Page 13 of Lessons for Marquesses
In the waning afternoon light, Georgiana checked her wig and tugged down her sleeves. She closed her eyes.Please, Lord in Heaven, provide unto Kitty acceptable lodging as you did provide for Minion?—
“Ah-hem!”
Georgiana jumped. A man’s florid face, not three inches from hers, studied her in wonder.
The man weaved. “Eh! You’re a gel!”
Georgiana left him for the door.
The lower room was complete disorder, a crush of men in debate, lounging on benches, some half out of chairs to drivetheir points. The room was so thick with souls she had to weave among them and peer into each face.
She went to a stand where a man poured coffee and a young boy fetched the cups to disperse to the crowd. “I’m searching for Julian St. Clair.”
The man handed her a coffee. “Who?”
“Julian St. Clair.” She shouted it twice to be heard.
Georgiana followed the proprietor’s jab toward a staircase and set the brew back to the counter. In the Hazard Room, the quality of England were leaning over tables and throwing their forefathers’ earnings to the baize. Some, by their dejected poses had already lost it. Those in the process wiped their brows and carried on.
She roamed the room, coughing to clear the smoke and cloying mix of perfumes and sweat. No matter if men were wealthy, they had an abominable propensity for leaking noxious fluids from their pores.
“Get out, Fisher!” someone shouted. This was directed at a man by the door without his wig, a few wisps of hair springing from his bald head.
Fisher didn’t shrink. From the grumbles and the hundred-plus eyes glaring, he should have. “I’ve come back for my wig and hat,” Fisher said boldly.
“Show him, by God! Show him what we do to pickpockets!”
A man in silk grabbed a horsewhip from the wall. After a crack of the whip, another man seized Fisher, and the whip rent the back of his coat in two. Fisher screamed, realizing his error. More lashes followed.
Men shoved to join the melee, hurling Georgiana aside. An assembly of the finest shoes in England trampled her hat. A fist, anxious for a fight, clouted her arm. Forced to defend herself, she struck a man’s chin and kicked another’s shin to get to the wall. She flattened there, knocking a bust to the floorand shattering it. No one noticed. The crowd formed into a tumultuous mob, screaming and swinging and whipping Fisher out the door.
The din faded, from a deafening war to a distant battle. The last men exited the room until they were far enough away that she could hear her own breath rasping between her teeth. She braced her hands at her knees, her body shuddering. Her arm hurt like the devil. The knuckles on her right hand had lost flesh. Blood trickled between her fingers.
Thump.
Georgiana jerked up at the sound. Through the smoke, she saw him. The overturned glasses, the puddles of liquor glinting off the candlelight, the dice and cards littering the room, all converged into a line leading straight to him.
The man hadn’t noticed her. The two of them were the only souls left. He read a paper, tracing the rim of a crystal goblet, as if what had just occurred, hadn’t. What was so engrossing that he didn’t care?
Tawny liquor filled his glass. His long legs stretched before him. He brought the glass to his lips. In a shroud of black hair, a good length of stubble framed the firm curves of his mouth. When had he shaved last?
He sipped.Thump. His glass hit the table.
He raked a hand through his coal-black hair. Had he lost his queue or was it possible he hadn’t bothered to tie it? His long, strong fingers formed a fist and butted the rosewood table. No emotions played upon his lips nor the chiseled jaw in near profile.
“Jolly good fun that was,” Georgiana said in the hush.
The man’s lashes led his gaze. First to his drink, as though his glass had developed the faculty of speech. And then, like a bullet, straight to her. He had dark eyes. Eyes like the devil himself.
Georgiana gulped to fill her lungs, overcome with the urge to break the silence.
“Of course”—she laughed—“you likely missed it, with your riveted study of that paper, which I can only assume relays the death of His Majesty or a shocking rise in the price of hair powder.”
He simply stared.
She waved at her wig. “Your hair… you don’t… powder it.”
His eyes narrowed which disclosed an ability to hear but did he speak English?
