“Good morning, George.”
He leaned down and kissed her proffered cheek. “Mother.”
She looked at him over the rim of her teacup, one of her elegant brows set into a perfect arch. “You seem in an exceptional mood this morning.”
He gave her a questioning glance.
“You were smiling when you entered the room,” she explained.
“Oh.” He shrugged, trying quell the bubbles of joy that had had him nearly hopping down the stairs. “Can’t explain, I’m afraid.”
Which was the truth. He certainly couldn’t explain it to her.
She regarded him for a moment. “I don’t suppose it would have something to do with your untimely departure last evening.”
George paused briefly in the act of spooning eggs onto his plate. He had forgotten that his mother would surely require an explanation for his disappearance. His presence at the Wintour Ball was the one thing she’d asked of him . . .
“Your presence at the Wintour Ball was the one thing I asked of you,” she said, her voice sharpening with each word.
“I beg your forgiveness, Mother,” he said. He was in far too good a mood to spoil it by quibbling. “It won’t happen again.”
“It is not my forgiveness you must obtain.”
“Nevertheless,” he said, “I would like to have it.”
“Well,” she said, momentarily flustered by his unexpected contrition, “it is up to Billie. I insist that you apologize to her.”
“Already done,” George said unthinkingly.
She looked up sharply. “When?”
Damn.
He took a breath, then returned to fixing his plate. “I saw her last night.”
“Last night?”
He shrugged, feigning disinterest. “She was up when I came in.”
“And when, pray tell, did you come in?”
“I’m not entirely certain,” George said, subtracting a few hours. “Midnight?”
“We did not get home until one.”
“Then it must have been later,” he said equably. It was amazing what an excellent mood could do for one’s patience. “I was not paying attention.”
“Why was Billie up and about?”
He plopped four pieces of bacon onto his plate and sat down. “That I do not know.”
Lady Manston’s mouth clamped into a frown. “I do not like this, George. She must take more care for her reputation.”
“I’m sure it’s fine, Mother.”
“At the very least,” she continued, “you should know better.”
Time to tread carefully. “I beg your pardon?”
“The instant you saw her, you should have gone to your room.”
“I thought it behooved me to use the time to apologize.”
“Hmmph.” His mother did not have a ready response to that. “Still.”
George smiled blandly and got down to the work of cutting his meat. A few moments later he heard footsteps coming toward them, but they sounded far too heavy to be Billie’s.
Indeed, when a body filled the doorway a moment later, it belonged to the butler. “Lord Arbuthnot is here to see you, Lord Kennard.”
“This time in the morning?” Lady Manston said with surprise.
George set his napkin down with a tight-jawed frown. He had anticipated that he would need to speak with Arbuthnot about the events of the previous night, but now?
George knew just enough about Lord Arbuthnot’s dealings to know that they were inherently flavored with secrets and danger. It was unacceptable that he would bring his business to Manston House, and George would have no compunction telling him so.
“He is a friend of Father’s,” George said as he stood. “I will see what he needs.”
“Shall I accompany you?”
“No, no. I’m sure that will be unnecessary.”
George made his way to the drawing room, his mood growing blacker with every step. Arbuthnot’s appearance this morning could mean only one of two things. First, that something had gone wrong after George had departed the Swan the night before and now he was in danger. Or worse, held responsible.
The more likely possibility, George thought grimly, was that Arbuthnot wanted something from him. Another message relayed, probably.
“Kennard!” Lord Arbuthnot said jovially. “Excellent work last night.”
“Why are you here?” George demanded.
Arbuthnot blinked at his bluntness. “I needed to speak with you. Is that not why a gentleman usually calls upon another?”
“This is my home,” George hissed.
“Are you saying I am not welcome?”
“Not if you wish to discuss the events of last night. This is not the time or the place.”
“Ah. Well, I don’t, actually. Nothing to discuss. It all came off brilliantly.”
This was not how George would have described it. He crossed his arms, and stared Arbuthnot down, waiting for him to state his intentions.
The general cleared his throat. “I’ve come to thank you,” he said. “And to request your help with another matter.”
“No,” George said. He did not need to hear anything more.
Arbuthnot chuckled. “You haven’t even—”
“No,” George said again, his fury cutting his words like glass. “Do you have any idea what I ended up doing last night?”
“I do, as it happens.”
“You—What?” This was unexpected. When the hell had Arbuthnot learned of the farce at The Swan With No Neck?
“It was a test, m’boy.” Arbuthnot slapped him on the shoulder. “You passed with flying colors.”
“A test,” George repeated, and if Arbuthnot knew him better, he’d have realized that the utter lack of inflection in George’s voice was not a good sign.
But Arbuthnot didn’t know him very well, and so he was chuckling as he said, “You don’t think we’d trust just anyone with sensitive information.”
“I think you’d trust me,” George growled.
“No,” Arbuthnot said with an odd, owlish solemnity. “Not even you. Besides,” he added, his mien perking back up, “‘Pease, porridge, and pudding?’ A bit of credit, if you will. We’ve more creativity than that.”
George sucked in his lips as he pondered his next action. Tossing Arbuthnot out on his ear was tempting, but so was a well-thrown punch to the jaw.
“All in the past now,” Arbuthnot said. “Now we need you to deliver a package.”
“I think it’s time you left,” George said.
Arbuthnot drew back in surprise. “It’s essential.”
“So was pease, porridge, and pudding,” George reminded him.
“Yes, yes,” the general said condescendingly, “you have every right to feel abused, but now that we know we can trust you, we need your help.”
George crossed his arms.
“Do it for your brother, Kennard.”
“Don’t you dare bring him into this,” George hissed.
“It’s a little late to be so high and mighty,” Arbuthnot shot back, his friendly demeanor beginning to slip. “Do not forget that you were the one who came to me.”
“And you could have declined my request for help.”
“How do you think we go about defeating the enemy?” Arbuthnot demanded. “Do you think it’s all shiny uniforms and marching in formation? The real war is won behind the scenes, and if you’re too much of a coward—”
In an instant, George had him pinned against the wall. “Do not,” he spat, “make the mistake of thinking you can shame me into becoming your errand boy.” His hand tightened on the older man’s shoulder, and then abruptly, he let go.
“I thought you wished to do your part for your country,” Arbuthnot said, tugging on the hem of his jacket to smooth it out.
George nearly bit his tongue, stopping himself from making an untempered retort. He almost said something about how he had spent three years wishing he was with his brothers, serving with his rifle and s
word, prepared to give his life for the good of England.
He almost said that it had made him feel useless, ashamed that he was somehow judged to be more valuable than his brothers by virtue of his birth.
But then he thought of Billie, and of Crake and Aubrey Hall, and all the people there who depended upon them. He thought of the harvest, and of the village, and of his sister, who would soon bring the first of a new generation into this world.
And he remembered what Billie had said, just two nights earlier.
He looked Lord Arbuthnot in the eye and said, “If my brothers are going to risk their lives for King and Country, then by God, I am going to make sure it’s a good King and Country. And that does not include carrying messages I do not know the meaning of to people I do not trust.”
Arbuthnot regarded him soberly. “Do you not trust me?”
“I am furious that you came to my home.”
“I am a friend of your father’s, Lord Kennard. My presence here is hardly suspect. And that wasn’t what I asked you. Do you not trust me?”
“Do you know, Lord Arbuthnot, I don’t think it matters.”
And it didn’t. George had no doubt that Arbuthnot had fought—and continued to fight, in his own way—for his country. For all that George was furious that he’d been subjected to the War Office’s version of an initiation rite, he knew that if Arbuthnot asked him to do something, it would be a legitimate request.
But he also knew—now, at last, he knew—that he was not the right man for the job. He would have made a fine soldier. But he was a better steward of the land. And with Billie by his side, he would be excellent.
He would be getting married soon. Very soon, if he had anything to do with it. He had no business running around like some sort of spy, risking his life without fully knowing why.
“I will serve in my own way,” he said to Arbuthnot.
Arbuthnot sighed, his mouth twisting with resignation. “Very well. I thank you for your assistance last night. I do realize that it disrupted your evening.”
George thought that he might have finally got through to him, but then Arbuthnot said, “I have just one more request, Lord Kennard.”
“No,” George tried to say.
“Hear me out,” Arbuthnot interrupted. “I swear to you, I would not ask if the situation were not so critical. I have a packet that needs to go to a posting inn in Kent. On the coast. Not far from your home, I should think.”
“Stop,” George began.
“No, please, allow me to finish. If you do this, I promise I shall not bother you again. I will be honest, there is some danger involved. There are men who know it is coming, and they will wish to stop it. But these are documents of vital importance.” And then Arbuthnot went in for the kill. “It could even save your brother.”
Arbuthnot was good, George would give him that. He did not believe for a second that this Kent-bound packet had anything to do with Edward, and he still almost blurted his assent the moment the general had stopped talking.
“I’m not your man,” he said quietly.
That should have been the end of it.
It would have been the end of it, but then the door slammed open and there, standing in the doorway, eyes shining with reckless purpose, was Billie.
BILLIE HAD NOT meant to eavesdrop. She had been on her way down to breakfast, her hair perhaps too-hastily pinned due to her eagerness to see George again, when she’d heard his voice in the drawing room. She’d assumed he was with his mother—who else would be at Manston House this time in the morning?—but then she heard the voice of another gentleman, and he was saying something about the night before.
The night that George had said he could not tell her about.
She shouldn’t have listened, but honestly, what woman could have pulled herself away? And then the man asked George to deliver a package, and he said it might help Edward?
She could not stop herself. All she could think was—this was Edward. Her dearest childhood friend. If she was prepared to fall out of a tree to save an ungrateful cat, she could certainly take a package to some inn on the coast. How difficult could it be? And if it was dangerous, if it was something that required discretion, surely she was an excellent decoy. No one would expect a woman to be making the delivery.
She didn’t think. She didn’t need to think. She just ran into the room and declared, “I’ll do it!”
GEORGE DIDN’T THINK. He didn’t need to think. “The hell you will,” he roared.
Billie froze for a moment, clearly not expecting this sort of reaction. Then she girded her shoulders and hurried in. “George,” she said entreatingly, “we’re talking about Edward. How can we not do everything—”
He grabbed her by the arm and yanked her aside. “You do not have all of the facts,” he hissed.
“I don’t need all the facts.”
“You never do,” he muttered.
Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “I can do this,” she insisted.
Good God, she was going to be the death of him. “I’m sure you can, but you won’t.”
“But—”
“I forbid it.”
Billie drew back. “You forbid—”
That was the moment Arbuthnot sidled over. “I don’t think we were properly introduced last night,” he said with an avuncular smile. “I am Lord Arbuthnot. I—”
“Get out of my house,” George bit off.
“George!” Billie exclaimed, her face betraying her shock at his rudeness.
Arbuthnot turned to him with a thoughtful expression. “The lady appears to be quite resourceful. I think we could—”
“Get out!”
“George?” Now his mother appeared in the doorway. “What is all the yelling about? Oh, I’m sorry, Lord Arbuthnot. I did not see you there.”
“Lady Manston.” He bowed properly. “Forgive my early visit. I had business with your son.”
“He was just leaving,” George said, tightening his grip on Billie’s arm when she started to squirm.
“Let me go,” she ground out. “I might be able to help.”
“Or you might not.”
“Stop it,” she hissed, now pulling furiously. “You cannot order me about.”
“I assure you I can,” he shot back, his eyes burning down into hers. He was going to be her husband, for God’s sake. Did that not count for anything?
“But I want to help,” she said, lowering her voice as she turned her back on the rest of the room.
“So do I, but this is not the way.”
“It may be the only way.”
For a moment he could do nothing but close his eyes. Was this a taste of the rest of his life as Billie Bridgerton’s husband? Was he destined to live in terror, wondering what sort of danger she’d thrown herself into that day?
Was it worth it?
“George?” she whispered. She sounded uneasy. Had she seen something in his expression? A sign of doubt?
He touched her cheek, and he looked into her eyes.
He saw his whole world there.
“I love you,” he said.
Someone gasped. It might have been his mother.
“I cannot live without you,” he said, “and in fact, I refuse to do so. So no, you will not be going on some ill-advised mission to the coast to hand off a potentially dangerous package to people you don’t know. Because if anything happened to you . . .” His voice broke, but he didn’t care. “If anything happened to you, it would kill me. And I’d like to think you love me too much to let that happen.”
Billie stared at him in wonder, her softly parted lips trembling as she blinked back tears. “You love me?” she whispered.
He nearly rolled his eyes. “Of course I do.”
“You never said.”
“I must have done.”
“You didn’t. I would have remembered.”
“I would remember, too,” he said softly, “if you’d ever said it to me.”
“I love you,” she sai
d immediately. “I do. I love you so much. I—”
“Thank God,” Lady Manston exclaimed.
George and Billie both turned. He didn’t know about Billie, but he’d quite forgotten they had an audience.
“Do you know how hard I’ve been working toward this? My word, I thought I was going to have to beat you with a stick.”
“You planned this?” George asked in disbelief.
She turned to Billie. “Sybilla? Really? When have I ever called you Sybilla?”
George looked over at Billie. She couldn’t seem to stop blinking.
“I have waited a long time to call you daughter,” Lady Manston said, tucking a lock of Billie’s hair behind her ear.
Billie frowned, her head moving from side to side as she tried to puzzle it all out. “But I always thought . . . you wanted Edward. Or Andrew.”
Lady Manston shook her head with a smile. “It was always George, my dear. In my mind, at least.” She looked over at her son with a considerably more focused expression. “You have asked her to marry you, I hope.”
“I might have demanded it,” he admitted.
“Even better.”
George suddenly straightened, glancing about the room. “What happened to Lord Arbuthnot?”
“He excused himself when the two of you started declaring your love,” his mother said.
Well, George thought. Maybe the old man had more discretion than he’d thought.
“Why was he here, anyway?” Lady Manston asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” George said. Then he looked at his fiancée.
“It doesn’t matter,” she agreed.
“Well,” Lady Manston declared with a beaming smile, “I can hardly wait to tell everyone. The Billingtons are hosting a ball next week and—”
“Can we just go home?” Billie interrupted.
“But you had such a wonderful time last night,” Lady Manston replied. She looked over at George. “She danced every dance. Everyone loved her.”
He smiled indulgently. “I am not surprised in the least.”
She turned back to Billie. “We can make the announcement at the Billington ball. It will be a triumph.”
Billie reached over and squeezed George’s hand. “It already is.”
“Are you sure?” he asked her. She had been so apprehensive about making her London debut. He would like nothing more than to go home to Kent, but Billie deserved to revel in her success.