Like a talisman.
By the time his carriage drew to a halt outside the substantial Marylebone townhouse of Mr. Joshua Hewitt, the bride-to-be’s father, his stomach was writhing and his breath was high and tight in his chest.
For a moment, he was tempted to rap the roof of the carriage and tell the coachman to take him straight back to Curzon Street. But it was too late for that. The horses had stilled in their traces, and George could hear the groom climbing down. Moments later, the carriage door opened, letting in a wash of cool, evening air.
George climbed out and approached the impressive entrance of the substantial house. A footman in scarlet-and-gold livery greeted him with expressionless servility, opening the huge front door and ushering George into a high-ceilinged hallway. George handed his greatcoat and hat to a second waiting footman, while a third led him down a long, marble-tiled corridor towards the open double doors of a sizeable drawing room, from which the sounds of lively conversation and laughter drifted.
His heart began to slug with unhappy anxiety, but he kept his expression rigidly polite as he entered the room to find a score of guests gathered already. The ladies were sitting in small groups around the edges, the tall feathers in their hair bobbing as they chattered, while the gentlemen congregated in the middle of the room.
George’s gaze quickly found Ollie. He was standing with two older gentlemen George did not recognise, his bright, reddish-gold hair unmistakable. As George’s name was announced, Ollie’s head jerked in his direction, and their gazes caught.
George’s stomach gave an unpleasant lurch.
Control yourself, he thought, trying to school his features and paste on what he hoped was an acceptable social smile as Ollie raised his hand in greeting, then leaned towards his companions, his apologetic expression signalling he was making his excuses.
George's attention was so fixed on Ollie that he startled a little when a voice to his left said, “Lord Sherrington, I presume? Welcome to my home.”
George turned to find a genial-looking, older man standing beside him. His grey eyes were bright with intelligence, and the smooth dome of his head gleamed in the candlelight.
“Since I am your host this evening, I hope you will permit me to introduce myself?” the man said, his smile ingratiating yet assured. “Joshua Hewitt, at your service.” He performed a too-deep bow, then added, “It is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord.”
George forced a polite smile. Mr. Hewitt’s fawning confidence would be regarded by many of the ton as deserving of a thorough put-down, but George had been brought up to be polite to everyone, and it was not in his nature to abuse his rank. So, he returned the man’s bow with a rather less dramatic one of his own and said pleasantly, if a little awkwardly, “The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Hewitt. Thank you for the kind invitation.”
“Sherry!”
This far more familiar voice had George turning to find Ollie bearing down upon him. When Ollie reached George’s side, he clapped him on the shoulder. “My word, Sherry, it’s been far too long! It’s dashed good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you too, Fletch,” George said, more quietly. He’d never been able to convincingly feign that bluff sort of masculinity. He usually tried to be as unobtrusive as possible, in hopes of escaping any notice. Unfortunately, being the heir to a dukedom made that rather difficult.
Ollie’s gaze flickered between George and Mr. Hewitt. Gesturing at the older man, he said, "Sherry, may I introduce Mr. Hewitt, my fiancée’s fath?—”
“No need, young man,” Mr. Hewitt interrupted in a tone that was both cheerful and, somehow, dismissive. “I introduced myself to Lord Sherrington already. Don’t believe in waiting around for someone else to make things happen. Grab the bull by the horns, that’s what I say.”
Ollie gave a tight smile. “Quite so,” he said. And though he spoke politely enough, George could sense his resentment.
“Well,” Hewitt said with cheerful obliviousness, “I see I have some new guests to greet, so I’ll leave you young fellows to catch up with each other’s news.” Leaning towards George, he added in a confidential tone, “I told Mulberry to place you beside me at dinner.” He winked. “I have one or two things I’m hoping to speak to you about, my lord.” And without waiting for a reply, he ambled off again, seeming very pleased with himself.
“Good God,” Ollie muttered, as soon as Hewitt was out of earshot. Glancing at George, he said grimly, “Sorry about that. He’ll probably embarrass you horribly over dinner, asking for all sorts of favours. The man has no idea how to conduct himself—every conversation is a damned haggle over terms.” His lip curled with distaste.
“What sort of favours?” George asked, curious.
“God only knows.” Ollie gave a humourless laugh. “It could be anything. He’s very ambitious, especially for his children. Richard, for example, is to become a Member of Parliament. He’ll no doubt bend your ear about that. It’s his favourite subject at the moment.”
“His son has political ambitions?”
“Hardly,” Ollie scoffed. “The boy’s only four years old. All he’s interested in is tin soldiers and pudding, but his life’s being planned out well in advance.”
“I see,” George replied, blinking at this news. “Well, I daresay I can put up with listening to Mr. Hewitt’s ambitions for the duration of one dinner.” It would hardly be the first time. George was used to people toadying up to him to gain his favour—and at keeping them at a polite distance as they did so. It would be tiresome to be subjected to it throughout tonight's dinner, but he could deal with Hewitt.
Ollie glanced at him, one eyebrow hitching up. “I see you’re still too courteous for your own good,” he said. His tone was light, and it wasn’t anything he hadn’t said before, but George felt a stab of annoyance at his words.
Could Ollie not even have waited five minutes before criticising him?
As soon as the thought came, he felt a faint stab of guilt. Mildly he said, “You know me. I try to be polite to everyone.”
Ollie gave an exasperated little sigh. “Yes, yes, I know. Your mother brought you up to be a paragon of virtue. Is this the part where you tell me the story about your nurse?”
George blinked at him, feeling stupidly wounded. He was probably being over-sensitive, but his memories of his mother were precious to him, and the story Ollie had mentioned so glibly was something George thought of often. He’d been six or seven at the time, and his mother had overheard him being rude to his nurse. She’d chided him in her firm but gentle way, telling him that it was inexcusable to be rude to servants and a mark of poor character. It had been the smallest of domestic episodes, but in his mind, it had grown into something almost mythical, an example of what he had childishly thought of as his mother’s shining goodness.
