Page 133 of Lessons for Marquesses
Georgiana chose her words succinctly as she stared at the royal chin. “Your Majesty, I wish to speak on Edmund Clayton’s murder.”
The king royally perused her from the ribbons on her head to the gauzy ruching at her hem. He landed on the ruby on her right ring finger. “Lift your hand,” he ordered.
Georgiana displayed the ring. Shoes creaked and fabric rustled as the room bent in to see the object of royal curiosity.
“You are betrothed?” he asked.
“No. I am not, Your Majesty.”
His forehead lifted at that. “You are a strong girl, Miss St. Clair, I can see. Brought up in the country.”
Someone coughed, hiding a laugh.
“Do you race horses, Miss St. Clair?”
“I do, Your Majesty.”
“And you have the habit of dressing as a man, I am advised.”
Amused whispers weaved amongst the audience.
She chose her response wisely. “I do, Your Majesty. I was raised as such by my parents.”
“And you preferred it?”
She looked the king directly in the eye. “I knew no other way. Just as you knew no other life than being a prince.”
After a momentary flattening of the king’s brows, they rose in aplomb. “Honest.” He looked across his audience as if accusing them of not following the same morals. “Miss St. Clair, we have read the documents pertaining to Edmund Clayton, Lord Margate’s murder. One of the ministers will direct our questions to you, and if we wish to ask our own, we will.”
A man moved from the crowd. He bowed in moss-green silk. On his matching shoes, diamonds glinted.
“Miss St. Clair, I am Sir Thomas Cobley. I come here this day to ensure justice for Edmund Clayton, Lord Margate, who was silenced nine years to this day, in a”—Cobley’s teeth tore at the next word—“heinouscrime. An act so unforgivable that the accused, Lord Margate’s brother, would have hanged if not for his noble birth, the intercession of his father, and Lord Acomb.”
Georgiana braced herself. In truth, she was more at ease with aggression than courtly etiquette.
Cobley tread forward. “Miss St. Clair, did you not tell the magistrate that you were with your father in the stables the afternoon of Edmund Clayton’s death?”
A voice told her to be quick about it. If she tarried on her answers, the man would barrage her with more questions and paint her as a liar. Which she did not understand why he caredor who would wish to obstruct justice, except that, perhaps, justice was piqued at being found wrong.
“No, sir,” she replied. “I spoke to no one about that day.”
“You did not vouch for your father?”
“No, I did not.”
Cobley frowned. “But you were with your father in the stables the afternoon of Edmund Clayton’s death.”
“No, sir, I was not.”
Georgiana veered her gaze to Nicholas. He cocked his head. What if she had gone to him instead, forgiven him, and kept her secret?
“Please, miss, one more time,” Cobley said. “You didnottell the magistrate you were with your father?”
She could rescind her story. Walk into Nicholas’s arms and together they could escape their entwined, anguished past in the country, in Paris, in Venice.
“No,” she said at length. “I told the magistrate nothing.”
“Why is it in the report?”
