The widow pursed her lips. “No. I confess learning the precise scope of…” she paused, and one corner of her mouth crooked upward, “your brother’s friend’s problem was not of paramount importance to me. But the rumors I heard mentioned a tendency toward violence and self-harm.”
Violence? Self-harm? Teddy?Georgie conjured an image of him in her mind’s eye, as he’d looked the last time she’d seen him, the day before he and Drake left to join the war effort. Hale and golden skinned from time spent in the sun at Hampstead Heath, and so very beautiful, smiling his devil-may-care smile, his caramel-colored eyes twinkling with mischief and that ever-present glint of humor, as if hewere privy to a punch line when no one else had yet picked up on the joke. She recalled to mind that last conversation, before he and Drake left to join the war…
“I’ll write to you every week,” she’d avowed. “To both of you,” she’d hastened to add, fearing her profession might betray the depth of her feelings for him.
“Every week, pet? Even though I’m the selfish bas…bloke who talked your brother into joining up?”
Then he’d reached across as if to smooth one of her escaped curls behind her ear and everything in her went still with exquisite anticipation.
“Teddy, what on earth are you about? Come here and feed me grapes.”
His arm dropped and a crooked grin curved his mouth as he turned to gaze on Lady Catherine, lounging on a picnic blanket in the shade.
Without another word, he headed to do her bidding.
Georgina looked on, her heart in her throat, unaware she had an audience until her brother’s compassion-filled murmur sounded in her ear.
“Ah, George. It’ll be good for you to be away from him. It’ll give you a chance to realize who you are—the belle of the ball, and any bloke who can’t see that isn’t worth having on your dance card.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” she’d replied, mostly just to reassure him, her beloved brother, on today of all days. “I shall take society by storm in your absence. By the time you return, you won’t even recognize me.”
But she hadn’t. Instead, she’d pined and brooded, and penned another five novels which she’d submit to be published despite the many rejections she’d received.
At least that last bit had proven inaccurate.
“You’re quite sure you do not wish to marry him?” The matter-of-fact query from the widow tore Georgina from her bittersweet reverie.
“Quite,” she answered.
“In that case, is there anything else I can do for you, Lady Belfry? I have a casino to run.”
“No. You have been more than accommodating and I am profoundly grateful. What do I owe you? I brought cash.” She unsnappedher reticule.
“There is no fee. Consider it a gift of thanks for your work that entertains so many—and, in its way, stretches the boundaries for women, everywhere.”
Now, she did smile, if fleetingly. She did, through subtle strokes of her pen, strive for just that. “That is most generous of you, ma’am.”
Their business concluded, she expected Mrs. Dove-Lyon to rise.
Instead, the woman hesitated. “If I may, I have one piece of advice I’d like to offer, unrelated to this matter, though you may not welcome it.”
Georgina could not imagine what advice the woman might wish to impart. “By all means, madam.”
“There is no way to sugar coat this: Your father’s gambling is out of control.”
Georgina heaved a sigh. “I’m aware.”
“Considering the amount of money you dole out every month to cover his losses, I’m not surprised to hear you say that. I recommend you cease buying his vowels.”
Georgina blinked. Of course the woman would know she paid his debts. She seemed to know everyone’s business. “Why? I can afford it and…” She bit her lower lip and stopped short of finishing her thought. It was not simply out of the goodness of her heart that she paid his inordinate losses. Doing so kept him from suggesting the unthinkable—that she marry. He would never risk having his funds cut off by her husband’s edict—and what sane man would allow his wife to pay her father’s gambling debts? “And I do not see the real harm,” she finished lamely.
“You may think you can afford to feed his habit, but I assure you, you cannot. This sort of thing does not improve with time. Quite the opposite. He will become a bottomless pit, Lady Belfry. He is reckless and undisciplined, and his losses will drain you dry. I, myself, will not accept his patronage any longer. It is, unfortunately, unconscionablefor me to do so.”
Georgina digested the woman’s diatribe, a vague sense of guilt washing through her at her own culpability in fostering her father’s weakness. “I see. I will give your advice serious thought.”
A grim smile curved the widow’s mouth, and she rose from her chair. “You will do what you feel is right. My conscience is clear.”
One week later
