So, this is it. I’ll live in this grand house, alongside a husband I barely know, seeing him only when duty demands it.
“Your Grace… Bridget? What are you doing?”
Both women turned to the door, where Mrs. Kettleworth stood, ever watchful.
“I asked Bridget to dine with me this evening,” Georgina said smoothly before the housekeeper could object. “She’s been excellent company.”
Mrs. Kettleworth’s expression barely shifted. “I’m glad to hear it, Your Grace.” Then she addressed the maid. “Bridget, see to the clearing of the table. No need to summon the footman.”
Bridget rose at once, gathering the dishes and offering Georgina a quick curtsy before slipping away.
Mrs. Kettleworth remained, her hands folded. “Your Grace, we should speak of your duties within the household.”
Georgina straightened in her chair, trying to mask her uncertainty. “Of course.”
“You’ll oversee the household accounts and all correspondence,” the housekeeper said. “And you’ll be expected to receive any visitors to the estate.”
Georgina nodded, her thoughts already turning.Correspondence—that meant letters from home, and perhaps from Dottie.
“Are there many visitors?” she asked.
“Not often,” Mrs. Kettleworth admitted. “But on occasion.”
The admission only deepened Georgina’s sense of isolation, but it also sparked something else. Perhaps she could change that, in time.
I must be cautious.I can’t go rearranging everything the moment after I arrive.
Still, the idea of filling the empty halls with friends and familiar faces gave her a small sense of purpose.
“And letters sent to my previous residence?” she asked.
“They’ll be forwarded here, naturally.”
Georgina gave a quiet nod. She was relieved to have escaped Lord Abbington, but even more relieved that she had learned the truth about him in time. Dottie had been the one to warn her, and Georgina was still awaiting word that her maid had safely found her way elsewhere.
Until that letter arrived, she would have to be patient… and clever.
Wherever you are, Dottie… I hope you’re safe.
Chapter Six
“Where is he… where did he go?” Georgina’s voice echoed through the entrance hall as she rushed inside, skirts gathered in her hands, her eyes darting wildly. She spotted Lysander and called out, breathless, “Have you seen him?”
Lysander had only just returned from his morning meeting. He hadn’t even removed his gloves yet when the noise hit him—cats yowling, footsteps pounding, doors slamming upstairs. It sounded as though the entire household had been upended.
He frowned. Oddly, neither his valet nor the butler had been there to greet him at the door, and before he could summon anyone, the butler himself barreled past, utterly ignoring him as he dashed down the hall in pursuit of… something.
Lysander stood in the center of the commotion, unmoving as cats darted past his boots, their tails fluffed, slipping across the marble floors, only to sprint back again in a frenzied loop.
“Who are you looking for?” he asked, his voice calm but sharp, watching Georgina as she turned in a whirlwind of silk and determination.
She didn’t answer. She tilted her head, listening intently, then hiked up her skirts and charged up the staircase without another word, vanishing around the landing’s corner.
A moment later, the butler, Mr. Jenkins, returned, now disheveled but attempting to recover some of his former dignity. He straightened his cravat, brushed off his jacket, and approached Lysander, drawing himself up as if nothing were amiss.
“Mr. Squawksby has escaped, Your Grace,” he announced gravely.
Lysander stared at him. “Mr. What?”
