Page 47 of Ladies in Hating (Belvoir’s Library Trilogy #3)

To your first query, I did not mention Renwick because I had supposed James unaware of the precise nature of the bequest. Only Beckett was meant to know the will’s contents. And we all know how that turned out.

And to your second query—why I sent the two of you to Renwick at the same time—let me offer a question of my own. It worked, did it not?

— from Martin Yorke, solicitor and matchmaker, to Cat Lacey and Georgiana Cleeve

Two weeks later

Cat barreled around the corner and into the oratory just as the screaming ceased.

“What,” she gasped, “on earth is going on?”

Georgiana was holding a squirming Bacon to her chest. Pauline had her hands on her hips, her chin thrust up, and her curls standing out in all directions.

“That was a pig,” Pauline said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“The screaming that you heard. That was the sound of a pig. Did you know that pigs scream? Because I did not, until approximately one hundred and twenty seconds ago.”

“Why is there a pig?” Cat looked around the oratory, which was in a remarkable state of disarray. She had learned far more in the preceding fortnight than she had ever imagined knowing about plaster and its various formulations. “ Where is the pig?”

Pauline pointed to one of the latticed doors. Cat groaned.

They had mapped all the passageways these last days. According to the building records that she had turned up in the library, they had originally been meant to serve as the basis of a mechanical transport system for household goods, to be relayed with belts and pulleys.

Unfortunately, no such mechanical system had ever been installed, and the passageways mostly served to entrap household pets and unwary plasterers.

And now, evidently, pigs.

“I think it must have wandered up from Devizes,” Georgiana said.

She looked as fresh and elegant as a holly branch in her close-fitting emerald velvet frock.

It was startlingly difficult to reconcile this vision of her—composed and neat as a pin—with the flushed and perspiring woman who had personally wrestled the ebony door they’d ordered into place in the newly refurbished hallway that led to the rose garden.

But not impossible. Cat knew all the versions of her now—each one real, each one beloved.

“Perhaps I can lure it out with a turnip,” Cat said. “Do pigs like turnips? Because Graves says we have purchased fifty-three pounds of turnips from a passing market cart this week.”

“I suppose it’s a good thing we have a pig now,” Georgiana said. “I think we shall require one, if we are meant to consume fifty-three pounds of turnips.”

Pauline whimpered and put her hands over her face. “I cannot do this. I cannot remain a moment longer.”

Cat blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’m sorry, Kitty,” Pauline mumbled. “I have done what I could. I cleared at least half of the resident birds from your library. I located your housekeeper and returned her to you.”

Pauline had uncovered Graves and Mort ensconced together in the gamekeeper’s cottage on the property. Mort, it turned out, was six-and-a-half feet tall and possessed of a physique that could best be described as Apollonian.

He had enthusiastically accepted a new position as head gardener.

“I executed a grid-based search of every square inch of this house,” Pauline went on, “for a possibly fictional set of jewels that we did not even find. But a pig in the house is taking things too far.”

“You are not fond of swine?” Georgiana inquired.

“I am fond of people . I adore the city of London. I like shopping! I miss shopping.” She looked plaintively at Cat. “You won’t be distressed if I go back home already, will you? You may come and stay in the apartment anytime you wish.”

“May I bring my pig?”

Pauline moaned, and Cat could not contain the crack of laughter that slipped free.

“Of course I won’t be distressed. Go home.

Bring lots of those ginger biscuits I fancy the next time you return.

And maybe the books I left in my bedchamber.

” Cat was close enough to Georgiana to touch her, and so she did, running her palm slowly up Georgiana’s slim, strong back, relishing the feel of velvet and then of Georgiana’s skin. “Everything else I need is here.”

Five weeks later

Jem glowered at the Duke of Fawkes.

On the other side of the music room, Fawkes was attempting to smile innocently.

It did not look natural upon his stern, blade-sharp face.

“Oliver,” Jem said warningly, “this is not in the least believable.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about,” said the duke. Unfortunately, his tone indicated something more like: I know precisely what you are talking about, and I was hoping you would not notice.

Georgiana wondered if Fawkes would be amenable to some sort of lesson in acting the part.

“This money,” Jem said, and brandished a heap of banknotes accusingly at the duke. He’d lost his jacket somehow, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. “You expect me to believe that one of the masons discovered these notes inside the wall? That they were part of the original construction?”

“Yes?” Fawkes said doubtfully.

“Then why do they look as though they were signed by the cashier last week?”

“Preservation?” offered Fawkes. His hair was slightly rumpled, as though he’d run his fingers through it. “Lack of exposure to air whilst inside the walls?”

“They are also dated last week, Oliver.”

“Bollocks,” Fawkes said, and then winced.

“I don’t want your money,” Jem said, with the careful articulation of someone who had issued the same proclamation on more than one prior occasion.

“You ought to have some of it. You should—”

“No,” Jem said, and then he reached up and straightened his spectacles, though they did not need straightening. “No. Actually—” He paused and glanced over to the threshold, where Cat and Georgiana stood together. “I’m glad that all three of you are here. I wanted to speak to you about something.”

At Georgiana’s side, Cat stiffened, just a little. Georgiana knew that she had worried for Jem, of late. He was enjoying the prospect of the renovation, to be sure—but he had not approached it with the same air of vigor that she and Cat had, either.

“I’ve written to Pauline,” he said, “and to Yorke. They’ve both agreed. I should like to go back to London. Take up my clerkship again.”

Fawkes glowered. “Why would you do that? I have told you repeatedly that you do not need to seek employment. The family’s coffers—”

“The family’s coffers cannot give me purpose, Oliver, only money.”

“Money is very useful! Do not underestimate the power of an independent fortune.”

Jem laughed. “I’m not. I assure you, I am not.

The truth is…” He paused to look at them all, his gray-green eyes serious and earnest. “I like working for Mr. Yorke. I have a handful of years remaining before I can be admitted to the Rolls of the Courts. After that”—he looked half-pleased and half-embarrassed—“I would like to move here permanently and open a law practice in Devizes.”

There was a brief moment of silence as everyone took in this series of revelations. Jem—the owner of Renwick House—to move away now, just when it was beginning to be properly habitable?

And yet, it was easy for Georgiana to fix her mind around the shape of Jem’s desires. Independence. A purpose all his own, not given to him by father or brother.

“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” she said softly. “So long as you do not forget that we are here if you change your mind. You are allowed to choose what’s best for you. And you are allowed to change.”

“I shall only approve of this if you permit me to loan you the funds to open your practice,” Fawkes said.

“Done,” said Jem promptly.

“Dash it,” muttered Fawkes. “That was too easy. I should have offered to pay for it outright.”

Cat had not yet said anything, and when Georgiana looked over, she saw that Cat’s dark eyes were damp and shining. “Jemmy,” she murmured.

He was grinning at her—at both of them. “Do you think—that is, would you mind staying here while I’m gone? Overseeing the reconstruction on my behalf? I can’t precisely pay the two of you, but perhaps you’ll find the jewels?”

It was astonishing how they did this, these Laceys—offered the closest held dream of your heart and smiled at you when they did so. As though giving came naturally to them. As though love was theirs in such an abundance that it was easy to pour out more.

“I would like to stay here very much,” Georgiana murmured.

“You would have to pry me out of here with a crowbar, Jemmy,” Cat said, “if you wanted me to go.”

“Not in a thousand years,” he said, and then somehow Cat and Jem were hugging, holding on hard, bittersweet and beloved, and Georgiana’s heart was so full, watching them, that she almost did not notice when Fawkes slipped the banknotes inside Jem’s discarded coat.

Eight weeks later

Ambrose Cleeve, the Earl of Alverthorpe, looked as though he’d been struck in the head, except by something very pleasant.

In all the years that she’d known him, Cat had never seen Ambrose grin before now. It was disconcerting.

“Did you see her hair ?” His voice was slightly overloud.

Cat wondered if he’d slept at all since the baby had been born the night before.

“Look at it all! Precisely the same color as Noor’s, and so much of it.

The physician said it would all fall out, but the midwife disagreed, and I’m inclined to think she’s right. Don’t you think she’s right?”

“Ambrose, my dear,” his mother said, “sit down before you fall down.”

“Oh God,” Ambrose said, and sat down abruptly on the settee. The baby in his arms performed a very tiny yawn, and everyone in the room froze to take in her majesty.