Page 43 of The Lawrence Browne Affair
“Hold your tongue,” Mrs. Ferris said to the other woman.
“There’s nothing happening that would cause any trouble to his lordship,” Janet said, laying a hand on Georgie’s arm and looking up at him pleadingly. “We’ve taken such care to make sure that nobody comes near the stables.”
Georgie could have slapped himself. So, that was why the servants had quit—Mrs. Ferris and Janet had done whatever was necessary to keep prying eyes away from Penkellis. They must have spread tales of Lawrence’s evil doings. “I think there would be trouble indeed if it were known that the Earl of Radnor was turning a blind eye to smugglers using his property to store run goods,” Georgie hissed. “Nobody would believe he didn’t know.”
“They would if they knew him,” Janet protested. “It’s not as if he has a hand in running the estate.”
“If his eccentricities were to become common knowledge, you mean?” Georgie stepped into the larder and beckoned for the women to follow. Once the door was shut, Georgie went on. “That’s hardly any better than having him known as a smuggler. The two of you have done your damnedest to have him branded a devil-worshiping madman throughout the neighborhood, presumably because you want to frighten people away from poking around Penkellis. You can’t mean to have this nonsense said aloud in court.”
“Who said anything about court?” Mrs. Ferris countered, hands on hips.
“That’s what it would come to, if his name were to be tangled up in this business. Do you have any idea what would happen if word got out? Simon’s relations would have the earl declared incompetent, and as the heir’s guardians, they would have the running of this house and everyone in it. So if you want to keep your smuggler friends safe, you might want to think twice about making people wonder whether the earl has his wits about him.”
“Now, now.” The cook was looking up at him with concern. “Take a deep breath, Mr. Turner.”
“Take a deep breath?” Georgie repeated, incredulous. “This is not a problem that will be solved with breathing, no matter how deep.” His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, his nails biting into the flesh of his palms. “Can you even imagine how his lordship would take being summoned to testify in court?” A strange place, strange people, noisy and crowded and new. “What the devil have you done?” He wasn’t shouting—he would never be so imprudent, even as furious as he was—but his voice was raised.
The realization struck him like a blow. Hewasfurious. If he were the sort of man to punch walls or throw things, he’d have already put the larder into shambles. But Georgie never got angry. Annoyed, yes. Bored, most certainly. But anger didn’t enter into it, let alone this full blown rage.
Now Janet and Mrs. Ferris were looking at him as if he were a spectacle. Janet’s mouth was shaped into an O of perfect astonishment, and Mrs. Ferris’s eyebrows were hitched so high they disappeared into her cap.
“What I’m trying to tell you,” the cook said in patient tones, “is that none of that’ll come to pass. The goods aren’t on the property anymore. And they won’t be, not so long as this place is crawling with outsiders.”
“They won’t be on his lordship’s land, full stop. Tell whoever is behind this operation to avoid Penkellis in its entirety, or he will have to deal with me. And make no mistake, that will not be pleasant.”
“We’re in Cornwall,” Mrs. Ferris was saying, as she regarded Georgie in utter bafflement. “His lordship would be surprised to learn his landwasn’tbeing used by smugglers. Don’t you worry your head.”
“I’ll worry as much as I damned well please. I neither know nor care about Cornish customs. All—and I do meanall—I care about is that his lordship not be troubled more than absolutely necessary.”
He slid out of the larder and marched to the parlor, smoothing his lapels and straightening his cravat on his way.
He had spoken the truth. He would commit any number of outrages in order to keep Lawrence safe. All he had to do was imagine Lawrence in the dock, Lawrence in a madhouse, and he’d gladly unload a pistol into any Cornish smuggler who threatened the man he loved. Because there really was no denying it anymore, not even to himself: he loved Lawrence and was pretty damned sure Lawrence loved him in return. Not that it would do either of them any good at all.
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
Lawrence was arrested on the threshold of the parlor, hoping another moment would give him the courage to enter the room. Georgie and a small boy—Lawrence’s mind reeled at the knowledge that this was Simon, whom he had last seen as a babbling, chubby infant—were sprawled on the rug before the fire, playing a card game Lawrence didn’t recognize. Barnabus was lounging between them, as if he were waiting to be dealt into the game.
“You’ve almost got it,” Georgie was saying. “You’re trying to pull the second card.”
The child looked so much like his mother, pale and small, almost elfin.
Georgie shuffled the cards and held them out to Simon, who took what appeared to be the top card. He held it out, face up, to show Georgie, who let out a crack of laughter.
“A quick study. You were born to sharp cards.”
Good heavens. Was Georgie teaching Simon, the future Earl of Radnor, to cheat at cards? If Lawrence had been under the impression that Georgie was an ordinary, respectable secretary, that delusion would have been quite crushed by this little tableau.
Georgie took the cards back from Simon and gave them a quick, competent shuffle. Or at the least appeared to do so; Lawrence assumed some sleight of hand was in play. He fanned them out, directed Simon’s attention to one of them, and then restacked the deck.
Lawrence had known for a while that Georgie was not what he seemed. He was not a proper secretary, and therefore some manner of subterfuge had brought him to Penkellis. Lawrence ought to be disturbed, offended, afraid. He was none of those things. The strength of his affection for Turner overwhelmed any other stray notions, in the way a full moon blinded one to the surrounding stars. He knew they were there but couldn’t make himself see them.
Lawrence took a tentative step forward, his new boots stiff and unfamiliar, his freshly starched cravat a strange presence under his chin.
Georgie noticed him first, shooting immediately to his feet. “Lawr—my lord,” he said, giving a thoroughly correct little bow. “Allow me to present—”
“Simon,” Lawrence said hoarsely. In two strides, he crossed to where Simon now stood beside Georgie. He hesitated for a moment, unsure what to do, and then impulsively took hold of Simon’s hand. “Simon,” he repeated, staring at the child’s face, trying to find some trace of the infant he had held and comforted. “How was your journey?” he asked, because he had to say something.
“Most uneventful, sir,” Simon said in a small voice.
