“Oh, no! Please don’t. I just need to rest.”
“Georgiana, don’t be silly.” She hurried to the door. “Pascoe!”
Oh, dear. This would never work. “Aunt Frederica, wait.”
Her aunt faced her again. “What, child?”
“I’m lying to you.”
“Oh, really?” A delicate eyebrow arched, the sarcasm in her voice difficult to miss.
“I spent twenty minutes striding about so I could tell you that I didn’t feel well.” She sat up, motioning her aunt to the edge of the bed. “All of that nonsense about my being able to take care of everything myself is just—well, nonsense.”
“Thank goodness you’ve finally realized that. Now we’ll stay in tonight, and you’ll tell me all your troubles.”
Georgiana squeezed her hand. “No. You look so…lovely, and I truly just want to sit about and read a book and not have to do anything.”
That was the truth, whether it was what she actually intended to do this evening, or not. Aunt Frederica kissed her on the forehead and rose. “Read then, my love, and I shall enjoy the attention I’ll receive from telling everyone that I fear you’re on your deathbed.”
Georgiana chuckled. “You are very wicked, but please don’t tell that to Grey or Emma. They’ll charge over here and frighten everyone to death.”
“True enough.” The duchess paused in the doorway, putting up a hand to stop Pascoe as the butler charged into view. “Any particular instructions regarding Lord Dare?”
Frederica Wycliffe was quite possibly the most astute person she’d ever known, and after everything she’d put her aunt through—not just over the past weeks, but over the past six years—pretending now that there was no connection between herself and Tristan would be an insult. “Please tell him the truth, Aunt Frederica. He’ll know, anyway.”
“Yes, I think he might.”
“Your Grace,” the butler panted, “my apologies, but did you require—”
“Yes, I require you to escort me down the stairs,” the duchess said, favoring him with a smile that actually made him blush, the first time Georgiana had ever seen the butler out of countenance. Frederica sent her a wink and closed the door, leaving her in calm silence.
At least the silence was calm, because she certainly wasn’t. The evening was far too young for her to slip out yet; even though Amelia and her parents would be at the soiree, their servants would still be awake and sure to notice a stranger in the upstairs rooms.
She assumed that was where her stockings and the note would be, so she would begin her search in Amelia’s bedchamber and hope for the best. If her things weren’t there, she had no idea what she would do. She wouldn’t have the opportunity to make another search later, since two days from now Amelia would begin to let other people—no doubt her tittering, giggling friends—know about the items she’d acquired.
For the next three hours Georgiana wandered from room to room, attempting four different times to sit down and read, and almost immediately giving up again. She couldn’t sit still, much less concentrate on anything. When the glances the butler and the rest of the household staff sent her began to look pained, she apologized and dismissed them for the evening.
She was willing to wager that by now the Johns household was already dark and quiet, too. Georgiana drew in a deep, shaky breath. It was now or never.
She pulled the dowdy brown muslin out of her wardrobe again and donned it. Her most practical walking boots followed. She tied her hair back in a simple knot that hung down her back, both so it wouldn’t get in her way, and so if anyone happened to see her, they hopefully wouldn’t recognize her.
This wasn’t just for Tristan; this was also for her. The last time someone had wronged her, she had sat still and wept and felt sorry for herself. Tonight, she was taking action.
Blowing out the lamp on her bed stand, she tiptoed into the hall and closed her door. Pascoe had left the downstairs door unlocked for Aunt Frederica, and she slipped outside and down the front steps without anyone hearing or seeing her. She had a few moments of trepidation when a hack didn’t stop for her at once, but when she made her way down to the better-traveled corner, a beat-up old coach pulled up beside her.
“Where to, miss?” the bearded driver asked, leaning down to yank open the door.
She gave the address and climbed in, sitting stiffly in one corner as the hack rocked into motion again. Her heart beat a fast, steady hammer against her ribs, and her fists were clenched. Georgiana forced herself to relax, and grabbed on to the tendril of excitement buried somewhere deep under her skin that told her this was going to be the most daring thing she ever did.
She felt naked, for she’d intentionally left Hawthorne House without a shawl or reticule, carrying just enough money for the hack. Bringing a reticule to a robbery had seemed too silly, and quite possibly dangerous if she lost it somewhere. Her pockets were large enough to carry the stockings and the letter.
The coach lurched to a halt, and the driver yanked open the door again. Taking another deep breath, Georgiana clambered out, handed the driver up the correct change, and watched as he drove back into the darkness. “Here we go,” she said to no one in particular, and slipped up the dark drive to Johns House.
All of the windows were dark. That left her feeling a little more confident, and she climbed the shallow front steps, remembering to stay in the shadows, and pushed down on the handle of the front door. It didn’t budge. She pushed down again, harder. Nothing.
“Damnation,” she whispered. How were the Johns supposed to return home if their front door was locked? What a shabby lot of servants they had. Perhaps, though, the family came in through the kitchen door, closer to the stable.
She descended the steps again and ducked into the small garden on the south side of the house. Halfway toward the stable, she stopped. One of the windows on the bottom floor was cracked open. “Thank goodness.” She pushed through the shrubbery and grasped the bottom of the window. With a shove it slid up—too far and too fast.
