“I don’t want to have to get the footmen involved in ejecting you from this house, Lord Danforth. I will if I need to, but I’d rather spare my sister the scandal of the servants knowing more than they already do. And after I get Phoebe to speak clearly and tell me what you did, I will discover if this warrants a duel.”
George had to pause to marvel at Andrew’s courage. A duel—no matter the weapon—would mean almost certain death or injury to the nearly blind and painfully thin man. All the Finches had such a reckless disregard for consequences. Such pluck. Such valor.
“I’ll go.” It was the only thing he could do.
As George went out the door, Andrew spoke in a slightly less menacing voice. “Write her a letter, George. Explain yourself to her. She’ll read it when she’s calmer.”
Eighteen
George sat at his desk in his study, sharpened a quill, and wrote.
Dearest Phee:
You must know I meant no insult to you. The two thoughts were not at all connected. I was just looking out for you
No, it was a lie. He had been looking out for himself. He started again.
Dearest Phoebe:
Please forgive me. The fact that Thornwick wants to marry you is, in fact, the only good thing about him
No. He was damned if he was going to praise Thornwick. Even if it was faint praise.
A fresh piece of foolscap. A firm grip on his pen. For once in his life, let him not hide behind words.
Dearest Bumblephee:
Don’t marry Thornwick. Marry me.
Love, George.
Within half an hour, his footman was back with the letter. Still sealed.
“It was taken up to her, my lord. But I was told the lady did not wish to receive any correspondence from you.”
He then went himself to the Abingdon town house. Chapman refused him entrance and just when George was about to try to force his way past the butler, Andrew appeared.
Andrew’s right hand grasped George’s forearm on the doorstep. Those fingers that held his violin bow so lightly, so delicately, were surprisingly strong. Andrew put his mouth to George’s ear. “You are causing the scene I had hoped to avoid, Lord Danforth. Now, in public view. On the street. Go. Away.”
“If Phee won’t read my letter, I want to see your father.”
“You can have no business with my father.”
“I do, you see, I want to—”
“I suspect I know what you want to talk to my father about. He’s always liked you, George, but you are not to bother him. Because it doesn’t matter what his answer is. I know what my sister’s answer is. And I would remind you she is promised to another man. You missed your chance.”
I missed my chance.
George wanted to howl. Instead, he walked away from the Abingdon house blindly, his head down, and after a time, he saw his shoes were moving over familiar pavement in Westminster.
Jack MacNaughton, the Duke of Dunmore, lived here, on this street, in the house he had built after he had retired from the navy.
George would go see Jack. That’s what he’d do. The man had suffered a broken engagement years ago when he was still Captain Jack Pike. True, he had never gotten the woman back since she had married his cousin within days of jilting Jack. But Jack had survived. He would at least be able to commiserate with George.
And he knew Jack would be at home. He couldn’t be anywhere else.
Jack frowned when he saw George come in the bedchamber door. Papers and books were strewn around the bed and his wrapped ankle. Jack quickly gathered up the papers which looked like letters.
