Page 72 of Ladies in Hating
Georgiana had never felt like that in her life. At home—at Woodcote—her greatest desire had been that no one should notice her. And though she’d been popular among thetonas a debutante, all of it had been a lie—a front designed to keep the reality of herself hidden.
She thought—
She wondered, more often than she ever would have admitted aloud, about her own family. About Ambrose and Percy. Ambrose was married now—married, and she knew nothing more of his life than what she’d read in the papers. What was his wife like? Had it been a love match, or something more practical?
Was he still the same? Did he still stand in front of the mirror and practice his words before he had to speak in front of crowds?
Was Percy well, in his rectory in Wiltshire? Did he still wear his stockings too baggy because he did not fancy the feel of silk against his skin?
Were they happy?
She did not know. And she would not know—not if she meant to keep her life apart from theirs.
And suddenly, as she watched Cat among her family—as Pauline deftly scooped up Jem’s spectacles before he stepped on them, as Jem reached out and pointed triumphantly at a spattering of ink on Cat’s sleeve—Georgiana wondered if she held too tightly to her fears.
What would happen, if she wrote to Ambrose? A note of felicitations only—no request, no kind of demand.
He might not write back. Perhaps it was too late—perhaps their family was a thing too broken to be mended.
But then again, he might.
The conversation wound around from books—Jem was fond of history; Pauline, surprisingly, enjoyed romance—to a lengthy argument over the qualities of a superior piecrust and then on to Renwick House. Jem asked Georgiana about Sir Francis Bacon, and as she always and absurdly kept a miniature of her dog on her person, she showed him.
Cat’s sheer delight at that fact was almost enough to outweigh the heat in Georgiana’s cheeks as she stuffed the locket back into her reticule.
They did not speak at all of Yorke or Jem’s position in his office until after Pauline rose and waved off their attempts to help her with the washing-up. It did not seem a deliberate omission, quite—and yet Georgiana could tell that Cat seemed hesitant, loath to plunge into the revelations of the afternoon.
Jem rose and stretched his arms above his head, a long elbow-y adolescent curve. “I’m off. I have to make notes on eleven land deed records before dawn, and at least half of them are in the most illegible hand I’ve ever seen.”
“Wait,” Cat said. “Hold a moment. Have you—are you going into the office in the morning?”
Jem lowered himself back into his chair. His expression, loose and relaxed all night, went a little closed. “I don’t understand why you would ask me that. I have never missed a single day, youknowthat—”
“No,” Cat said, “that’s not what I meant. Dash it.” She shoved her fingers into her tousled hair and looked faintly agonized. “I only meant—we have some questions for Mr. Yorke, that’s all. We had thought to meet with him.”
Georgiana watched Jem stare penetratingly at Cat. There was some underlying conflict at play here, that much was clear. Andjust as clear was the fact that, for some reason, Cat had elected not to tell Jem of their suspicions—Georgiana’ssuspicions—about Martin Yorke and the peculiar goings-on at Renwick House.
Finally, Jem’s gaze softened, and he sat back in his chair. “Well, you won’t be able to see him tomorrow, in any case. He left town a few days ago, with no decided timeline on his return.”
Georgiana leaned forward. “He left town? Do you know where he went?”
Jem’s red hair glinted in the firelight. “He did not precisely say, but…”
“But?” Cat prompted.
“But I have reason to believe that he went to Wiltshire.”
“To Wiltshire?” Georgiana felt a tingle run across her skin, a thin electrical vibration. Was this some further connection to Renwick House?
“Mm.” Jem hesitated. He toyed with the spectacles he’d hooked into his open collar, then looked up. “Kitty, I’ve been meaning to ask…” He trailed off and ran a large frustrated hand through his hair.
Cat’s face had gone worried. “What’s wrong? You can tell me, Jem.”
“Nothing’s wrong. I…” He sucked in a breath and plunged on. “Do you know anything about my father?”
Georgiana felt awkward—intrusive, somehow. Should she stand? Go to the kitchen with Pauline? But neither brother nor sister was looking at her, and she did not want to interrupt.
Cat blinked. “Your father? You mean—”
