Page 42 of Ladies in Hating (Belvoir’s Library Trilogy #3)

Please update my direction in your records to the apartment in Bloomsbury. I no longer receive correspondence at Woodcote Hall.

The drive between the Fawkes estate and Woodcote was short, and Georgiana spent the whole of it with her heart in her throat.

She was going back to Woodcote. She was going…

Not home. Not anymore. But to the place that had been home, seven years ago. Her mind kept wanting to fix upon tiny vivid flashes of memory—Percy’s hand pressed against his mouth, Jem’s baby fingers clutched around a bristled toy dog. She kept recollecting her father, his face drawn with rage.

See what happens when you’re all alone.

But she squeezed her eyes shut against the small blazing points of pain and tried to recall herself to the days she’d spent in the window in Woodcote’s library. To Percy’s fingers wrapped around hers as he taught her in secret how to hold a billiard cue.

If Ambrose had followed in the old earl’s footsteps—

But no. She could not think of that. Ambrose was not their father. She had to believe that Ambrose would not turn them away.

The post-chaise had barely stopped moving when she and Cat jumped free. To her surprise, the house looked unfamiliar, somehow, as they approached the door.

The windows were different, she realized slowly—some new sashing, larger panes.

There would be more light in the house.

She raised her hand to knock, but before she could, the door came open, held by a liveried man she did not recognize. “Yes?”

Oh God, she was all terror now. Fear that what had transpired at the Fawkes estate would happen again; that through her own lifetime of choices, she had ruined her best hope of helping Cat.

That she would disappoint Cat yet again.

Despite her valiant effort, her voice was thin. “I am Georgiana Cleeve. I am—the earl’s sister. I would like to request an audience with him.”

And then, barely audible over the thudding of her pulse, came another voice, so familiar that it hurt. “Georgie?”

She looked up. A man—his sleeves rolled up, his twill trousers loose and slouchy—had emerged from the sitting room. Too big, she thought hysterically. He never did learn how to dress.

“Percy,” she whispered.

“Georgie!” He was even taller than she remembered, his jaw sharper.

And when he strode across the room and dragged her into his arms, his elbows jabbed at her sides exactly the way they always had.

“Percy,” she said again, thickly, into his shirt.

He thrust her away from him. “Georgie, what are you—” He broke off to shout, “Amber! You’ll never guess who’s here!”

Amber. God. Somehow, she’d forgotten that hated nickname.

Somehow, she almost laughed.

How long had she feared this? This reunion, this coming home. She had been so desperate to protect them. To shield herself from the possibility of pain.

But here was Percy, his arms wrapped around her, his cheek pressed against her head, and she was not alone, no matter what their father had said. She did not have to be alone any longer.

More bodies spilled into the room: Ambrose—neatly dressed and bald, for heaven’s sake, when had it happened—and a petite, heavily pregnant woman who must be Noor, the new Countess of Alverthorpe. And—

“Bacon?” Georgiana said dazedly.

It was Bacon, his small form wriggling with delight as he launched himself in her direction. She lowered herself to the floor and caught his familiar weight in her arms.

She looked up. Edith, the dowager Lady Alverthorpe, had come round the corner as well, as neat and precise as Ambrose, her carnation-pink morning dress buttoned to her throat.

Georgiana blinked. “Mother?”

It had been, so far as she knew, seven years since her mother had seen Ambrose and Percy. Seven years of separation that she had always felt responsible for—seven years apart because her mother had chosen to go with Georgiana when the old earl had cut her off.

But now Edith was here, at Woodcote Hall.

All of them were.

“Georgie,” her mother said, and her voice wobbled before she got it under control. “I had not dreamt—” When her voice cracked again, she clenched her teeth and raised Georgiana and Bacon up off the marble floor.

“I don’t understand,” Georgiana said. Bacon licked her ear sympathetically. “What are you doing here?”

“It was after we spoke at home. After I apologized to you, I realized that there were things I needed to say to your brothers. Things I wanted to tell them face-to-face. I realized that I”—she bit her lip, a tiny, unfamiliar hesitation—“had feared returning to Woodcote. And I was tired of being afraid.”

“Mother,” Georgiana murmured, and then Percy was there too, his arm around Edith as though she were made of glass.

But she was not fragile, was she? If she had been broken, she had knit herself back together, as hardy and tenacious as bone.

“I did not know how much time you would require for your—er—conversation with Miss Lacey,” Edith went on, “so I brought Bacon with me and left you a note. I take it you have not yet returned home?”

Georgiana stifled a sudden and slightly hysterical bubble of laughter. “No—I sent you a note, with a messenger—”

But Percy interrupted. He was staring, quite agog, at Cat. “Miss Lacey? By God, little Kitty Lacey?” He turned back to Ambrose, who was standing on the periphery with his arms around his wife. “Amber! Look who it is!”

“I implore you,” Ambrose said dryly, “not to use that name in company.” He broke away from his wife, though his hands trailed affectionately down one plump brown arm before he let her go.

“Georgiana. I had thought nothing could increase my happiness today.” His eyes were dark blue and very serious as they coasted across her face.

“But it seems that I was wrong. I’m very glad that you have come. ” Tentatively, he took her hand in his.

And, just as cautiously, she squeezed his fingers back.

Ambrose turned then to Cat, who’d plucked Bacon from Georgiana’s arms and was murmuring some flummery into his upright ear. “Miss Lacey. Welcome back to Woodcote Hall.” His face went strained. “I am sorry that you did not leave it on better terms. How is your father?”

There was a heartbeat of silence. Georgiana bit down hard on her lower lip, and her eyes searched the contours of Cat’s face.

But Cat only smiled a little, slow and bittersweet. “We lost my father in 1817. But he remembered you and your brother fondly all his life.”

The lines that bracketed Ambrose’s mouth deepened. “I am so sorry to hear that. For many reasons.”

“Ambrose,” Georgiana said, recalling his gaze back to her. “We’ve come on a matter of some urgency. Cat’s—Miss Lacey’s—” She broke off, flustered for a moment, a hint of fear creeping back in. What would Ambrose think, if he knew?

But then she thought of Ambrose’s hand trailing down his wife’s arm, all love and reluctance to break away.

One more plunge—one more opportunity for courage. She reached out and placed her hand in the dip of Cat’s waist, drawing her close. “Cat’s brother, James, is missing. And we have reason to believe that he’s here in Wiltshire.”

“Missing?” Ambrose’s expression sharpened. “My God, Georgie. Come into the sitting room and tell us everything. And—dash it—I haven’t even introduced you to Noor.”

He turned back toward his wife, as unerring as a compass. He did not seem to have noticed Georgiana’s familiar embrace of the woman at her side.

Georgiana felt a sudden twist of amusement, somewhere buried deep beneath her fear and urgency. How brave she’d thought herself, just then!

She would have to try another time to tell Ambrose about her feelings for Cat. Be more forthright. She could do it.

But as they passed into the sitting room, Percy caught her eye, glanced deliberately down at her hand on Cat’s waist, and winked.

Acceptance. Home.

She could not have imagined that such a thing could exist here at Woodcote. She had not even realized until now how desperately she’d craved it.

In the sitting room, they quickly exchanged introductions. Noor made to ring for tea, only to realize that Edith had already done so.

“Oh,” Edith said, and there was that hesitation again. Georgiana had almost forgotten the tentative rhythm her speech had held, when they’d lived here at Woodcote. “I’m so sorry. Force of habit, I suppose.”

Noor grinned up at her, her winsome prettiness magnified by a pair of dimples in her cheeks. “Don’t you dare apologize again.” She laid a hand across the prodigious swell of her belly. “Or our daughter will think I have not made you welcome.”

“Can’t have that,” Percy said, and filched a biscuit from the tea tray. “Can she hear in there, do you think?”

“Please, Percy, do not speak whilst you are mid-mastication,” Ambrose said, and it was all so familiar that Georgiana had to fight back the hot press of tears.

They arrayed themselves on the various chairs and sofas—all new, Georgiana noticed, a bright white-and-blue chintz—and as briefly as she could, Georgiana related the events of the last two days.

“By Jove,” Percy said when she’d finished, “ Fawkes turned you out on your ear? I can’t imagine it.”

“You know him?” Cat asked. Her voice was urgent, and Georgiana groped for her hand where it rested on Bacon’s flank.

“Oh, certainly. Fawkes and I were at school together. I can’t believe he’d close the door in your face, George.”

“He didn’t,” Georgiana said. “It was his housekeeper, I think.”

Percy’s face went knowing. “That explains it then. Amber chucked a toad through one of the windows once when we were lads. Landed on her cap.”

Ambrose pinched the bridge of his nose. “As much as it pains me to admit it, I agree with Percy. Fawkes must have been out. He would never have expelled you from the premises if he’d known you were there. He’s a good fellow. Trying to set right the mess his father left behind.”

“Do you think you could take us there?” Georgiana asked. “Back to the estate, I mean—to meet with Fawkes directly. To find out if he’s seen Jem.”

“Don’t bring any toads,” Percy added.

Ambrose ignored him. “I could, of course. I can have the carriage brought round in half a minute. But…” He hesitated. “I wonder… I don’t know for certain. But I wonder if Fawkes was not at home because he’s over at Renwick House.”

The silence that fell was so tense and charged that Bacon put his head up to whimper lightly at the assembled company.

“Renwick House?” Cat repeated. “I don’t understand. Why would the Duke of Fawkes be at Renwick House?”

“Oh—yes.” Ambrose looked chagrined. “I’d forgotten it isn’t common knowledge yet. Fawkes owns Renwick now. He inherited it along with everything else when his father died.”

Shock seized Georgiana, stiffening her spine and stealing her breath. And, even more than shock, the scorching flare of her suspicion.

“Renwick House,” she breathed. Her fingers tightened on Cat’s. “Yorke. Yorke has orchestrated all of this.”

Ambrose’s brows drew together in puzzlement. “Your solicitor? What do you—”

But Georgiana had already turned to clutch at Cat’s knee. “Yorke knew of Jem’s inheritance, his relation to Fawkes—and now this connection to Renwick House too.”

Cat’s face was a study in agonized indecision. “I can’t wrap my mind around it. Why would he keep this from us? What could he possibly hope to gain from such a secret?”

“He sent us both to Renwick, Cat, where we might have been murdered— ”

“I beg your pardon?” said Ambrose.

“—and even when he told us about Fawkes, he never mentioned Renwick.” Georgiana gritted her teeth in the face of Cat’s obvious reluctance toward suspicion. “He’s been hiding things all along. You must see that.”

“There must be some explanation, ” Cat said stubbornly. “I trust him, Georgie.”

“What’s that about murder?” Ambrose interjected, rather more loudly.

Georgiana spun back to face her brother. “Call the carriage.”

“Where are—”

“Renwick House,” she said. “We have to go back to Renwick. I’m certain that’s where Jem has gone.”

Ambrose’s hand had made its way to his cravat, and he straightened it unnecessarily before he spoke. “Oh hell. All right, Georgie. There had better not be any murder. I have a child to meet before I die.”

Georgiana stared at him blankly for a moment before his words finally registered in her mind.

Oh. He meant to—oh.

Her heart squeezed as she looked at him: so long missed, familiar and new at once. “Ambrose. You do not have to go with us.”

“The hell I don’t. I just got you back.” He coughed, and the sound almost covered the roughness in his voice. “I’m not prepared to let you go quite yet.”