than taking time to make a watertight plan. The house was not all that large, but who knew what lay behind any of the doors he’d be obliged to open in order to discover her whereabouts? If he opened the wrong one, he’d have to...
But, no, actually, there would be no need to search the whole house. All he would have to do was follow the maid who was on her way to Georgie’s room with that insipid posy. He’d only been mulling things over for a moment or two. She couldn’t have got far. Could she?
Hastily, he took the final step that carried him up to the landing and was just in time to see his quarry turning into an alcove at the far end. Then he heard the sound of her feet, stomping up another set of stairs.
He glanced briefly to his left, to make sure that the drawing-room door was shut, before turning to his right and tiptoeing along after the maid at full pelt.
He was halfway up the second flight of stairs before he saw the flaw in this plan. The maid, having delivered the posy, was bound to return this way and she’d see him. And demand to know what he was doing.
His hand instinctively went to the pocket that held his purse. Would he be able to bribe the maid to turn a blind eye to his presence on the upper floor?
Unlikely. Even if she was of a romantic disposition and inclined to be sympathetic to his cause, her superiors would expect her to alert them at once. And, though discovery was vital, he needed time alone with Georgie first.
While he was calculating the chances of making her an ally against the odds of her losing her job, his feet were carrying him inexorably to the upper landing. He arrived just in time to see a door at the far end of the passage closing. He stood stock still, though his mind was still racing. Would ten guineas be enough to get the maid on his side? It was all he had about him at the moment, but he would give ten times that much if only he could get to Georgie. Perhaps he could offer the girl an alternative position if she was turned off. Surely she’d prefer to work in the household of an earl than one of a woman like Mrs Wickford?
Though what the hell did he know of the aspirations of housemaids?
A cold sweat broke out on his brow as the door at the far end of the corridor opened again and the maid came out. He braced himself for the inevitable confrontation, but, instead of heading his way, the maid turned to her left and disappeared into what looked like an alcove just beyond Georgie’s bedroom door. He then heard the distinct sound of her feet descending another, uncarpeted staircase. And sagged into the wall in relief. She’d taken the back stairs, which must lead directly to the servant’s hall. His heart pounded. So hard that it made him tremble in anticipation. This was going to work. It was really going to work. With a sense of exaltation, he strode along the corridor to what he now firmly believed to be Georgie’s room, scratched briefly on the door panel, pushed open the door and went in.
At which point he blinked, wondering if this could really be her room after all. For it was tiny. More like a storage room than one in which a young lady should be sleeping. Moreover, it would have been in complete darkness if not for the light streaming in from the landing, through the door which was still open behind him.
But that light illuminated a narrow bed, in which a figure lay hunched up. A hunched-up figure that let out a moan.
Georgie couldn’t believe that yet another person had come into her room. She’d heard the knocker going she didn’t know how many times this morning, which meant the drawing room must be crowded with visitors. Surely, nobody had the leisure to come all the way up here to torment her? Couldn’t they leave her in peace, for one hour? They knew she couldn’t defend herself when she was laid this low. Besides, what more could she say? It wasn’t her fault Edmund had chased after Mr Eastman and knocked him down. It wasn’t her fault that half the people from the charity ball had taken it into their heads that Edmund must be on the verge of proposing to her.
Though, admittedly, it was her fault that he had done no such thing. There was nothing on earth that would make Edmund propose to her, not when the only reason he might ever contemplate marriage at all would be to produce heirs.
And Stepmama knew she felt guilty about something. Which was why she wouldn’t listen to her protestations that Edmund merely felt protective of her, because they’d been friends as children. Why, for the first time since her thirteenth birthday, Georgie had actually welcomed the monthly event that so frequently rendered her incapable of leaving her bed.
Although, whoever had just come in apparently had no sympathy for the wretchedness of her condition. For they were marching across to the windows and...
Drawing the curtains?
‘What,’ she protested feebly, ‘do you think you’re doing?’
‘I should have thought that was obvious,’ said the intruder.
In a voice she recognised. But couldn’t possibly. Because Edmund could not possibly be here.
Gingerly, she rolled over, and opened one eye. To see Edmund thrusting up the sash window.
‘I don’t know what ails you,’ he said, turning to her and making as if to approach her bed, ‘but you aren’t going to get better in a room shut up like this. You need fresh air, Georgie.’
She held up a hand, screwing her eyes shut against the dazzling light thrusting its way into her skull.
‘Shut the curtains,’ she begged. ‘Can’t stand the light.’ Even saying as little as that made her feel nauseous. With a whimper, she dragged a pillow over her head and gave a series of rapid, desperate swallows.
From the sound of curtain rings rattling along the rail, and the subsequent dimming of the light, she knew he’d done as she’d asked.
‘Sorry,’ he said. And then approached the bed. ‘Can’t abide the smell of a sickroom, you know.’
By the creak of the webbing she could tell he was sitting down on the chair beside it.
‘Comes of having been shut up so often as a lad,’ he said. ‘And I know how you love the outdoors. I thought...’
She felt a tug at the edge of the pillow. Presumably, he was trying to see her face. If she’d had the energy she would have snatched the pillow out of his inquisitive fingers and thwacked him with it.
‘Actually, no, I didn’t think,’ he said, his voice full of concern. ‘What is the matter with you, Georgie? Do you have a fever?’ He reached under the pillow and touched her forehead. His strong, yet gentle fingers felt wonderfully soothing. They’d probably feel even better if he would only stroke her there, where the pain in her head was so intense. ‘Sore throat? Is that why you aren’t yelling at me to get out?’
She shook her head. And winced.
‘Hurts my head to speak,’ she said.
‘And you cannot stand the light.’ He paused. ‘If you were a man I’d say you were suffering from a hangover.’
If she were a man, she reflected bitterly, she wouldn’t be going through this.
He shifted in his chair and leaned forward until his face was almost next to hers.
‘You
