A Daring Liaison

“… just as brazen as you please,” one woman was saying. “And now it seems she has dug her talons into Charles Hunter, dragging him into the gardens like a common trollop…. ”

Georgiana’s cheeks burned.

“I would think she’d have the decency to remain in the countryside,” the other woman agreed. “Everyone knows what she is.”

“And what is that, Francine?” one of the men asked, his gaze flicking over the woman’s head to meet Georgiana’s eyes.

“Why, a schemer at best. A murderess at worst,” the woman answered. “And if I were to choose between the two—”

The scorching heat was replaced by a sudden icy coldness in the pit of her stomach. She could not mistake the mocking glance of the man who’d asked the question. She looked up at Mr. Hunter, and the expression on his face was terrifying—dark and furious. She started to turn, thinking he would quickly lead her around the group.

His grip tightened on her arm. “Hello, DeRoss. Everly. Ladies,” he said with an inflection that cast doubt on the name.

Georgiana was torn between amusement and humiliation.

“Hunter.” DeRoss, the man who’d asked the question, looked pointedly at Georgiana, pressing the introduction.

Mr. Hunter gave a slight smile, but there was something predatory about it. She suspected there was worse to come and lifted her chin with every bit of pride she could muster.

“Have you met my sister’s dear friend, Georgiana Huffington?” he asked as he placed his hand over hers where it rested on his arm. The move was proprietary and flattering. And false.

Mr. DeRoss and Mr. Everly both gave the barest of bows and Mr. DeRoss spoke for them both. “Charmed, Mrs. Huffington.”

She curtsied as slightly as they’d bowed. “Gentlemen,” she murmured.

But Mr. Hunter was not inclined to stop there. “Miss Wilton-Smythe and Miss Grayson, allow me to present Mrs. Huffington.”

Georgiana nodded and the women did likewise.

“I importuned Mrs. Huffington to allow me to show her the topiary. Quite artistic, were they not, my dear?”

My dear? He really was going a bit far. “Quite, sir. Exceeded only by your knowledge of the subject.”

He laughed. “You are most welcome to whatever random knowledge I possess.” Turning to the others, he said, “Must be getting Mrs. Huffington back to my sister. She will be waiting.”

“Lady Sarah?” one of the women asked.

“I only have the one sister,” he said. He turned Georgiana in Sarah’s direction and led her away. “I’ve found it’s always best to face bullies down,” he said. “Let them know you’re equal to them and that they cannot force you into a corner.”

“But what was the point of mentioning your sister?”

“She has a reputation in the ton, Mrs. Huffington. Whoever Sarah approves publicly will be accepted without question.”

“Ah, so then …”

“Those women will say nothing further against you.”

Lady Sarah aside, she did not think any of them would want to cross Charles Hunter again. “But they will not like it,” she said. “And they will be waiting for me to do something wrong.”

He looked down at her, one eyebrow cocked and a challenge in his words. “Then your task is simple, Mrs. Huffington. Do nothing wrong.”

She shivered as he released her hand. What a pretty pass things had come to when even her professed friends did not think she would be able to keep out of trouble! Worse—that she, herself, doubted it, too.

Chapter Three

Georgiana took long strides, still fuming as she swept out of her bank, her bulging reticule stuffed with two thousand pounds in banknotes tucked tightly under her arm. How could things have gotten so out of hand in just a few months? While she had been languishing in Kent mourning Lady Caroline’s death, every distant relative of Lady Caroline and Gower Huffington had been conspiring against her!

“Madam, could you slow down a bit?” Clara asked, trotting along behind her. “’Twill make no difference if we’re a few minutes late at that fancy French dress shop.”

Georgiana slowed her pace to accommodate her maid’s shorter legs. “Sorry,” she murmured.

Now able to catch her breath, Clara began prattling on about the doings of the household, leaving Georgiana’s mind to return to the problem at hand—how would she find the resources to look into her husbands’ deaths and fight for her rights at the same time?

The worst of it was that Walter and Robert Foxworthy, Aunt Caroline’s second cousins on her mother’s side, had filed for conservatorship over her. Conservatorship? According to her solicitor, Mr. Goodman, they were suing for the right to control her inheritance and her into the bargain! Untenable! How dare they?

They had never bothered to visit even once in the past twenty years or more. Why, she wouldn’t know them if she bumped into them on the street. Furthermore, warning her that the matter could take years to settle, Mr. Goodman had advised her to withdraw a considerable sum of money from the bank before her funds were frozen.

If that were not enough, he informed her that she was being sued by a Mr. York, Gower’s cousin twice removed. She hadn’t even been aware that Gower had a nephew, let alone that he claimed to be the sole heir to Gower’s fortune. Indeed, Mr. York was claiming she had used duress to make Gower change his will in her favor! Why, nothing could be further from the truth. He’d changed his will in her favor even before they’d said their vows.

She had hoped her business in town would be settled today, and instead she had this new set of problems and another chore. Mr. Goodman had given her a packet that contained a copy of Aunt Caroline’s will for her information and a few letters to her old friends. All were now safely tucked in her reticule along with that absurd amount of cash.

Common sense told her she should go back to Kent and await the outcome of the Foxworthy petition and the York suit, but how could she do that? She had to defend herself against these scurrilous charges. Her life and future were hanging in the balance! Any plans of hastening back to the countryside to avoid Mr. Hunter’s attentions were now out of the question. He’d advised her to stay out of trouble and now, through no fault of her own, trouble had found her.

The ladies had arrived at La Meilleure Robe. Georgiana left Clara in the waiting room and joined them in the back fitting room. They brushed her apology for being late aside with kind reassurances.

“These little lulls give us a chance to actually discuss the books our husbands think we are reading,” Sarah said.

“What book do they think you are reading?”

“The Pirate, by the Wizard of the North,” Lady Annica said.

“It would be a good idea for you to read the book, too, dear,” Grace Hawthorne said. “In the event someone should ask. I have an extra copy if you’d like.”

Georgiana nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Hawthorne.”

“Grace,” the woman corrected. “I shall have a footman deliver it to your home.”

A handsome woman with the bearing of a queen entered through a side door and clapped her hands. “Ah! We are in pursuit, eh? Well, come. ‘Oo is my client?”

Sarah nudged Georgiana toward the dressmaker’s platform. “Madame Marie, this is Mrs. Georgiana Huffington.”

The dressmaker circled Georgiana, her gaze sweeping up and down, assessing her figure. “Ah, yes. I know just the style for you, petite. And the correct color for you is violet. Any violet, but especially deep violet. Please say you never wear yellow.”

“Never again.” Georgiana vowed to go home and cull anything yellow from her wardrobe as she undressed to her corset and chemise.

Marie nodded and began taking Georgiana’s measurements with knotted string behind a short dressing screen. Barely a moment later, a pleasant-looking man entered the room and was introduced as Madame Marie’s husband, Mr. Francis Renquist. Gina explained that he had been a Bow Street Runner and was the group’s chief investigator. He’d been briefly informed of her dilemma.

He nodded acknowledgment to Georgiana and then chivalrously avoided looking at her. “I have a few questions before I can begin, Mrs. Huffington.”

“Ask anything, sir.”

He took a small pad of paper and a lead pencil from his waistcoat pocket and prepared to take notes. “Do you know of anyone, no matter how far-fetched, who might have any reason to kill your husbands?”

“None,” she answered quietly as Madame Marie continued to knot her string. “That is why these events are so bewildering.”

“Do you have any former suitors who might bear a grudge?”

“No. Between marriages and mourning, I have not been much in society.”

“Could it be possible that either of your husbands had enemies? Former lovers, mistresses, or rivals?”

“I … I do not believe so, sir, but I was not married to them long enough to become familiar with their personal affairs.”

“Had any of them been affianced before you?”

“I do not think so.”

“And you, Mrs. Huffington? Are there any men you jilted or who paid you court and who could be angry? Narrowing the field, so to speak, to have a second chance at you?”

Charles Hunter swept briefly though her mind, but he had snubbed her, not the other way around. She arched her eyebrow at the man. “I think I’d recall such a thing.”

He allowed a small smile to quirk the corners of his mouth. “Aye, you probably would. Well, then, shall we look at the money? Who, apart from you, stood to profit from your husbands’ deaths?”

“No one, I thought. My first husband made settlements for that possibility in the marriage contract, but I did not inherit the bulk of his wealth. Certainly not enough to murder for. And Mr. Huffington did not have any close relatives, though he did have a cousin twice removed who has made claims against his estate. He says that he was Mr. Huffington’s heir, but he did not come for the funeral or send condolences. Neither has he called in the year and a half since. Mr. Huffington’s friends, though, were all quite considerate.” A few had even offered to “ease her loneliness,” but none had paid her serious suit.

“Aside from that, I have just learned that my aunt’s second cousins have filed for conservatorship over me on the grounds that I am unstable due to the deaths of my husbands. I think they are simply making a grab for Aunt Caroline’s estate.”

Mr. Renquist frowned and his pencil flew across his paper as he made notes. Several of the ladies raised their eyebrows at her announcement and she knew they were wondering how she would handle such an occurance.

Madame Marie took a few more measurements and stood back with her hands on her hips.

“A lovely figure, Mrs. ‘Uffington. I believe we shall try the new lower waistline. Bien entendu! I will begin at once,” she said, bustling from the dressing room.

Georgiana turned to Lady Sarah. “Do I not have to choose a style from her books?”

Lady Sarah merely smiled. “Trust her, Georgiana. She will delight you.”

Finished with his notes, Mr. Renquist took a deep breath and continued. “That brings us to you, Mrs. Huffington. Is there anyone in your past who might have a reason to kill your husbands?”

She was prepared for that question since she’d asked it of herself many times. It was that very question that had sent her straight to Gina and the Wednesday League book club. “I have no relatives, which is the reason Aunt Caroline raised me. Though I called her ‘aunt’ we were not blood kin. She had no brothers or sisters, just her second cousins. The entailed lands reverted to the crown upon her father’s death, and the rest were solely hers. I shall learn her wishes for the final disposition of her estate once I have read her will. But she led me to believe that no one else had a right to make a claim on her estate.”

Mr. Renquist looked pained. Clearly, he would rather have someone to point a finger at than have her as the only logical killer. “I am bound to say, Mrs. Huffington, that it looks bad for you. Still, if there is something afoot, we shall uncover it. Are you willing to do your part?”

“Whatever you think reasonable.”

“Go about in society. Make note if anything odd occurs, or if anyone suspicious lurks near you. Should there be something out of the ordinary, or anything too similar to the circumstances leading to your previous marriages, come to me at once.”

She nodded. A quick glance at the other ladies reassured her that this was not an unusual request.

Mr. Renquist continued, “I will meet you here at your fittings. If you wish to see me sooner, send word to Marie and she will arrange it.” He gave a short bow and was gone.

Bemused, Georgiana stared at the closed door as she edged from behind the screen. I am bound to say, Mrs. Huffington, that it looks bad for you.

As Lord Wycliffe and Charles entered their box at the Theatre Royal, Wycliffe inclined his head to the ladies in the box across from them and Charles lifted one sardonic eyebrow. Perhaps it was the threads of distinguished gray at Wycliffe’s temples, or the fact that he was unmarried, considered good looking, and possessed of a title and position—whatever it was, Wycliffe did not lack for female attention and did not hesitate to reciprocate.

As if reading Charles’s mind, Wycliffe turned to him and smiled. “I say, Hunter! I always get more attention from the ladies when I’m in your company.”

“’Tis true,” Sir Harry Richardson said with a wide grin and a slap on Charles’s back. “Why, even the demireps love our Charlie.”

“Ah, there’s our pigeon,” Wycliffe said, inclining his head toward a box to their left.

Charles followed his line of vision and saw Hortense and Harriett Thayer, along with Mrs. Huffington, entertaining a number of men in their box. His brother James was there, too, accompanied by his bride, Gina—the perfect excuse to pay his respects.

“Do you really think that divine creature is capable of cold-blooded murder?” Richardson asked Wycliffe.

“Capable? Yes. From what I’ve heard, she is more than capable of anything she should choose to do. Morally inclined? That is another question entirely, and the one we must answer to the Secretary’s satisfaction.”

Charles cocked an eyebrow. “Is that possible?”

Wycliffe laughed. “Peel is a reasonable man, for all his innovative ideas about reform and establishing a metropolitan police force.”

He gave a sigh, knowing now that they’d be answering to the Home Secretary himself for all that the investigation was “unofficial.” Suddenly the case had taken on a more ominous tone. More urgent.

“What do your instincts tell you about the woman?” Richardson asked.

“I hardly know. We have not talked at length, but she is a congenial sort. Quite pleasant to look at, and she possesses an infectious laugh. She expressed an interest in travel.”

“She is not—”

“No, she has no immediate plans to leave the country. She mentioned that she has business to attend, then will consider it. We have another fortnight to find our answers, at a minimum.”

Wycliffe frowned. “Who is her solicitor?”

Charles had had enough time in the past two days to discover a good many facts about the infamous widow. “Goodman is her solicitor.”

“If we need to delay her in London, I will persuade him to hold up Mrs. Huffington’s business matters.”

Wycliffe could be very persuasive and Charles hoped that wouldn’t be necessary. His superior could have a very heavy hand on occasion.

Richardson nudged him with another glance at the ladies as the orchestra signaled an intermission. “Are you going to introduce us?”

Still watching Mrs. Huffington, Charles considered the question. She was airy tonight, dressed in a heavenly froth of willow green with a fluid overdress of translucent cream. Even from this distance, he could see the graceful column of her throat, the lush curve of her breasts and the sensual way her lips curved into a smile when she saw him across the distance.

To his dismay, he suddenly realized that he wanted her. Despite her rejection. Despite the intervening years and marriages. Despite that she could be a cold-blooded killer and may have contracted the murder of his best friend and his wounding, he still wanted her.

That thought disturbed him. She was an assignment. No more. She was a potentially murderous female who’d gotten away with two crimes, perhaps four if her aunt’s death had not been natural and Booth had been one of her casualties. She was intelligent, clever and forthright—a lethal combination in a woman. And because of those things, she could easily have stymied the authorities. However he dealt with her, he would have to keep on his guard.

He noted the eager light in Richardson’s eyes and the interested spark in Wycliffe’s expression and sighed. “Come on, then.”

Within moments, the introductions were performed and several conversations were struck up, leaving Charles free to watch. Hortense and Harriett quickly snagged Harry Richardson’s attention, and after a few quiet words with Mrs. Huffington, Wycliffe turned to greet Jamie and Gina. Seizing the opening Wycliffe had given him, Charles nodded to the widow as she raised her fan and snapped it open.

“You look flushed, Mrs. Huffington. Are you feeling well?”

“Very well, thank you, Mr. Hunter. Just a bit warm.”

“I believe there is time for a breath of fresh air, if you’d like.”

“Thank you. That should be just the tonic I need.” She retrieved a cream cashmere shawl from the back of her chair and took his arm.

Charles was pleased to find that none of the others followed them. A few moments alone with Mrs. Huffington would seal their friendship and relax her suspicions. He couldn’t help noticing the heads that turned to watch them descend the double staircase to the rotunda and exit the building. Tongues would wag, he was certain, but gossip would work to his advantage, discouraging other potential suitors by signaling his own interest.

Once they were on the street, he draped the shawl over her shoulders against the cool night air and turned her toward the square. Covent Garden, alive with excitement until the wee hours, always had something interesting to offer.

“I never grow bored in London,” Mrs. Huffington said as if reading his mind.

“And yet you’ve spent most your life shut away in the countryside.”

She laughed and looked up at him, stopping his breath with her beauty. “Aunt Caroline was not comfortable in London after her accident. I might have made another decision.”

Ah, yes. Her disfigurement. “When did that occur?”

She shrugged and her shawl slipped down one creamy white shoulder. “Aunt Caroline said it happened the year before I was born. She did not like to speak of it, so I did not ask more. And as much as she dreaded London, the dear woman made certain I had my come-out. She so badly wanted to see me happily married that she brought me to town to husband-hunt.”

A task she had excelled at, evidently. “How gratifying you had no problem finding one. Or two. Still, ‘tis a pity she did not live to see you happily married.”

“She did. Twice, remember? It was only after my last fiancé’s tragic death that she lost heart for my future.”

He looked down at her to see if she was serious. They had touched on this subject before, but she had never admitted to having a fiancé. Perhaps he was making progress in gaining her trust. He decided not to pursue that particular subject just now since Booth’s death only angered him. “Did she believe you were happily married?”

“Though I scarcely knew the men, I was quick to assure her that I was more than content with the matches.”

“And were you in actuality?”

“I had no particular objection to them, and Aunt Caroline was so eager for my happiness that I could not disappoint her.”

“Is that why you married so quickly each time?”

“I married because she urged me to. I’d have been perfectly happy to wait for …”

“Wait for what, Mrs. Huffington?”

She sighed and shook her head. “For her death, sir. I would rather have stayed with her and eased her old age, just as she eased my childhood.”

“Is that why you returned to Kent after each of your husbands’ deaths?”

“Yes, and there was nowhere else to go. I could have stayed at Mr. Huffington’s estate, but I was quite alone and did not know anyone in Yorkshire. Aunt Caroline sent for me, and I was happy to go.”

“I must say that I find your equanimity refreshing,” he said. “Most women go on about marrying for love, and yet you managed to find contentment, brief though it was, with two men. And a fiancé?”

She laughed at his assessment. “I was not married long enough to be disappointed, Mr. Hunter. As for love …” She shrugged. “Perhaps that requires a certain fierceness of character that I do not possess. In regard to my … equanimity, I have a practical nature. And practicality tells me that marriages are seldom made for love. They are made for gain, position, consolidation, convenience or simply to produce an heir.”

“So you’ve never loved deeply?”

“Certainly I have. Lady Caroline. My darling spaniel. The memory of my mother and father.”

“But not a man?”

“Once I thought …” There was a long pause before she stopped and looked up at him. “No. Not a man.”

The moment stretched out as Charles wondered what it would be like to be loved by such a woman. If she loved, would she love fiercely?

“Flowers fer the missus?”

He turned to find a young girl staring up at him. She had a small wooden box filled with posies slung around her neck and was holding one made of violets and lily of the valley. Innocent, yet provocative, like Mrs. Huffington. He took a sixpence from his waistcoat pocket and flipped it to the child. She snatched it out of midair and gave him the posy before dashing off down a side street, not even offering change.

Basking in her brilliant smile and with a small bow, he presented the flowers to Mrs. Huffington.

She accepted them and lifted them to sample their fragrance. “Thank you, Mr. Hunter. You are the first to ever give me flowers.”

A muzzle flashed. Instinctively, he pulled Mrs. Huffington into his arms before he dove for the ground. The deafening report of a pistol shattered the night as the bullet whistled past his left ear, and fury filled him.

Bloody hell! The flower girl had been sent to distract him.

Chapter Four

A shrill scream split the air in the echo of the gunshot even as the sound of running feet increased. Help arriving? Or pedestrians escaping the chaos?

Georgiana felt the reassuring weight of Charles Hunter across her, and the rise and fall of his chest against hers, and sighed with relief. He was breathing. He was alive. Thank God.

He lifted himself slightly, as if he was unwilling to expose her if the danger was still present. His glance bored into her, as if searching for signs of injury or hysteria. “Are you …”

“I am well, Mr. Hunter,” she answered, trying to give the impression of aplomb even as she cleared her throat to steady her voice. “And you?”

He grinned and she realized he had anticipated hysteria. He eased himself to the side. “Well enough, Mrs. Huffington.”

“What—”

“Hunter! Good God, man! What happened?”

Mr. Hunter sat up and helped her into a sitting position as Lord Wycliffe and Sir Harry arrived at their side. “’Twould seem buying a lady flowers has become a capital offense.”

Lord Wycliffe’s narrowed gaze swept the surrounding square and paused at each deepened shadow. At a subtle gesture, Sir Harry spun about and headed in the direction from which the shot had come. “No warning?”

Mr. Hunter uttered a curse under his breath as he stood and lifted her to her feet. “A flower girl stopped us as we strolled. The moment she had her coin, she dashed for the alley. A second later—the shot. I’d wager she’d been hired to stop us long enough for the shooter to take aim, and then run away.”