Page 12 of Lessons for Marquesses
“I will. For another guinea.”
“Well.” Seven guineas for her soon-to-be champion to overnight in a cockpit. One couldn’t be choosy at this point. “Mister?”
“Twain. Mr. Twain. And you are?”
“Mr. Twain, I am George St. Clair. You have a deal.”
His brow shot up, his attention on Minion. “Fancy that. I’m to have the honor to board the St. Clair Witch.”
Minion’s temperament had earned the nickname without ever making a showing. Georgiana imagined men hiding in Farendon’s shrubbery to watch her train. Stranger things happened. Like bedding the near-perfect get of Wild Squire in a cockpit.
She settled Minion with Charlie under the canvas, purchased him cold chicken and ale at the exorbitant cost of four shillings, and then directed her coachman, Peter, to their lodgings.
The rooms Georgiana had reserved above a butcher shop had dwindled to one—in a garret. There was a single narrow bed with threadbare linen, one pillow, one chair, a washstand, and a tiny table pressed in a corner.
Georgiana settled her portmanteau to the rough-planked floor. The scent of stale meat wafted from below. “Well. Look there. A chamber pot. How lucky for us.” Cracked ceramic. But still a pot.
Kitty studied a tallow candle, the sole candle, upon the table. She sniffed it and after rubbing her nose, withdrew a handkerchief and cleaned the tiny window.
Charlotte turned, slowly, as if the wretched space had unsheathed its talons and if her aunt were to move too quickly, it would devour her. “Dear…”
Georgiana stood taller for what she knew was coming. “I know.”
“Then you know I am not onlyyourchaperone. I am also responsible for Kitty. Sir Jeffrey has entrusted me to ensure her safety. Her comfort. Her esteem.”
“I know,” Georgiana murmured.
“How, if anyone were to see this, am I to ensure my duties are dispatched as I have promised? No, they will not be dispatched as promised regardless if they are not seen. But you must decide if you care to see Kitty again after this—this disaster.”
Kitty pleaded, “Oh, Aunt Charlotte, please.”
“Hush, Kitty.” Charlotte bent her head as if looking down at Georgiana when she was a foot shorter. “If it is ever known to Sir Jeffrey and, in turn, her betrothed, Lord Staverton, that Kitty has slept in a garret above a butcher shop, you will, I promise, never see her again.”
A statement thrown like a gauntlet. Instead of pistols or swords, it was horses or Kitty. How did her aunt expect her to choose between the two?
“I will find Julian,” she said. “He will certainly give up his lodgings for us.”
“And if you do not find him?”
“Then I shall find something suitable.”
“How much coin remains?”
Kitty shook her head as if to saydo not worry for me.
Georgiana picked up her hat, tucking it at her side. “If I am unsuccessful locating Julian, then I’ll return Kitty hometomorrow to ensure her reputation remains intact. I would never risk your happiness, Kitty. I hope you know that.”
“Georgiana, of course! I find the space terribly quaint. Aunt Charlotte, think of this as an adventure.”
Georgiana shook her head. “You are not meant to sleep in a garret.”
“Neither are you, Ana,” Charlotte said.
“Please do not call me Ana. Only my mother referred to me so.” At Charlotte’s stiff expression, Georgiana departed.
Georgiana might not know exactly where Julian was, but she knew where to begin: The Coffee House at 101 High Street and home to the Jockey Club rooms. And the Hazard Room where men threw away fortunes for the chance to make more fortunes. The bricked facade was modest with transom windows above arches and a narrow black door. It faced north. Homes on either side blocked any chance of morning or afternoon sunlight.
What did powerful men need of sunlight? They made their own.
