Page 72 of Prince of Scandal

Oh God. Her friend once again wore the full disguise, except somehow she looked even more wizened gothic governess than last time. Perhaps it was her no-nonsense black gown, gloves, cloak, and heeled shoes against the peach decor. Or maybe that she had brought the hand-painted sign urging everyone to repent and propped it against the side table.

Biting her lip to halt a wayward grin, Georgiana inclined her head. “Bless me, Mrs. Alan, for I have sinned.”

“Come here, child,” Phoebe rasped. “Sit beside me on this chaise while I pray for you.”

Georgiana sat, her head bowed.

“One squeeze for yes, two for no,” Phoebe muttered, taking her hands. “Are you well?”

Two squeezes.

Her friend hesitated. “A chill? Headache?”

Two squeezes.

“Um…a womanly complaint?”

One squeeze.

Phoebe beamed. “Praise Almighty God,” she crowed, then lowering her voice to a whisper once more, added: “Are you free to leave here?”

Two squeezes.

“Blast. I knew something was awry. I came here earlier as myself. Your grandmother said you were indisposed, but she wouldn’t even let me leave a note. She’s a strange lady, that one. I swear I felt my toenails frost over—”

“Gigi, my dear. I trust you have been keeping well in my absence,” drawled Rupert as he strode into the parlor looking remarkably refreshed, his regimentals clean and crease-free rather than travel-wrinkled. “I am surprised to see you receiving further religious instruction, though. I did not authorize that.”

Georgiana’s blood ran cold. “Forgive me, my lord. I was unaware I needed permission. And I thought you were to return later this afternoon?”

“Good wives seek their husband’s permission in all things. Women making their own decisions is unnatural,” he replied, walking directly over, lifting her hand, and placing a wet kiss upon it. Then he looked coldly at Phoebe. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mrs. Alan?”

Phoebe cleared her throat. “Sir, we are in the middle of prayer right now.”

Rupert laughed. “I’m sure Gigi has had sufficient religion for one day. I came home early from Surrey because I simply cannot wait for the banns to be read. I shall marry my dear at once. Gigi, your grandmother has gone personally to fetch a vicar.”

Oh God.

Grandmother never lifted a finger for anyone; she issued commands. To have gone herself to browbeat a vicar…she wanted a wedding today.

Georgiana shuddered, her fingers clenching on Phoebe’s.

“How intemperate, not waiting for the banns,” began Phoebe. “I think—

“This does not concern you, madam,” snapped Rupert. “Leave this place.”

“It does concern me, though,” said Lord Kingsford as he ambled into the parlor then bestowed a puzzled look on everyone assembled. “Oh, beg pardon, Gigi sweetheart. Didn’t realize you had another guest. Kingsford at your service, madam. You were, er, leading my daughter in prayer?”

“Indeed,” said Phoebe sharply. “Especially as she is feeling under the weather. Perhaps if you would leave us be, my lords?”

Rupert leaned down. “I don’t think you quite understood, Mrs. Alan. When I say leave, you leave. Or suffer consequences.”

Georgiana gasped at his audacity. “Beg pardon?”

“Here now,” said her father, his cheeks flushing. “This is my parlor.”

“Lord Kingsford,” said Rupert, in a low, deadly voice as he abruptly withdrew a small dagger and unsheathed it with a faint hiss. “You have one task, and that is to fetch the special license. Is that understood, or must I carve it into your forehead?”

Utter silence descended on the room. Georgiana exchanged a wide-eyed glance with Phoebe. Her father just looked befuddled, but Rupert appeared calm. Far too calm. Bloody hell. He didn’t have a single scruple about this. And why would he? No one had ever held him to account. No doubt Rupert thought he would get away with things in London as easily as Surrey.