“THIS IS WHERE THE AGRARIANS MEET?” Bennet looked incredulously at the low-slung entrance to the coffee-house. It was on the bottom floor—really the cellar—of a half-timbered building in a narrow back lane. “The place isn’t going to fall, is it?” He eyed the second floor looming over the lane.
“It hasn’t yet.” Harry ducked and entered the smoky room, Will sticking close to his side. He’d asked de Raaf to meet him here.
Behind him, he heard Bennet swear as he caught his head on the lintel. “The coffee had better be good.”
“It is.” “Harry!” A large, pockmarked man hailed him from a table.
“Lord Swartingham.” Harry made his way to the table. “Thank you for coming, my lord. May I present my brothers, Bennet Granville and Will?”
Edward de Raaf, fifth Earl of Swartingham, frowned. “I’ve told you to call me Edward or de Raaf. This my lord stuff is ridiculous.”
Harry merely smiled and turned to the second man at the table. “Lord Iddesleigh. I hadn’t expected you. Bennet, Will, this is Simon Iddesleigh.”
“How d’you do?” Bennet bowed.
Will merely ducked his head. “Charmed.” Iddesleigh, a lean aristocrat with ice-gray eyes, inclined his head. “I had no idea Harry had relations. I was under the impression that he’d sprung fully formed like Athena from a rock. Or maybe a mangel-wurzel. It goes to show one can’t always go by impressions.”
“Well, I’m glad you came.” Harry held up two fingers to a passing boy and took a seat, making room for Bennet and Will.
Iddesleigh flipped a lace-trimmed wrist. “Wasn’t much else going on today, anyway. Thought I’d tag along. It was either that or attend Lillipin’s lecture on compost layering, and fascinating though the subject of decay may be, I can’t think how one could take up three whole hours on it.”
“Lillipin could,” de Raaf muttered.
The boy banged down two steaming mugs of coffee and whirled away.
Harry took a scalding sip and sighed. “Do you have the special license?”
“Right here.” De Raaf patted his pocket. “You think there will be objections from the family?”
Harry nodded. “Lady Georgina is the Earl of Maitland’s sister—” But he cut himself off because Iddesleigh was choking on his coffee.
“What’s wrong with you, Simon?” de Raaf barked. “Sorry,” Iddesleigh gasped. “Your intended is Maitland’s sister?”
“Yes.” Harry felt his shoulders tense.
“The older sister?”
Harry merely stared, dread filling him. “For God’s sake, just spit it out,” de Raaf said. “You could have told me the bride’s name, de Raaf. I only heard the news this morning from Freddy Barclay. We happened to meet at my tailor’s, wonderful chap on—”
“Simon,” de Raaf growled. “Oh, all right.” Iddesleigh suddenly sobered. “She’s getting married. Your Lady Georgina. To Cecil Barclay—”
No. Harry closed his eyes, but he couldn’t shut out the other man’s words.
“Today.”
TONY WAS WAITING OUTSIDE, hands clasped behind his back, when George emerged from her town house. Raindrops speckled the shoulders of his greatcoat. His carriage, which had the Maitland crest in gilt on the doors, stood ready at the curb.
He turned as George descended the steps and frowned with concern. “I was beginning to think I would have to come in after you.”
“Good morning, Tony.” George held out her hand.
He enveloped it in his own big hand and helped her into the carriage.
Tony took his seat across from her, the leather squeaking as he settled. “I’m sure the rain will stop soon.”
George looked at her brother’s hands resting on his knees and noticed again the scabbed knuckles. “What happened to you?”
Tony flexed his right hand as if testing the scrapes. “It’s nothing. We sorted out Wentworth last week.”
“We?”
“Oscar, Ralph, and I,” Tony said. “That’s not important now. Listen, George.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “You don’t have to go through with this. Cecil will understand, and we can work something out. Retiring to the country or—”
“No.” George cut him off. “No, I thank you, Tony, but this is the best way. For the baby, for Cecil, and even for me.”
She took a deep breath. She hadn’t wanted to admit it, even to herself, but now George faced it: Somewhere deep inside, she’d secretly hoped Harry would stop her. She grimaced ruefully. She’d expected him to come charging up on a white stallion and sweep her off her feet. Perhaps wheel his stallion around while fighting ten men and go galloping off into the sunset with her.
But that wasn’t going to happen.
Harry Pye was a land steward with an old mare and a life of his own. She was a pregnant woman of eight and twenty years. Time to put the past behind her.
She managed a smile for Tony. It wasn’t a very good one, judging by the doubt on his face, but it was the best she could do at the moment. “Don’t worry about me. I’m a grown woman. I have to face my responsibilities.”
“But—”
George shook her head.
Tony bit off whatever he was going to say. He stared out the window, tapping long fingers against his knee. “Damn, I hate this.”
Half an hour later, the carriage pulled up before a dingy little church in an unfashionable part of London.
Tony descended the carriage steps, then helped George down. “Remember, you can still end this,” he murmured in her ear as he tucked her hand in the crook of his arm.
George just thinned her lips.
Inside, the church was dark and somewhat chilly with the faint smell of mildew lingering in the air. Above the altar, a small rose window hung in the shadows, the light outside too dim to tell what color the glass might be. Tony and George walked down the uncarpeted nave, their footsteps echoing off the old stones. Several candles were lit at the front near the altar, supplementing the feeble light from the clerestory. A small group was gathered there. She saw Oscar, Ralph, and Violet as well as her imminent husband, Cecil, and his brother, Freddy. Ralph was sporting a yellowing black eye.
“Ah, the bride, I presume?” The vicar peered over half-moon glasses. “Quite. Quite. And your name is, umm”—he consulted a piece of notepaper stuck in his Bible—“George Regina Catherine Maitland? Yes? But what an odd name for a woman.”