Page 69 of The Lawrence Browne Affair
Georgie felt his heart—feeble, sordid thing that it was—soar.
They got back to Penkellis in the first week of January, when the snow had melted but the landscape was still bleak and forbidding with no end of winter in sight. Simon was with them, and Lawrence felt a surge of raw delight whenever he saw his friend and his child together.
The day after rescuing Georgie from that whoreson criminal, Lawrence, fueled by the residue of the courage he summoned for the previous day’s adventures, had paid a visit to the headmaster of Harrow.
“I’m not going back this term,” Simon had told Georgie in tones that rang with awe. “Papa was fearsome. He said barely anything, just glowered like a bear and people did as he asked.” That had been Lawrence’s strategy the entire fortnight he spent away from Penkellis: speak as little as possible, glower and glare as much as possible. The headmaster had grudgingly agreed that eight years was perhaps premature for a boy to go to school, and that Simon’s seat could be kept open, should they choose to reevaluate the matter next year, or the year after.
After Harrow, they had paid a visit to Simon’s maternal aunt and demanded Isabella’s portrait, which Simon was to hang in his room at Penkellis, where he would now be living permanently. Simon also had in his possession a sketch Courtenay had done of the villa where they had lived in Tuscany. Lawrence didn’t have the heart to tell the boy his uncle was a scapegrace of the rankest nature, so decided to swallow his criticisms for the time being.
Penkellis was now visible on the horizon, a jumble of jagged lines and mismatched pieces. It was odd to see it at a distance after scarcely leaving its shadow for so long. He had no affection for the place, only the sort of desperate longing that a fox might have for its hole.
That night, they collapsed on the sofa almost as soon as Simon had gone off to bed. Lawrence had asked one of the new servants—he had been half-astonished to find them still at Penkellis, sweeping and polishing and otherwise keeping the rot at bay—to move Georgie’s things into the old dressing room. After all, Georgie was supposed to be Lawrence’s secretary; if they both kept odd hours and found it convenient for the secretary’s bedroom to be moved closer to the earl’s study, there was nothing so very strange in that.
“Lady Standish suggested building a new house,” Lawrence said tentatively, stroking Georgie’s hand and admiring the way the light played off the emerald he once again wore. “Something closer to the London road, with proper plumbing and chimneys that emit more heat than smoke.” Someplace that wouldn’t reek with bad memories and mouse droppings alike.
Up until that point, Georgie had been lounging languidly against the arm of the sofa, his feet kicked up on Lawrence’s lap as he regarded Lawrence from beneath half-closed lids. But now his eyes sprang open. “Are you certain you would like that? You’re rather . . . attached to this place.” He gestured to the study at large.
“True, but that’s because it’s mine. It’s . . . I don’t know,safe. Which sounds ridiculous, I know—”
“It doesn’t,” Georgie said firmly, squeezing Lawrence’s hand. “At all.”
Lawrence squeezed back. “Well, a new house could truly be my own. We could put more of that stuff on the walls to dampen the noise.”
“Hot water,” Georgie added wistfully. “Windows that shut properly.”
“A library that isn’t being consumed by fungus.”
“Floors that don’t threaten to give way under your feet.” He knelt up and arranged himself so he was straddling Lawrence’s lap. “Building a house would put a good many men to work.”
“It’ll also spread goodwill, which ought to get you and Halliday off my back for a while.”
“About that.” He bent to kiss Lawrence’s jaw, which was once again stubbly with what would likely be a proper beard by spring. “I think Mrs. Ferris has the goodwill situation in hand.”
“Oh?” Lawrence found it hard to concentrate with Georgie kissing the soft underside of his jaw.
“I think she’s been using talk about cauls”—kiss—“and hexes”—kiss—“to keep people away from Penkellis.”
Lawrence shook his head. “Can’t be that. The villagers already know about the smuggling ring. This is Cornwall. Nobody needs to be told twice not to look too closely at the contents of empty barns.”
“No, not that.” Georgie started to unwind Lawrence’s cravat and kiss the skin beneath. “She knew you wanted to be left in peace, so she did everything in her power to keep people away.”
Lawrence let that sink in. “As a kindness?” Georgie murmured an assenting sound into Lawrence’s collarbone. So, he had had a friend in the house all those years he had fancied himself alone. And Sally had less reason than most to befriend a Browne. “She will have a very good stove in the next house.”
“I believe a monetary reward would not go amiss.”
“I tried that years ago. Offered her a tidy sum to set herself and her son up.” He hadn’t been able to help her when Percy was alive, so setting things right for her was the first thing he had done after his brother’s death. “She accepted the help to buy Jamie’s commission, but nothing for herself.”
Georgie’s body momentarily went rigid with alertness. “Oh, damn me. This is the boy in the navy. Thenavy.” He put his fist to his forehead. “That’s why she took that caul. She gave it to her boy when he first went to sea.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“Shestole your neighbor’s caul—it’s supposed to be a talisman against drowning. Listen, write a letter to your friend in the Admiralty recommending her son for promotion. Really, whatever it takes to get her to retire from a life of crime.”
Lawrence nodded. He could do that. “Speaking of which, I met with my solicitor while I was in London.”
“Christ. You really went all in with unpleasant tasks.”
“I settled a sum on you.”
The kisses stopped. “No.”
“Yes. It’s done, so you can burn the money or donate it to orphans. I don’t care.”
Georgie pulled back. “That’s not why I’m here.”
“I know, and even if I didn’t, there’s a soap tin of jewels on my nightstand that testifies to your lack of mercenary motives. My point is, I need you to have something of your own. Just in case.”That way you’re free to leave, he didn’t say.
But Georgie must have understood, because he took hold of Lawrence’s loosened cravat and wound it around his hand, tugging Lawrence close with false menace. “Listen here, my lord,” he said with a touch of his old insolence. “I’m not going anywhere, and you’re out of luck if you think you can get rid of me. You can build a dozen new houses, and I’ll simply follow you about from house to house, like a bad case of bedbugs. Where you are, I am, so get used to it.”
Lawrence didn’t think he ever could get used to it. He couldn’t imagine a future where he would take for granted the gift the universe had given him in Georgie Turner. So he settled for the next best thing, which was to close his eyes, smiling, as Georgie proceeded to undress him.
