If she was merely in search of a way to occupy herself, the haut ton boasted several elderly ladies more in need of voluntary companionship than his aunts. She couldn’t possibly be comfortable or happy under his roof; she came from one of the wealthiest families in England, after all. His household still managed to be respectable, but lavish feasts and extravagant soirees had vanished with his father’s death.
He decided to press his luck. “I almost forgot. The Marquis of St. Aubyn offered me his box at the opera tonight. I have four seats, if anyone would care to attend. The Magic Flute, I believe, is the piece.”
Andrew snorted. “I can understand why Saint bowed out, but you’re going to the opera? Voluntarily?”
“Did you lose a wager, or something?” Bradshaw contributed.
Damn Bradshaw for mentioning wagering in Georgiana’s presence. “A show of hands, if you please.”
As he expected, Bradshaw and Andrew lifted their hands, followed by Edwina and Milly. Georgiana didn’t, though he knew she liked the opera. But she wasn’t the only one who could play bluff-and-guess.
“All right, you four it is. Just don’t behave too respectably, or you’ll damage my reputation.”
“Aren’t you going?” Georgiana asked, understanding beginning to dawn in her eyes.
He lifted an eyebrow, relishing the thought that he’d outmaneuvered her. “Me? At the opera?”
“But Milly will need assis—”
“Andrew and I will manage,” Bradshaw said amiably. “We can drag her and the chair behind the coach.”
“Oh, heavens!” Milly laughed again as they reached the foot of the short drive. “You boys will be the death of me.”
Despite Milly’s protests, her cheeks were rosy and her hazel eyes clear. It was the best she’d looked in weeks, and Tristan couldn’t help smiling as he and Bradshaw lifted her out of the chair at the foot of the steps and carried her up to the morning room, Andrew and a footman following with the chair. The contraption was a damned good idea, and for that reason if no other, he was glad Georgiana had come to visit.
The ladies all retreated into their sitting room, and Tristan went down the hall to his office. He hated doing accounts, but with his precarious position, he needed to be involved in every aspect of money management. Purchasing Edward’s pony and reimbursing Georgiana for the wheeled chair represented the total amount of his incidental funds for the month—and it was only the seventh. The wool sales would help, but he couldn’t expect to see that money for two or three months, at best.
He was stupid to have volunteered his stable for Georgiana’s mare. He was already paying for feed for Edward’s new pony, in addition to the four coach and carriage horses, and his and his brother’s mounts. A feisty Arabian would eat twice as much as little Storm Cloud. “Blast,” he muttered, penciling in the estimated expense.
This was why he’d finally listened to the aunties when they’d suggested he find a rich heiress looking for a title. This was why he’d been courting Amelia Johns despite his desperate wish to flee in the opposite direction.
Tristan scowled as he pushed away from his desk. He’d barely spoken to Amelia in the past few days, and the last time he’d done so was to inform her that under no circumstances would he attend her bloody vocal recital. He needed to be more attentive, before some cash-starved earl snatched her up and he had to begin the courting process all over again with some other, even more simpering, chit.
Dawkins scratched on the door. “The mail, my lord,” he said, holding out a silver salver laden with correspondence.
“Thank you.” As the butler exited, Tristan sorted through the large stack. Besides the usual flood of correspondence from Andrew’s school chums, the estate manager at Dare Park had sent his weekly report, as had Tomlin at Drewsbyrne Abbey. Only two bills, both of which he’d already anticipated, thank God, and a perfumed letter for Georgiana.
Not perfume, he decided as he sniffed it again, more carefully. Men’s cologne. What sort of dandy would scent his own correspondence? He flipped it over, the heavy scent making him sneeze, but the correspondent had omitted a return address.
He wasn’t surprised that her acquaintances knew to send correspondence to Carroway House; after one evening the entire ton likely knew how much clothing she’d brought with her and what she’d had for breakfast. But he hadn’t anticipated that he would be handing her letters from her male admirers.
“Dawkins!” The butler, no doubt anticipating the summons, stuck his head back through the door. “Inform Andrew and Lady Georgiana that they have correspondence, if you please.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Andrew galloped in first, then vanished again with his stack of letters. Several minutes passed before Georgiana appeared. As she walked into the room, Tristan looked up from the accounts he’d been unable to concentrate on while he wondered who in damnation had sent her a letter.
If there was one thing he didn’t want, it was to seem interested, so he nudged at the smelly thing with his pencil and went back to scrawling figures. As she started out of the room, though, he looked up. “Who’s it from?” he asked, trying to sound as if he didn’t care whether it was from her brother or the president of the Americas.
“I don’t know,” she said, smiling.
“So open it.”
“I will.” With that, she exited again.
“Damnation,” he grumbled, and erased the chicken scratches he’d put on the ledger.
Outside the doorway, Georgiana stifled a chuckle as she stuffed the smelly thing into her pocket. Sending letters to oneself was so…juvenile—except in this case, it had worked.
