Page 56 of The Lawrence Browne Affair
“You can’t mean for that fellow to stay here,” Medlock protested, still peering through his quizzing glass. “He’s a menace.”
“We’re all snowed in,” Lawrence growled, not making any effort to make his tone amicable. “I didn’t ask any of you lot to come here, so you’ll all have to make do. If you’re worried that Courtenay will lure you into orgies or opium eating, then lock your doors.” He stared at Medlock until the man retreated into the parlor.
“And as for you,” he said, turning to Courtenay, “did you write to my vicar?”
“You may not remember this about me, Laurie, but I’m not much in the habit of corresponding with vicars. Not in my line, you know.”
“Damn you. Did you write to Halliday inquiring about my mental competence, or didn’t you?”
Courtenay regarded him appraisingly. “I couldn’t very well let Simon live with a lunatic, now could I? And I was a good deal too far away to see for myself, so the vicar seemed the best bet.”
“What exactly did you tell him?” A suspicion was forming in Lawrence’s mind.
“I told him that he’d assure me of your mental competence or I’d see to it that you were quietly thrown in an institution and your property made over to your heir.”
That would explain it. Halliday, prone to worry on the best of days, would have gotten it into his head that Lawrence was in grave danger. “Why do you care?”
“Simon is my nephew. I wasn’t going to let him run loose in the company of a mad recluse.” He spoke like it was a matter of course, as if ten years earlier he hadn’t thrown his younger sister into far worse society than Lawrence ever could have been.
“Would that you had so much concern for your relations’ safety when Isabella was alive.” It had been Courtenay who had introduced Isabella to the man who got her with child.
Courtenay’s nostrils flared, but other than that he betrayed no sign of anger. “You think that doesn’t weigh on me? She was my sister, my friend. And Simon is all I have left of her.” He looked sincere, but appearances could be deceiving where Courtenay was concerned. “And listen here, Laurie. I’ll gladly murder anyone who harms him, you included.”
Lawrence met the man’s challenging glare with one of his own. “Good.”
For a moment, Courtenay held Lawrence’s gaze, then gave him a single nod. Lawrence nodded in return, as if they had struck a truce.
Lawrence went down to the kitchens to tell Georgie about their unfortunate new arrival, but when he pushed open the baize doors there was no sign of the secretary. Servants bustled about, Simon sat on a stool by the fire, eating a scone, and Barnabus sat by the garden door, but Georgie wasn’t there.
“Where’s Mr. Turner?” he asked the room at large.
“He went to see to the linens,” Mrs. Ferris said, not meeting his gaze.
A sick feeling began to grow in Lawrence’s stomach. “When did he leave?”
Mrs. Ferris looked at him and shook her head. Lawrence saw what he should have noticed right away: Barnabus was stationed by the door, instead of begging for Simon’s crumbs.
Lawrence strode across the room and flung open the garden door, letting in a blast of cold air and a flurry of snow. But he saw no footprints, no trace of Georgie.
“Where is Mr. Turner?” he repeated. “Where did he go?”
Dazed, he retreated to the safety of his study, only to find that even there he felt the walls closing tightly around him, his heart pounding furiously in his chest.
CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO
It wasn’t until they had been snowed in for two days that Lawrence realized he was, effectively, hosting a house party. A terrible, boring house party with guests who heartily disliked one another and with the painful absence of the one person Lawrence wished were present, but a house party nonetheless. The servants contrived to keep everyone fed, Lady Standish carried the conversation at mealtimes, Simon cavorted with the dog, and Lawrence played the part of the thoroughly drunk host.
“Your library is appalling,” Courtenay announced, throwing open the door to Lawrence’s study. “It’s shocking. There were mushrooms growing on Seneca, which is neither more nor less than the fellow deserves, but all your brother’s naughty lithographs are ruined. Disgraceful.”
“I daresay you have some expertise in disgrace,” Julian Medlock murmured archly, glancing up from the letter he was writing. Lawrence had forgotten that the dandy had decided to make himself at home in the study while his sister fiddled with the telegraph. Why the fellow was draining inkwell after inkwell in writing letters when the post hadn’t been collected in two days, Lawrence couldn’t attempt to guess.
“Get out,” Lawrence grumbled, holding his glass of brandy close to his chest. “The lot of you.”
“Would that I could,” Courtenay said, a single eyebrow raised, his gaze never straying from Lawrence, “but my valise and my coin purse went missing at around the same time as your secretary.”
Lawrence looked up sharply at Courtenay. Georgie hadn’t taken the jewels, not even the emerald ring, and the idea of his wandering penniless through the storm had troubled Lawrence as much as the sheer fact of the man’s absence. He had repeatedly told himself that Georgie was resourceful, that he was conniving, that he certainly wasn’t fool enough to die of exposure.
“Yes, I thought that would get your attention,” Courtenay said. A lock of hair fell onto his forehead, and Lawrence remembered the old rumor that he slept in curling papers. “I do love a good—”
