Page 59 of Prince of Scandal

“I know,” he muttered, keeping his voice as low as Georgiana’s so the hackney driver didn’t overhear anything. “But Osbourne was clever, I suppose. They all died in different fashions. Virginia a stomach ailment, Candace a fall, Dorothy an accidental drowning. Without the financial extortion element, he could just be desperately unlucky. No doubt the bastard wept copious tears at each funeral as he eyed up future possibilities.”

“Possibilities like me,” said Georgiana morosely. “Rupert must have thought it astonishing good fortune, a silly young girl from an ancient family with impeccable connections, hurling herself at him. He didn’t even have to try. Not a whit of courting. I was so desperate to leave my grandmother’s clutches after both my sisters were married that I just…agreed to his demands.”

Ashton took her hand and squeezed it. “Never say you are a silly girl. Ever. I met your grandmother a few times when I was part of English society, and your desire to escape her is entirely understandable. I always wondered how an iceberg with a viper’s tongue managed to produce a son as amiable as Kingsford. I bet Mandy clashed with her something fierce.”

Georgiana stilled. “Wait…you met my mother?”

CHAPTER 13

As a method of distraction from the extremely troubling discussion with Mr. Carr, followed by a jolting carriage ride surrounded by the most revolting stench imaginable, nothing in the world could be more successful than a mention of her mother.

Well, that or being spanked, of course, something that couldn’t be done in a hackney.

But the way Ashton had just oh-so-casually said “I bet Mandy clashed with her something fierce” had near-robbed her of breath. Someone outside the family, a man she trusted, could offer a story. Perhaps even a memory she could relate to.

Georgiana leaned closer, her heart pounding. “How did you meet? When?” she asked, the words tumbling from her mouth in her haste, in her need to get an answer.

He rubbed his thumb across her knuckles, a discreet, soothing gesture, as though he understood how close she dangled to the edge of madness after everything that had happened recently.

“Many years ago, at a ball,” Ashton replied. “Must have only been a few months after we arrived in England. Your mother was charming. A naturally warm person. Coming from Prussia, I was rather startled when she held out her hand and said, ‘Call me Mandy.’ I thought your father might take a chair to the back of my head at such informality, especially after having met your grandmother and knowing what a rigid stickler she was. But Kingsford just beamed and said, ‘Everyone does.’”

Georgiana nodded slowly, a flame of elation flaring to life deep within her. Yes. Yes. Mother had said that to everyone, mainly because she knew how much it infuriated Grandmother. “She never wanted to be called Lady Kingsford. That was Grandmother. And even though her full name was Amanda, I don’t think anyone ever used that. It was always Mandy. Papa called her Miss Mandy. She was the daughter of the neighboring town’s mayor in Kent, not a ton lady at all.”

“Your mother loved you so much,” he continued quietly, his tone almost wistful. “I remember her saying she loathed London and always yearned to return to the country where her four children were as soon as possible. Then she laughed and made me promise to keep her shocking secret. I will never forget that laugh. It was so loud and cheerful, a belly laugh as they say. It made everyone around her laugh as well, even if they didn’t want to. I was very saddened to read of her passing.”

Warmth filled Georgiana, and her eyes actually stung with unshed tears. Mother’s laugh had been the stuff of legends; something else Grandmother had abhorred. Every week they had attempted to put on plays for Papa in the drawing room, but Mother would always jumble her lines then burst into giggles, and the play would halt for a quarter hour because it made them all laugh uncontrollably.

“I was eight when she died,” said Georgiana. “I thought I didn’t remember much about her at all, but as soon as you said that, I swear I heard her laugh in my mind. It was so loud. We used to stand in the empty ballroom in the country and see who could make the loudest laugh echo. Then she’d say, “Gigi, let’s have cake…” Oh, Ashton. Thank you. You have no idea how much I needed to hear that.”

He nodded solemnly. “I’m glad you feel better. But don’t ever let me hear you call yourself silly again. Osbourne is well-versed in deception, and with his family and connections and time in the military, naturally people would think him trustworthy. Hell, three fathers did, including the Duke of Lansbury, and he is very high in the instep.”

“That is true,” she admitted, grimacing and holding onto her bonnet as the hackney veered sharply left to pass a slow-moving cart carrying several crates of fruit and vegetables. Gah. Had everyone in London ventured out onto the streets? All she could see ahead of them as they neared St. James’s Square was a sea of carriages and curricles, hackneys and phaetons, all trying to dart into the same temporary gaps. It was a wonder there wasn’t more collisions, the shocking way some people drove. “Have you spoken to His Grace since…er…since your betrothal ended?”

“No.”

Georgiana bit her lip. One word, and yet from a man so stern and stoic, it carried a wealth of emotion. A part of her wanted to demand more information, to have Ashton explain how his last audience with the duke had gone, but that might be entirely too painful for him. Not that they had time, anyway. Their destination was directly ahead; they would soon be on the rather majestic, oval-shaped path that separated the sprawling red brick townhouses from the expanse of green lawn in the middle. While Hanover Square was by no means small or shabby, St. James’s Square was a different tier entirely. All the townhouses were at least three bays wide and three stories tall, with large gardens to the rear. As well as the Duke of Lansbury, the lofty Duke of Norfolk resided at Number 31, and Lord Castlereagh, the Foreign Secretary, at Number 18. As a Nash, she had attended balls at all three locations.

St. James’s Square was indeed a seat of great power within London.

When the hackney came to a jolting halt, Ashton alighted onto the footpath then helped her down. After such a rough ride, she was even more grateful for his care and concern. But he always did that. Made her feel safe and protected. Like she mattered.

Curling her hand around his arm, Georgiana glanced up at him. “How do you wish to proceed? I am acquainted with the duke and could go in first. Or we could go in together. Whatever you prefer, really.”

“Together,” he said, and once again she got a sense of one word meaning so much more.

Georgiana’s cheeks warmed. “Very well. Come along then, secretary. It is time for us to face a duke.”

Arm in arm they walked up the front steps to the double doors of Lansbury House. Another clue of loftier surroundings; no entrances onto footpaths here. One had to ascend.

Ashton rapped the brass knocker then stepped back. Soon, the door swung open to reveal the silver haired, immaculately turned-out Lansbury butler.

“Yes?” he began. “Oh…Lady Georgiana! How lovely to see you again. Are you here to see Her Grace? I’m afraid she’s out shopping.”

She smiled at him in no more than a friendly manner; this particular butler was not one for feminine wiles. “Good afternoon, Boyd. Actually, my secretary and I were hoping for a word with His Grace? Is that possible? I know he is a busy man.”

The butler nodded. “I’m sure the duke could find ten minutes for you, my lady. Please do come inside and I’ll escort you to the blue parlor.”

Georgiana exchanged a swift, triumphant look with Ashton as they followed Boyd across the cavernous entrance hall and down a wide hallway near groaning with marble busts, elaborate candelabras, and portraits of previous dukes. Ugh. It appeared a stiff rump was an entrenched part of the line. Clearly, Lansbury men needed to look further afield, get some good common blood in there.