, when I was a bit older, but she struck me and told me to never mention it again. I did not.” Her hand rose to her

cheek as if she could still feel the sting.

“You frequently refer to her as your aunt, yet she was your guardian rather than a blood relation, was she not?”

She nodded. “Though she was the only mother I ever knew, she had no wish for me to take her name. She said I was born a Carson

and should remain so until marriage. And I was a bit old to start calling her mama at that point. We were content with things the way

they were.”

He did not know whether to feel sorry for the lost child she had been, or to be envious of the peace and solitude of such a life. He

had a picture in his mind of two women living quietly in the country, without expectations, without intrigue or drama. That is, until Lady

Caroline decided it was time for her ward to marry.

“Do you recall them? Or anything about them?”

“My parents?” She took a sip of her sherry and looked thoughtfully into the fire. “Just what Aunt Caroline told me. My father was a

naval officer and my mother had come from a good family. Aunt Caroline met her through mutual friends and they struck up a

friendship at once. When my mother married, Aunt Caroline stood up with them and even became my godmother when I was

christened. My father died first, when his ship went down in a Channel storm, and my mother died several months later. I was given

to a foundling home while the hospital searched for any remaining family. When there was none, they took Aunt Caroline’s name

from the parish baptismal register and notified her.”

“And this took, what, two, three years?”

“Yes. Aunt Caroline told me I was no better than a savage when she rescued me. Truly, I have no clear memories of my own. I cannot

imagine what my life would have been like had she not come for me.”

“Where was that? Kent?”

“Cornwall. A village called Mousehole.”

Mousehole. The far end of England. A village of pirates and wreckers. The nearest naval garrison to that godforsaken place was in

Plymouth. If she’d been taken from Plymouth to Mousehole, then someone had wanted her lost forever. But who, damn it? And why?

He’d send Richardson to Kent tomorrow. If he learned nothing, he’d send him to Cornwall. If anyone could ferret out the truth, he

could.

“And that is all you remember?”

She nodded and her smile was sad. “I do not even have a likeness of them, though Aunt Caroline told me I resemble my mother. If

there were ever portraits, they were stolen by authorities or the foundling home. Aunt Caroline said they were all scoundrels, every

one.” She clasped her hands together and sat forward in her chair. “Do you really think this is important?”

“You are the common link between your husbands, Mrs. Huffington. If these incidents are not coincidental, then I’ve come to believe

it is your past we must look into.”

“I was a penniless orphan, Mr. Hunter. What could I have worth killing for?”

“You were a penniless orphan. From the moment Lady Caroline Betman made you her heir, you could have become the object of

envy or resentment.”

A frown knit faint lines between her eyebrows. “If that is so, then it is the Foxworthy brothers who bear scrutiny. They thought they

were Aunt Caroline’s heirs. They have brought suit to become my conservators. Well, the eldest brother has, Walter, I believe.”

This was a surprise to Charles. He did not like surprises. “And who, perchance, are they?” He placed his glass on the side table

before he could snap the fragile stem.

“Distant cousins of my aunt. I do not think she liked them, since she did not mention them in her will, nor did she ever invite them to

visit. Truly, I would not know them if they knocked upon my door.”

“And they would inherit the bulk of the Betman fortune should something happen to you?”

“I...I suppose. I do not know much of inheritance laws, but I am certain they would have some sort of claim. After all, they feel it is

within their rights to claim conservatorship over the assets and me into the bargain. In fact, if I become engaged again so soon, it

would lend credence to Mr. Foxworthy’s contention that I am incapable of rational behavior.”

Walter Foxworthy. He would know everything worth knowing about the man by this time tomorrow. If anyone would make a claim on

Georgiana Huffington, it would be him.

He stood. “I shall be by to pick you up at seven o’clock tomorrow evening. Lord Carlington is hosting a ball at the Argyle Rooms. I

think a quiet announcement to family and friends of our pending nuptials would be an appropriate place to start. Unless—” he turned

to her with a quirked eyebrow “—you’d rather have a formal announcement with all that implies.”

Her eyes widened and something churned in his stomach. As she stood, a faint scent of lilac wafted up to him. Lord, she did not

have to do much to bring him to a boil.

“Goodness, no! Even if it were real, making a formal announcement would be inappropriate. We must not make too much of this or

it will be awkward to extricate ourselves when it is over.”

He gave her a grim smile. “That will have little significance, Mrs. Huffington. I do not intend to marry, and you’ve declared you are

done with matrimony. It will signify nothing if we are both branded as jilts.”

“Very well. If you are not concerned over your reputation, why should I be?”

Ah, she was peeved. But why? His offhand approach to their plan? Or did she, indeed, mean to seek out a third husband, despite

her protests? It was time to remind her who she was playing with. He stepped closer to her and tilted her chin up to him. “I think we

should behave in a more familiar manner, Mrs. Huffington. How can we hope to convince society we are fond of each other if we

snap and address each other with formality? Yes, I think I shall call you Georgiana on occasion, and you should refer to me as

Charles. If we were really betrothed, such familiarity would be convincing, would it not?”

“I...I...”

“I think so, too,” he said as he lowered his lips to hers. After a moment of shock, she relaxed and accepted his gesture. Her lips

trembled just enough for him to know that she was not as calm as she seemed. No doubt she took comfort from the fact that they

were in her home, and he would not dare take advantage of her here.

Poor deluded thing.

He slipped his arm around her and drew her close, relishing the feel of her soft breasts crushed to his chest and her little intake of

breath when she felt the evidence of his arousal against her. The way she parted her lips—half innocent, half wanton—was

incredibly erotic to him. An enigma he wanted to explore. Indeed, if it was not imperative that he hand on this information to

Richardson at once, he would take this not-so-innocent kiss a great deal further.

Reluctantly, he released her. “I think I am going to enjoy this charade, Georgiana.”

* * *

“Magnifique!” Madame Marie exclaimed as she inspected her handiwork. “Turn about, Mrs. ’Uffington. ‘Ave you ever seen anything

so lovely?”

Georgiana could barely look at her reflection in the mirror the next afternoon at La Meilleure Robe. Self-loathing rather than modesty

was the cause. She could not wipe from her mind how she had allowed Charles Hunter to continue his attempts to seduce her when

she knew full well that he only wanted the challenge, and did not bear any particular fondness for her.

“Come, little Georgiana. Do not sulk. When the seams are all sewn, you will like it better. No?”

“Oh! I was thinking of something else, Madame. Of course I like the gown.” She finally gave herself a critical glance in the tall cheval

looking glass. The gown was really quite remarkable. The color was as stunning as Madame had promised, and the style was...well,

unlike any other she owned.

Aunt Caroline had picked all her gowns from a fashion book and had employed the village dressmaker to execute them. Gina had

told her once that she’d thought Georgiana dowdy when they’d first met. But no one would think her dowdy in Madame Marie’s

gown. The cut emphasized the curve of her breasts and the slender figure beneath. So this was what Madame had meant by using

the new lower waist. The woman was a genius.

Georgiana smoothed the drape of the soft violet silk over her hips and sighed. “I’ve never had a gown more beautiful, Madame. I

think I should have one in every color.”

The modiste chortled. “Not every color, I think, chèri. But a few more of this cut would discourage your competition. No?”

Her competition? For what?

“I shall change the colors and trim. Per’aps add a flounce at the ’em on one, or embroider the ’em on another. They will never realize

it is the same as this one. Oh, I should like to shut their mouths.”

Georgiana noted the frown on Madame Marie’s face and realized the woman was talking about something specific. “What have

they been saying, Madame?”

“Oh, I did not mean... Well, per’aps you should know. Two exceedingly plain women were in for fittings yesterday. One said that Mrs.

’Uffington is a brazen ’ussy. That no man will propose to you, no matter ’ow you bait the ’ook. The other said you are like Circe,

casting a spell over unwary men.”

Georgiana felt the heat rising in her cheeks. “I am not casting a spell or a hook, Madame. I am in town on business.”

The woman dimpled. “Of course you are, chèri. They are simply jealous, yes?”

“Yes. I mean...no!”

Madame laughed a full-bodied enjoyment of Georgiana’s confusion. “Ignore them, chèri. Enduring such talk is the fate of every great

beauty. And when this gown is finished, you will ’ave the envy of everyone who sees you.”

Georgiana was about to protest when there was a soft knock at the side door to the fitting room.

“Come, François. She is decent.”

Mr. Renquist peeked around the door before entering. He went to a far corner and leaned one shoulder against the wall, but not

before Georgiana noted a look of appreciation pass over his usually inscrutable face.

“Not much to tell, yet, Mrs. Huffington. Just a few items of interest.”

She nodded, waiting for what he’d been able to discover.

“Cautious questioning has led me to believe that the incident outside the Theatre Royal the other night was no accident. Mr. Hunter

has made an enemy. The gossip in the rookeries has it that he was the target of that attack.”

Georgiana did not know whether to be relieved or worried. If she was not the object of the attack, was someone targeting Charles

because of his appearance with her? “Do you know who was behind it or why, sir?”

“I cannot confirm anything, Mrs. Huffington. A theory has been mentioned, but I have been unable to trace the rumor. I would not feel

comfortable mentioning a name until I can confirm the information.”

As much as she would like to press for an answer, she had to respect his wishes. In truth, it made little difference which of them had

been the object of the attack. The fact remained that Charles was facing danger in her presence. “What next, Mr. Renquist?”

The man straightened and put his little notebook back in his jacket. “I have gone over my notes from our last meeting, Mrs.

Huffington, and I think I shall look into the Misters Foxworthy. Because of their ploy to become your conservators, they have a great

deal to gain by keeping you unattached, and the most to lose from any possible remarriage.”

That fact had occurred to Georgiana. Any insights she could gain would be an advantage in dealing with the brothers—Walter in

particular. But what of the other claims against her? “Have you any news of Mr. York?”

Mr. Renquist shrugged. “I shall send someone to investigate just to be certain, but I do not consider him as a part of this whole mess,

Mrs. Huffington. For one thing, he was related to your second husband and, therefore, could have had no interest in your first

husband’s death. And secondly, he has not expressed any particular concern over any remarriage. His suit is more of the common

variety of a disgruntled relative who had lived in expectation of an inheritance. Perhaps he has borrowed against future funds and

now finds himself in a very bad position with his creditors. Whatever the reason, I think we can dismiss him as a killer.”

“Should I make him an offer, sir?”

“That is your decision. How much money would satisfy him, and how badly do you want him disengaged from your life?”

“Very badly,” she confessed.

“On the other hand,” Mr. Renquist continued, “if the rumors are wrong and the shot outside the Theatre Royal was actually meant for

you, Mr. York would be the likely suspect. No attacks had been made on you until then—on the settlement of your second husband’s

estate. I would advise caution in any event.”

Georgiana sighed. This was all such an impossible muddle.