Page 105 of Ordered Home for the Holidays
He would have to resort to the old ways, then.
A crony of Garrick’s from school days, the Marquess of Titchfield, had broken from the bosom of his family celebrations and decided to throw a New Year’s Eve ball at Burlington House, conveniently around the corner from Bond Street. Garrick’s mother decided that mourning for her nephew did not require her to turn down such an event. Madelina balked, claiming her family had devised some quiet celebration, but her mother had quickly dispatched those plans. Being entertained by the heir to the Duke of Portland at a house owned by the Duke of Devonshire was an honor Modestine Moisenay was determined Agnes Lockram should not hold over her.
So it was that the families met in Grafton Street to make the short jaunt to Piccadilly. Garrick pushed aside his brothers to stake his claim at Madelina’s side. He was sucked into her light the way straw was consumed by flame.
“Mad. You look lovely.”
“Thank you.” But she sounded as if she didn’t believe him. As if she assumed that he poured out compliments to women all the time, and praise of her was no more heartfelt than admiration of the greenery decorating the houses they passed.
He’d never been this desperate to please. He’d never had to exert himself.
He’d never had so much to lose.
He tucked her elbow possessively at his side, and she held herself straight and stiff, resisting. Their party attracted a fair bit of notice when they made their entrance into Burlington House, a Neo-Palladian mansion that with its park and outbuildings seemed a country estate set within the burgeoning build of Mayfair. A porter admitted them, and as Madelina drew off her fur-lined cloak to surrender to one of several hired footmen in livery, Garrick took a strangled breath.
She wore a simple muslin round gown with an open gown in the levite style pinned overtop. The deep plum silk nearly met in a point over her breasts, accentuating their fullness, while the rest of the overgown cut deeply away, skimming her shapely waist and the sides of her long, long legs. The effect was to showcase her statuesque figure and drive every wisp of reasoning thought from a man’s head.
The sight of Madelina Moisenay with her figure on display, her crown of hair, the rich tones of her skin and her riveting eyes, roused sheer instinct. For Garrick, that instinct was to throw himself at her feet.
Where he would be promptly trampled by all the other men desperate to seek her attention.
Titchfield was first to make a go, appearing at Garrick’s side while Madelina conversed with their hostess, some spinster aunt that Titchfield trotted out to oversee his table. He gave Madelina a considering survey.
“This the gel?”
Garrick stiffened. “Whose brother I inquired about? Yes. What have you found?”
Aside from his own recent service as part of a diplomatic envoy to The Hague, Titchfield’s family, male and female, was embedded in service to the monarch and government, including an aunt who was Lady of the Bedchamber to the Queen. Garrick still didn’t understand how dull, plain Barty had insinuated himself in the secret circles of powerful men who decided Britain’s future, but he had, and he’d drawn Garrick in as well.
Garrick enjoyed it, truth be told. The secrecy. The spying. The letters sent in cipher under a strange and specific seal. The meetings in dark back rooms of pubs or stables or warrens of foreign offices where low-level staff knew much more than their employers surmised.
And these circles of observers and informants, whose business it was to know the doings of foreign governments outside of the usual diplomatic channels, had tabs on Englishmen in France. Including one rumored to have been in prison for months because he had no family to claim him, no friends to vouch for him, and no evidence to prove whether he supported the new constitutional monarchy or the increasingly radical Jacobins.
“I’ve information for you,” Titchfield said, not taking his eyes off Mad. “If you tell me more about your delicious escort.”
“My intended bride,” Garrick said, forcing his hands to his side so he didn’t curl his fingers around his friend’s throat.
Titchfield’s brows shot upward. “Finally putting your leg in the shackle? Or got caughtin flagrante?”
“We’ve long had an understanding.” Garrick’s voice was tight. “I believe it’s time to make good.”
“She’s not as delicate as your French ballet dancer,” Titchfield mused. “But that’s the beauty of a bride, eh? You get the sweet little missus tending home and hearth, and the opera dancers on the side.”
Garrick gritted his teeth. There would be no one for him but Mad. Now that he’d tasted her, he could think of nothing else but tasting her again.
Possessing her wholly. Making herwanthim, and surrender to that want, damn it.
“Your news?” he rapped out.
“Ah, yes. I’ve learned the man who interests us is in La Force. Not an easy place to be these days. It’s where they’re sending many political prisoners.”
“Why would Moisenay be considered a political prisoner?” Garrick kept his voice low.
Titchfield shrugged one shoulder. “We’d all like an answer to that.” His gaze turned sober. “Things are getting dangerous, Warin. Letters won’t avail us much this time.”
The thought of Constantin dabbling in French revolutionary activity was like a boy in short pants dancing on the edge of a well. The Moisenay heir was only three years older than Mad, still untried. While Garrick had been hardening himself in intrigues abroad, Constatin had been safe and petted in London, a cat upon his cushion.
Nothing could happen to that boy. Mad would never recover.
