Chapter Twenty

T he following morning, it rained. They rode to church in two carriages—the Taverston siblings in one, Lady Iversley and their guests in another. Georgiana sat facing the Countess, a froth of skirts, reticules, umbrellas, and lap blankets surrounding them.

“Is everything all right, Lady Iversley?” she asked, deciding it was impossible and a little unkind to ignore the lady’s red nose and swollen eyes.

“Oh, dear child, I’m afraid no. It is not.”

Mama, beside her, patted her hand.

Lady Iversley said, “The Earl took a turn last night. He has been coughing quite a bit and last night he became feverish. We had Dr. Haraldsen come in the middle of the night.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“I didn’t want to leave him this morning, but Reginald said prayer would be best for the Earl and that going to church would be best for me. I suppose he’s right. Crispin asked Adam to sit with him. I don’t know why but the Earl likes that man.”

Mama said, “You’re very fortunate in your children.”

“Yes, I am.” She added with an attempted smile, “I just hope the boys don’t fall asleep in church. They were up all night.”

There was nothing else to be said. But it reminded Georgiana that the reason she had been asked to come to Chaumbers in the first place was because the Earl was ill. Dying. How could the Taverstons bear it? If Father were dying… No. She couldn’t even think of it. And how would Mama survive the heartbreak? Lady Iversley was so brave.

They all were. Oh, maybe she should excuse Lord Taverston his false step. He’d assumed they were practically betrothed. How could he have known she had fallen in love with his brother?

They completed the journey in silence.

The carriages were brought up to the front of the church and they hurried inside, trying to avoid the rain. Although small, it was a well-proportioned building, clearly not designed in the style of Chaumbers. No visible depredations had been visited upon it over the centuries. It even retained its stained-glass windows.

The Taverstons took their seats in the family pew. For a moment, it seemed that Georgiana was going to be ushered in beside Jasper, but that would crowd them all and likely displace either Olivia or Reginald, so she pretended not to see the way they were shuffling about. Instead, she followed her mother and Alice into the pew behind—where she could readily study the Taverstons. She hoped the rest of the congregation was not studying her.

The Taverstons did not fall asleep, despite the best efforts of Mr. Brindle, the rector, to lull them. He spoke in a quiet monotone, with a message so uninspiring she wondered if he had composed it over his breakfast that morning. Much more interesting was the fact that Reginald had pulled a pair of spectacles from his waistcoat and wore them during the sermon, then deposited them back into his pocket when Mr. Brindle was done. She hadn’t realized he was nearsighted. And how like him to suffer the indignity of wearing spectacles rather than squinting and pretending he could see just fine.

When the service ended, the Countess was obliged to accept the good wishes and concern of her fellow parishioners, but no one attempted to keep her for long. The ladies returned quickly to their carriage. On the other hand, Lord Taverston was being detained.

Lady Iversley sighed. “I’ll have luncheon delayed. Poor Jasper. Everyone is in such a hurry to curry his favor.” She grimaced. “No, that’s unkind of me. I should not have said that.”

But it was the truth.

Lady Iversley smoothed her dress and shifted in her seat. “Lady Georgiana, I think that while we are waiting for the boys and Olivia to return, I will take you and Miss Fogbotham to see the Earl. If you are amenable.”

“Of course,” Georgiana said. Alice paled. Poor Alice; ever since her mother died, she’d had a horror of sickrooms, but she couldn’t possibly decline.

“He wants very much to meet you. We’d hoped to wait until he was feeling more himself. He doesn’t like to be seen when he’s so ill…” Her voice trailed off.

Before the Earl died, he wanted to approve his son’s choice. Georgiana had believed being kissed by Reginald’s brother was the worst experience, but this was far worse. What if the Earl assumed the courtship had progressed to an understanding? What if he said something leading, something about her becoming part of the family? How should she respond?

After arriving at the house, they didn’t even pause to change clothes but went directly to the Earl’s chamber. Georgiana and Alice waited in the corridor with Mama while Lady Iversley entered the room. It was a long wait.

After what seemed half an hour, the door opened, and Crispin’s valet emerged. He gave them a small bow before slipping silently past. He was more than simply a valet, obviously, but why Crispin had some sort of medical man posing as his valet was beyond her. A delicate digestion was hardly cause for traveling with a personal physician.

The nurse opened the door and Lady Iversley invited them in. The Earl was in bed, sitting up, or rather, propped up with pillows. He was not the same handsome gentleman she had seen in the portrait gallery, or that she vaguely recollected from her childhood. This was a shrunken, elderly man who looked deathly ill. One side of his face sagged, and he wore an eyepatch. A sour odor of sickness permeated the room. She steeled herself not to react and hoped Alice was able to do the same. Lady Iversley beckoned them closer.

“This is Lady Georgiana,” she said. “Lady Georgiana, the Earl of Iversley.”

Georgiana approached the bedside and curtsied, head down. She murmured, “Good day, my lord.”

His unpatched eye watered. He rasped, “Rare beauty.” At least, that was what she thought he said. She prayed it wasn’t something Jasper had said to him. She didn’t want to picture Jasper describing her as his future wife.

“And this is Miss Fogbotham,” Lady Iversley said, nudging a reluctant Alice closer.

“My lord,” Alice gulped with a nod of her head, then stepped quickly back.

Georgiana realized she needn’t fear an interview. The Earl was in no position to ask questions. And this was the Taverstons’ father . It made her want to weep.

Lady Iversley said, “We’ve just come from church. The children will be returning soon.”

“Brindle.”

“Yes,” she said. “Mr. Brindle gave the sermon.”

The Earl tried to say something else but coughed. The cough turned into a fit. Lady Iversley rubbed and patted his shoulder while he attempted to regain his breath.

Mama said, “The girls and I will leave you for now.”

“Yes,” Lady Iversley said. “That’s best. I think the Earl should sleep for a while.”

*

The day grew even drearier. The carriage returned with all the siblings except Jasper, whose presence was required at some meeting or other with one of the local farmers. The rest filed into the dining room, bedraggled and tired.

Lady Iversley had absent-mindedly ordered a cold buffet to be served: assorted meats, cheeses, breads, and pickles. Georgiana saw a fleeting look of dismay on Crispin’s face. His hand hovered a moment over the cheeses before he recovered and put only a small pile of pickles on his plate.

Table conversation suffered as they tried ignoring the Earl’s decline and the miserable weather. Lady Iversley grumbled about the church service. Although the prayers and hymns were comforting, she could not make heads nor tales out of Mr. Brindle’s sermon. That unleashed several minutes of unenthusiastic speculation and half-hearted argument until Reginald gave a succinct and meaningful summary of what the man had been trying to say—which was, boiled down, simply that separation from God was painful, and could be avoided through the renunciation of sin.

Georgiana was floored, though Crispin and Olivia merely smirked.

“Well, why didn’t he just say so,” Lady Iversley said, miffed. “Instead of muddling about.”

“He should have used Malachi for his text instead of Job. Malachi is more direct. Job is always a muddle.”

Reginald’s offhand remark made Crispin snort and mutter, “Oh, yes, well, Malachi.”

The conversation shifted to things the villagers had said and potential activities for the morrow. The meal did not last long. Afterward, everyone parted either to rest or to visit with the Earl if he was awake. Georgiana slipped off to the library.

The Principles of Analytical Calculation called to her, much as the ancient Greek manuscript must call to Reginald. But, like him, she wouldn’t let herself be distracted. She had work to do. Propping The Italian on the edge of the desk, then closing the curtain halfway, she arranged the ledgers in the order she had decided upon and opened the one on the top.

She spent an hour checking figures and noted a few oddities. Was Cambridge tuition truly nearly twice that of Oxford? And what was this ‘Binnings property’ purchased four years ago? But she was just being nosy. She was supposed to be looking for what was missing, not what was there. And then she heard footsteps and the door to the library opened wider. Georgiana shoved the ledgers aside and stuck her nose in the novel.

“What do you think of Father Schedoni?” It was Reginald. Georgiana set down the book.

“What should I think? What does Olivia think?”

He came into the room. “It’s chilly in here. You should have had someone light the brazier.”

“I honestly didn’t notice.” She had felt damp rather than cold.

He went to drag the second chair closer to the desk, close to her. He sat down. Now she felt warm.

“Have you found anything?”

“Maybe. Nothing I can make anything of.” She tapped her finger on the table, then asked, “Do you keep—you and your brothers—keep your own accounts?”

“I do.” For a moment, he looked awkward. Then he shrugged and said, “Mine aren’t very complicated. I couldn’t speak for Crispin or Jasper. Why?”

“Would your father have kept his own? Before he became Earl?”

“If he did, I don’t know where the books would be. Why do you want to know? What are you thinking?”

“Nothing yet. It was just a thought, but it doesn’t matter.” If it was the Earl hiding something, rather than Bradwell embezzling, she might find a clue if he’d once kept his own books.

Reginald peered at her curiously but didn’t press her further. He picked up the novel and said, “If you’ll give me a sheet or two of paper from that pile and lend me back my pen, I’ll write out that summary.”

She passed him the paper and pen.

“How is your father?”

“Sleeping. Some draught Dr. Haraldsen gave him to stop the cough and put him to sleep. I’d rather…” he paused. “I’d rather think about something else.”

She nodded. Quietly they both set to their tasks, Reginald scribbling away, Georgiana running her finger down long columns of numbers, tallying them in her head.

She hadn’t been mistaken about there being oddities. In three of the years that she’d now checked—these evenly spaced across the years of the Earl’s rule—there was not only a discrepancy of thirty pounds per quarter, but there was an additional sum missing in the second quarter of each year, averaging about five pounds. The disturbing thing about this was that Georgiana had also checked the first five years after the Earl had ascended to the title. For the first four years, the numbers added up correctly, but there was a regular item listed as L.C. gift in the second quarter of the first three years that was in the range of five pounds, and in the fourth year there was a C.B. gift . Beginning with the fifth year, no second quarter “gift” was listed. There was no entry, but the money nevertheless disappeared.

Correlating with this, the Earl and Lady Iversley were married when the Earl was thirty-four. The following year, the annual Christmas balls began. That required a regular large outflow of just under one hundred pounds per year. This was easy to segregate out because each year—so far as she had checked—there were several lines of expenses, grouped together, in a fine, feminine hand: musicians, extra servants, food and wine, winter bouquets. These were tallied separately in the same lady’s hand. Georgiana could only assume that Lady Iversley took control of the ball from planning to execution. Reginald had said that ladies kept accounts. Perhaps he had been thinking of this in particular.

Well, it meant nothing yet. Except that there were no discrepancies—the numbers all added up—until the year of the first Christmas ball.

Georgiana paused, staring at the page, trying to think what it could mean. Her right hand lay lightly on the opened ledger, marking her place; her left was beside the book. She knew, without turning her head, that Reginald, too, had stopped to ponder. He set down the pen, then rested his hand, slightly curled, on the table a hair’s breadth from her own. They both sat still, intentionally motionless, very aware of one another.

Then his little finger straightened and touched hers.

Her breath caught. Was it accidental or on purpose? They were not gloved and a current of warmth seemed to flow between them. She didn’t dare move, fearing to break the connection. Every thought in her head, every conjecture, every calculation dissolved into nothingness. There was only this moment. She didn’t want it ever to end.

Very gently, very slowly, his pinky caressed hers.

Georgiana felt a bolt of pure bliss.

What she was feeling, he must be feeling too.

He pulled his hand away and rose from his chair. She could tell nothing from his expression. He stepped away, to the smaller niche, and gazed out the window into the rain. After a moment, he cleared his throat.

“I didn’t give away the ending. In case you do wish to read it.”

Olivia picked up the summary he’d written. His handwriting was clear and bold. But it was peppered with heavy underlining and numerous, sometimes tripled, exclamation marks. After reading a few lines, she laughed. She feared her laughter was a little shaky, but she pretended it wasn’t.

“I can hear Olivia’s voice in my head.”

He turned and smiled, but the smile looked more sad than amused.

“She’ll do most of the talking. You only have to agree with whatever she says.”

“Safer than challenging her, I suppose.”

And then they were quiet. Awkwardly so. Until he said, “Have you any more questions? About my family, I mean?”

“Maybe.” She hesitated, then asked, “Do you know anyone with the initials L.C. or C.B?”

His brow wrinkled. Then he rubbed his nose and said, “Not that spring to mind. Why?”

“Probably nothing. I’m going to have to keep digging.”

“I’m sorry to put you through this.” His head drooped and he turned back to the window, one hand brushing back the curtain as if for a better view. “I never should have asked. It seems now…I don’t know. Unimportant. Unless—”

“Unless?”

“Unless there are payments that should still be made. A creditor. Maybe, well, it’s possible I suppose that the Earl made a bad investment. Do you see?” He spoke to his own reflection in the glass. “And he’s been paying it off. But Bradwell became ill, and the payments stopped.”

“Surely then there would be notices of some sort.”

Georgiana heard Reginald sniff, and, from behind, saw him shrug.

“I don’t suppose you could be concerned about blackmail,” she said, mostly joking but about five percent concerned.

He turned slowly around to face her again. “Blackmail?” He looked faintly amused. “The Earl?”

“I don’t know!” She smiled ruefully. “I’m reaching. But I feel as though I might be close.”

He laughed. “Not if you’re thinking of blackmail!” She couldn’t tell if he was diverted or frustrated or annoyed.

“Give me a few more hours,” she urged. She really did feel she was close. “I’ll have a better theory. If you’re worried there are outstanding bills that are hidden, I’ll look more closely at the most recent five years. Maybe I’ll see something there.”

He chewed his lip, then shook out the folds of the curtain beside him. “Can I do anything to help?”

“No. I need to concen—” She halted. The word would be a confession of how distracting she found him. “Concentrate,” she finished quietly.

He flushed. Then they both looked away.

“Well,” he said, “then I suppose I will see you at tea.”