if he was too chilly he would not nap on the way home. Something which always made him surly in the afternoons.
As it was every Tuesday and Thursday morning, breakfast was on the table before seven and Georgie was already bouncing in his chair with excitement. ‘Come along, young man. Eat your porridge. You know your mama will not leave until the bowl is empty.’ Her father was an indulgent grandparent and insisted on eating with them every morning, even if that meant getting up twice a week at such an ungodly hour.
The drive to Richmond took over an hour and the streets were nicely deserted at such an unsociable hour. As the remote park would be, too. Lizzie would be able to spend a blissful few hours outdoors with her son miles away from London and away from prying eyes and be safely back home by early afternoon when the fashionable residents of Mayfair went out. They had visited the huge parkland at Richmond twice weekly for the last six months for the sake of both her own and her son’s sanity. It was not as if the pair of them could wander around Hyde Park or St James’s. Georgie had never been to either in case he was seen and the scandal erupted. He loved to run free in the countryside, loved to explore wooded nooks and crannies and delighted in all God’s creatures, whether that be the smallest woodlouse or the majestic red deer that roamed wild in the open parkland of Richmond.
Soon he would be able to do this every single day and as happy as that prospect made her, it was bittersweet. Part of the reason her son enjoyed these jaunts so very much was regaling the excursion in great detail to his grandpapa afterwards. As soon as they arrived home, her son would boisterously run into her father’s study, clamber on his knee and describe every beetle, every twig, the exact strength of the breeze and the hue of the sky. Then he would lie for at least an hour under her father’s desk while the pair of them worked in companionable silence—her father on important affairs of state; Georgie sketching childish depictions of animals in the expensive coloured chalks his grandpapa had bought him for that express purpose. She was dreading telling them those days were now numbered, despite the fact it was ultimately for the best.
Her son shovelled in the last spoonful of porridge. ‘Come along, Mama! I hope we see the deer again today. Do you know that the Latin name for the red deer is cervus elaphus? Grandpapa found it in one of his books. They mainly eat grass and twigs—but apparently they are also partial to moss.’
‘Really? Well, that is interesting. What else did you learn about them?’ She wrestled him into his coat, then took his hand. Listening to his incessant, excited chatter Lizzie resolutely banished all thoughts of her father’s meddling and the Earl of Redbridge’s increasingly tempting offer from her mind.
* * *
Aaron had been gloating over breakfast. As soon as the ladies left them to their newspapers, he had grinned smugly across the table and recounted the magnificent way Lady Elizabeth Wilding had given him short shrift at the Renshaw ball. ‘All that practised charm, your fortune, title and apparent good looks did nothing to sway the lady. You do not stand a chance of winning this bet, Hal. You have no idea what a good mood that puts me in.’
Hal took it all gracefully, but seethed inside. Aaron took the word competitive to new levels and was a gloating victor. The best Christmas present Hal could give to himself was the splendid sight of his brother-in-law wielding a shovel and, by Jove, he had to do whatever it took to ensure it happened. Sullen Lizzie had been interested in his proposition. He had seen it with his own eyes and an alliance between them was the best way forward to fulfil the terms of the Mistletoe Wager. All he had to do was convince her of the benefits. There was a chance that might be better achieved in private than in a public social setting.
* * *
An hour later he found himself striding jauntily up the front steps of the Earl of Upminster’s Grosvenor Square town house, a house which had always been but a stone’s throw from his own, but might have well been on the moon for all the dealings he had had with its occupants, an enormous bunch of flowers in his arms.
He rapped the brass knocker smartly and stood tall, his most charming smile firmly in place and his thick hair freshly combed. The large, imposing butler was a bit of a shock. The fellow looked more suited to prize fighting than domestic service. He positively filled the door frame. ‘Good morning. I have come to call on Lady Elizabeth. Please tell her I am here.’ Hal handed over his calling card, but kept the flowers. He wanted to see her face when she saw those as he had picked the blooms specifically.
‘Lady Elizabeth is not at home, my lord. I shall tell her that you called.’ The heavy front door began to close.
‘Now, now, my good man, we both know how this game is played. It is barely eleven o’clock so I am sure she is home. Nobody goes out this early. Not in Mayfair.’ Unless they were on the hunt for the perfect bunch of flowers to give to a guarded yet intriguing occupant of this very house. Hal had had to travel to Covent Garden directly after breakfast for the cream roses. ‘Inform Lady Elizabeth that I intend to remain rooted to this front step until she grants me an audience.’
The giant butler sighed. ‘Suit yourself, sir, although I must warn you, it will be a waste of your time. Lady Elizabeth is genuinely not at home this morning.’ The door went to close again and Hal began to suspect that the man might be telling the truth.
‘Can you tell me where she is then?’
‘I am afraid not, my lord.’
‘Will she be back this afternoon?’
‘Yes, my lord. However, she is never at home in the afternoons, if you get my meaning.’ The butler stared impassively. ‘Nor will she be at home tomorrow morning as she is never at home in the mornings either.’
‘Then you admit that she is, as I suspect, currently at home as we speak, yet resolutely not at home to all callers regardless as to who they might happen to be.’
‘Not at all, my lord. Lady Elizabeth is genuinely not at home on Tuesday and Thursday mornings, and not at home any other time.’
This clearly called for a different tactic. ‘Can I ask what your name is?’
‘You can, my lord. I am Stevens, his lordship’s butler.’
‘You are a vexing fellow, Stevens.’
‘I do try, my lord.’
Hal dipped his hand into his pocket and fished out the silver crown he always kept there for emergencies. Covertly, beneath the enormous bouquet he held, Hal flashed the coin at the butler. ‘Be a good chap and tell Lady Elizabeth I am here to see her.’
Stevens glanced down at the coin, scowled and promptly closed the door. Hal couldn’t help admiring him for it. He liked a man who could not be bribed, it said a great deal about his character. But not all men were as moral, so he wandered around to the mews instead.
However, it soon became apparent that the Earl of Upminster had possibly the most moral staff in Mayfair. With his bribes increasing from a crown to a guinea to a colossal five pounds, he was similarly turned down by the stable boys, a footman and scullery maid who had been sent out to buy beeswax. In fact, their lips were sealed tighter than Stevens’s, who had at least informed Hal she was genuinely out and would be back this afternoon—although not for him.
That left him with a bit of a quandary. He was too tenacious to give up, but too lazy to stand guard in the square until she came home. Living less than a sedate ten-minute walk away he did not have to. This afternoon suggested after midday and later this afternoon suggested after one. He would stand guard from one, bouquet in hand, and meet her when she arrived home. She could hardly
