Page 108 of Ladies in Hating
Pauline whimpered and put her hands over her face. “I cannot do this. I cannot remain a moment longer.”
Cat blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“I’m sorry, Kitty,” Pauline mumbled. “I have done what I could. I cleared at least half of the resident birds from your library. I located your housekeeper and returned her to you.”
Pauline had uncovered Graves and Mort ensconced together in the gamekeeper’s cottage on the property. Mort, it turned out, was six-and-a-half feet tall and possessed of a physique that could best be described as Apollonian.
He had enthusiastically accepted a new position as head gardener.
“I executed a grid-based search of every square inch of this house,” Pauline went on, “for a possibly fictional set of jewels that we did not even find. But apigin thehouseis taking things too far.”
“You are not fond of swine?” Georgiana inquired.
“I am fond ofpeople. I adore the city of London. I like shopping! Imissshopping.” She looked plaintively at Cat. “You won’t be distressed if I go back home already, will you? You may come and stay in the apartment anytime you wish.”
“May I bring my pig?”
Pauline moaned, and Cat could not contain the crack of laughter that slipped free.
“Of course I won’t be distressed. Go home. Bring lots of those ginger biscuits I fancy the next time you return. And maybe thebooks I left in my bedchamber.” Cat was close enough to Georgiana to touch her, and so she did, running her palm slowly up Georgiana’s slim, strong back, relishing the feel of velvet and then of Georgiana’s skin. “Everything else I need is here.”
Five weeks later
Jem glowered at the Duke of Fawkes.
On the other side of the music room, Fawkes was attempting to smile innocently.
It did not look natural upon his stern, blade-sharp face.
“Oliver,” Jem said warningly, “this is not in the least believable.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about,” said the duke. Unfortunately, his tone indicated something more like:I know precisely what you are talking about, and I was hoping you would not notice.
Georgiana wondered if Fawkes would be amenable to some sort of lesson in acting the part.
“This money,” Jem said, and brandished a heap of banknotes accusingly at the duke. He’d lost his jacket somehow, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. “You expect me to believe that one of the masons discovered these notes inside the wall? That they were part of the original construction?”
“Yes?” Fawkes said doubtfully.
“Then why do they look as though they were signed by the cashier last week?”
“Preservation?” offered Fawkes. His hair was slightly rumpled, as though he’d run his fingers through it. “Lack of exposure to air whilst inside the walls?”
“They are alsodatedlast week, Oliver.”
“Bollocks,” Fawkes said, and then winced.
“I don’t want your money,” Jem said, with the careful articulation of someone who had issued the same proclamation on more than one prior occasion.
“Yououghtto have some of it. You should—”
“No,” Jem said, and then he reached up and straightened his spectacles, though they did not need straightening. “No. Actually—” He paused and glanced over to the threshold, where Cat and Georgiana stood together. “I’m glad that all three of you are here. I wanted to speak to you about something.”
At Georgiana’s side, Cat stiffened, just a little. Georgiana knew that she had worried for Jem, of late. He was enjoying the prospect of the renovation, to be sure—but he had not approached it with the same air of vigor that she and Cat had, either.
“I’ve written to Pauline,” he said, “and to Yorke. They’ve both agreed. I should like to go back to London. Take up my clerkship again.”
Fawkes glowered. “Why would you do that? I have told you repeatedly that you do not need to seek employment. The family’s coffers—”
