“In fact,” she said, tapping the ledgers with her finger. “We have discussed it, and we have decided that if you want to avoid prosecution, you should definitely be on a ship by end of the day. This way you may pick the location of your choice instead of being shackled on a vessel on its way to Van Dieman’s Land. I will be happy to offer you transportation to first take you to recover your personal effects and then safely transport you to the docks. I have a list of ships about to sail, if it is necessary. Oh, and that little stash of money hidden behind the loose brick in your bedroom won’t be going with you. I’m sure you have enough in the bank.”
Hartman was on his feet so fast Georgie had to focus not to flinch. “You’ll regret this,” he snarled.
Uncle Samson gave him a dry smile. “I was afraid you would say that.”
Which was how Hartman was bodily escorted to his house for his things, down to the docks, and onto a ship for the Western Hemisphere, three footmen watching from the dock until he was a distance down the river.
At last able to relax a bit, Georgie dove into the family finances, the redecorating of the London townhouse, and the curriculum and schedule for the girls. She was even able to get hold of Grey’s old stablemaster, who promised to be there within the week with two ponies who would be perfect for little novice riders. After little more than a month—that seemed like six—things were beginning to settle. Which made it an even worse shock to see who showed up at her door.
17
She was on her way out of the small library she had taken as her office, her arms full of estate books, when someone made use of the door knocker. She knew she undoubtedly should have waited for one of the staff to answer it, but Chalmers was in the wine cellar arranging the shipment of claret she had just secured, and the footmen were most likely helping carry out debris from the renovations that were in progress. She had just finished changing over what she fondly referred to as the Mud Parlor. She and the girls had decided that it should be a sunny yellow with royal blue settees and a Tintoretto of Venice over the fireplace. Now that they had repaired the roof, it even smelled better. She couldn’t wait for Grey to see it all. It was why she was driving everyone so hard. She wanted it done when he came home, all the once-peeling, moldy, grimly dark rooms rehabilitated and welcoming.
In the meantime, though, the visitor made another foray with the knocker. Georgie stopped in the middle of the hall and looked around, but there was no help. She should be able to answer her own door, really. She was a marchioness. Couldn’t amarchioness open her own door if she wanted? What could go wrong?
She knew the minute she swung the door wide. She heard the echoing thud of the books dropping onto the marble floor. She thought she heard a moan and wondered where it had come from.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
For there on her stoop stood three uniformed officers. One dark and fierce, one golden blond, one with hair the color of fall leaves. Three Archangels in the flesh.
Just standing there, as if waiting for a command to stand down.
Georgie wasn’t sure if it was the door or the thudding books he heard, but suddenly Chalmers was standing behind her. She could hear him catch his breath.
“What are you doing here?” she asked again of the three on her doorstep.
Even before they answered, she felt a great hole tear open in her chest. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t bear for them to answer.
But they did.
“We need to talk to you,” Michael the Warrior said, his grey eyes grave, his posture in his Guardsman red rigid.
They even looked like their namesakes, she thought absurdly. Michael the Warrior, dark and fierce. Gabriel the Messenger, golden blond. And Rafael the healer, with hair the color of blood. Her family.
Still, she couldn’t seem to move. “Chalmers?” she asked, fighting to keep her voice level so she didn’t begin shrieking like a madwoman.
Grey. Oh, Grey.
“Where are the little girls?” she asked without turning.
“In the park, my lady,” the gentle voice answered behind her. “With Miss Breck.”
She nodded. “Please send someone to advise her to keep the girls there for a bit. Until I call for them. I imagine I will also need to assemble the staff in about an hour.”
“Yes, milady.”
“And Chalmers.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Send for Madame Marie. I believe we will be needing black.”
Without a word she turned to led the way up the stairs, not so much as motioning her brother and cousins to follow. She knew they would. They had news to deliver. It was the only reason they could be here. In England together. At her new house. The house of the Marchioness of Coleford. She knew there was something else the Marchioness was supposed to do at a time like this, but her brain suddenly felt as frozen as her heart. As useless.
Grey.
Incongruously she led them into the Yellow Salon, as if bad news could be eased by bright walls. She motioned for them to sit. She took the newly upholstered royal blue settee to one side of the Adams fireplace. The Archangels shared the settee opposite, easing down in perfect unison, two Guardsmen in sharp red against that blue, and Rafael, who had never felt the desire for the flashy garb of the Guards, in his flat olive Rifleman green. Hands on knees, backs barracks-straight.
