“All gingers,” Ashley murmured.
Georgia grinned. “And we deserve our reputation for temperament, I assure you.” Her face grew more serious as she touched the frame of the last medal. “It quite vexes Diana that Uncle David let the Ravencroft spot in the club lapse instead of taking it up after Grandfather and Uncle Philip passed.”
“He doesn’t like to sing?”But he has such a beautiful voice.
“Said he’s too busy keeping the earldom running. Rehearsals take up a lot of time.” Georgia leaned close and dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Mother is hoping that having him here in Town for my Season means she will be able to get him to turn Father’s quartet into a quintet, and they’ll bring home the next medal. Aunt Lydia is already working on a new arrangement for five voices.”
“I hope Lady Mansfield is successful.”
They drifted into conversation with other family members, including Georgia’s younger cousin, Melissa. With the children gone upstairs, everyone shifted around to enjoy the refreshments. Melissa looked lost again. Ashley patted the sofa cushion beside her. “Come join us. I won’t bite.”
* * *
David carried Thomas, shrieking with laughter, over his shoulder up to the nursery. The group paused for the requisite inspection to see if the Bogeyman was under the stairs—he wasn’t, though David tried to imitate him, much to the children’s squealing delight—and checked under the beds. Cousins were spending the night so they were all doubling up. Though they no longer needed to be soothed with lullabies, they still demanded a scary bedtime story.
Soon they’d be too old for even that.
But Parker and his wife Deirdre were expecting, and Clarissa would be wed in just a few weeks. Georgia might choose a husband this spring; by next spring she could have a babe. Another generation of babies to sing for.
His fifteen-year-old self would have been horrified at the prospect. His present self just felt old.
Warmed up from singing after dinner, he voiced the scary monster in tonight’s story with his deepest tone, and used his highest falsetto to portray a woman describing the frightful beast. Each character got their own voice distinct from the narrator. He tried out a new demonic laugh at the end, and generally played with his voice as though it were a toy. Just as Lydia had accused him of doing all those years ago.
A positive aspect about getting older … no, getting moremature… is that his voice kept getting deeper, even without regular rehearsal. He had gained a note lower every year for the last several years, and he could still hit the high tenor notes. Most of them even sounded decent. He sang to his horse on his morning rides if they were alone, the only time he felt he could indulge his creative side. The rest of his days were eaten up by endless meetings and overseeing estate business.
Story finished, he exchanged hugs and kisses goodnight, went downstairs, and stopped just outside the music room door to observe Georgia’s new friend, Miss Hamlin.
She had indeed seemed familiar when they were introduced, but he couldn’t quite place her. Georgia had made many new acquaintances since they’d come to London last month. So many young women on the hunt for husbands attended the events that he often escorted Diana or Lydia and their daughters to, if his brothers-in-law were unavailable.
Miss Hamlin was certainly at the top end of the husband-hunters, age-wise. On the shelf, even. How many seasons had she tried to snag a husband and kept coming back? Why had she not married and given her husband two or three babies by now? She was pleasant enough to look upon, had polite manners, and a passable singing voice. What was wrong with her or her family?
As he watched, Miss Hamlin invited Missy to sit beside her. “I won’t bite,” she said with a charming smile.
Breath caught in his chest. He knew that voice.I’ll bite.
His mysterious miss!
He took several steps away from the door and flattened his back to the hallway wall, his heart racing. He waved away a concerned-looking footman.
What he’d done with her after she’d been drugged at Lady Sedgewick’s ball, however well-intentioned, was beyond the pale as far as Society was concerned. If she figured out he was the one who had spirited her away in his carriage, she could force him to the altar.
Being married was fine … for other people. He had no intention of marrying, felt no need to provide an heir to be the next Earl of Ravencroft. He had never wanted to be the earl. He’d put aside his own interests and taken on the responsibilities only because someone had to protect all the tenants, servants, and relatives depending on the estate.
Schooling his expression to one of polite interest, he strolled into the music room. As soon as Diana noticed he’d returned, she sent a maid over to him with a tray. In addition to the light dessert items, there were savory meat pies the size of his palm. He raised a pie in a silent toast to her before he ate. They were well into adulthood, but she still had a tendency to look after him. Little brother missed the evening meal? Get him a hearty snack.
Now he wouldn’t have to worry about finding food to sustain him for the task that awaited him later tonight. He patted his waistcoat pocket, making sure the small bottle was still there. He’d been late arriving for dinner because he’d paid a call on the magician who’d entertained at his nephew Thomas’s tenth birthday celebration last week. The entertainer had been reluctant to share his secret. David just kept offering more coins until the man handed over what David needed.
He took a deep swallow of the honey and lemon tea as he glanced at everyone in the room, eating, drinking, and chatting away. If Georgia was serious about keeping company with Miss Hamlin, inviting her to family gatherings, he’d have to keep his distance. Avoid speaking to her as much as possible, yet not in a way that would draw attention to the fact he was avoiding her.
What a coil he’d created for himself. And later tonight he would make his life even more complicated. But he couldn’t back down. Too much was at stake.
* * *
Sir Rupert Connor struggled to wakefulness, roused from his slumber by a deep growl. The growl grew louder and impossibly deeper, and close by. Deeper than any dog, more rumbling than a lion he’d once heard in the Tower Menagerie. Barely daring to breathe, he sat up and darted his gaze around his boardinghouse bedchamber, searching for the source of the unearthly, bone-chilling sound. With the fire burned down to embers, his chamber was shrouded in midnight darkness save for a sliver of moonlight that sliced across the foot of his bed.
Movement at the end of his bed drew his attention. A form separated from the shadows, and the growl resolved into words.
“Rupert Connor.” The apparition spoke his name in a gravelly voice so deep it came from the grave. “You have drawn my wrath.”
