Page 3 of When the Marquess Was Mine
Mr. Williams, the butler, brought in the post. “From Sir Charles,” he said to Kitty.
“Oh!” With a pleased smile, Kitty laid the baby in the cradle at her feet. She took the letter and broke the seal.
Georgiana let Geneva pour her another cup of tea. The windows were open, and the breeze carried in the ripe, lush scent of summer and the faint buzzing of bees in the garden. It looked to be another perfect day. Georgiana considered taking a long walk, or perhaps a ride. Country life was inferior to city life in many ways, but not in the exercise opportunities available.
A clatter broke her thoughts. Kitty had dropped her teaspoon and sat bolt upright. “What is it?” Georgiana said in concern.
Kitty held the letter in a white-knuckled grip. “Charles,” she said tensely.
Geneva fell silent. “What has happened to Charles?” asked Mother Winston in mild worry.
“Something dreadful.” Kitty looked up, her brows drawn. “My dearest wife,” she read aloud. “I do not wish to alarm you, but I write to you in great urgency and turmoil. I have had the terrible misfortune of falling in with—” Here she broke off, her eyes dark and dismayed.
“Is he dead?” cried Geneva.
“He could hardly write a letter if he were dead,” said Georgiana. She reached down to soothe the baby, who had begun whimpering at Geneva’s outburst. “Go on, Kitty. What has happened?”
“He’s not dead.” Kitty put down the letter and stared out the window.
“Do tell us, my dear,” urged Mother Winston. “Was he robbed? Is he injured? I have heard the streets of London are not safe.”
Kitty didn’t reply, but she took up the letter again and read on. “I have had the terrible misfortune of falling in with some very sharp fellows, and I suffered a terrible loss at their hands, to my pride, and my dignity.”
“Someone beat him!” cried Geneva. “Was it a boxing match?”
Kitty’s face was inscrutable. “I don’t think so. He writes further:The chief scoundrel who tricked me is Lord Westmorland, and I fear he may present himself at Osbourne House. If he should arrive on your doorstep, my beloved, do not let him in. He will see us all ruined.”
Geneva gasped. Mother Winston’s mouth sagged open in shock. “What?”
Kitty flipped to the second page of the letter. “He says he is trying to prevent disaster from falling on us, and will write more later. The rest merely repeats that we must not admit Lord Westmorland or receive him at all.”
“They must have fought a duel!” burst out Geneva.
“Hush,” scolded her mother. “Charles would never be so rash.”
“Even if he did fight a duel, he’s well enough to write letters, which is a very good sign,” Georgiana pointed out. “And if he were injured, he would send for Kitty immediately.”
“Why on earth would Westmorland come here if he had a quarrel with Charles?” Kitty asked, almost to herself. She turned over the letter again. “Charles said he was tricked...”
“Perhaps a business arrangement,” suggested Mother Winston. “Charles can be so trusting, I have often worried he would be preyed upon. His father worried, too.”
“But what business could he have with a marquess?” Kitty frowned, one finger against her lips. “Surely he would have mentioned it. And if the marquess did something unethical, Mr. Jackson would put a stop to it.” Mr. Jackson had been Kitty’s family solicitor for many years, and had followed her to the Winstons on her marriage.
“I doubt the marquess has the slightest idea how to transact business of any kind,” said Georgiana with a snort. “Everyone knows his father, the Duke of Rowland, manages everything.”
Everyone looked at her. “Of course,” said Kitty in surprise. “You must know Lord Westmorland! You’ve been in London these three years now.”
Still patting the fretting baby, Georgiana made a face. “I don’t know Westmorland himself. But I knowofhim.”
They moved in the same society, after all, where it was virtually impossible not to know something about everyone else, let alone someone like the Marquess of Westmorland. Her chaperone, Lady Sidlow, had an encyclopedic knowledge of every unmarried gentleman in London, and was prone to discussing them with the avid interest of a sportsman discussing horses at Ascot.
Superficially, Georgiana could have readily answered Kitty’s question. The marquess was tall and handsome, fit, and lethally charming when he wished to be. He had dark hair and glinting hazel eyes that made ladies swoon. He was heir to the Duke of Rowland, and as such would inherit one of the oldest and richest titles in all of England—not that he didn’t have a large income and an estate of his own already. Superficially, Westmorland was one of the most eligible men in England, and Lady Sidlow had mentioned more than once that it was very disappointing of Georgiana to promise to wed Lord Sterling, a mere viscount, when men like Westmorland were strolling freely around, almost flaunting their bachelor status.
But Georgiana also knew something of his nature, and that was why she despised him.
“What sort of man is he?” Kitty asked, her keen gaze fixed on Georgiana. “A scoundrel?”
“Is he a cheat?” Geneva demanded.
